Time of the Twins

The Meeting

A lone figure trod softly toward the distant light. Walking unheard, his footfalls were sucked into the vast darkness all around him. Bertrem indulged in a rare flight of fancy as he glanced at the seemingly endless rows of books and scrolls that were part of the Chronicles of Astinus and detailed the history of this world, the history of Krynn.

“It’s like being sucked into time,” he thought, sighing as he glanced at the still, silent rows. He wished, briefly, that he were being sucked away somewhere, so that he did not have to face the difficult task ahead of him.

“All the knowledge of the world is in these books,” he said to himself wistfully. “And I’ve never found one thing to help make the intrusion upon their author any easier.”

Bertrem came to a halt outside the door to summon his courage. His flowing Aesthetic’s robes settled themselves about him, falling into correct and orderly folds. His stomach, however, refused to follow the robes’ example and lurched about wildly. Bertrem ran his hand across his scalp, a nervous gesture left over from a younger age, before his chosen profession had cost him his hair.

What was bothering him? he wondered bleakly—other than going in to see the Master, of course, something he had not done since... since... He shuddered. Yes, since the young mage had nearly died upon their doorstep during the last war.

War... change, that was what it was. Like his robes, the world had finally seemed to settle around him, but he felt change coming once again, just as he had felt it two years ago. He wished he could stop it...

Bertrem sighed. “I’m certainly not going to stop anything by standing out here in the darkness,” he muttered. He felt uncomfortable anyway, as though surrounded by ghosts. A bright light shone from under the door, beaming out into the hallway. Giving a quick glance backward at the shadows of the books, peaceful corpses resting in their tombs, the Aesthetic quietly opened the door and entered the study of Astinus of Palanthas.

Though the man was within, he did not speak, nor even look up.

Walking with gentle, measured tread across the rich rug of lamb’s wool that lay upon the marble floor, Bertrem paused before the great, polished wooden desk. For long moments he said nothing, absorbed in watching the hand of the historian guide the quill across the parchment in firm, even strokes.

“Well, Bertrem?” Astinus did not cease his writing.

Bertrem, facing Astinus, read the letters that—even upside down—were crisp and clear and easily decipherable.

This day, as above Darkwatch rising 29, Bertrem entered my study.

“Crysania of the House of Tarinius is here to see you, Master. She says she is expected...” Bertrem’s voice trailed off in a whisper, it having taken a great deal of the Aesthetic’s courage to get that far.

Astinus continued writing.

“Master,” Bertrem began faintly, shivering with his daring. “I—we are at a loss. She is, after all, a Revered Daughter of Paladine and I—we found it impossible to refuse her admittance. What sh—”

“Take her to my private chambers,” Astinus said without ceasing to write or looking up.

Bertrem’s tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, rendering him momentarily speechless. The letters flowed from the quill pen to the white parchment.

“Raistlin Majere!” Bertrem gasped, shock and horror prying his tongue loose. “Are we to admit hi—”

Astinus looked up now, annoyance and irritation creasing his brow. As his pen ceased its eternal scratching on the parchment, a deep unnatural silence settled upon the room. Bertrem paled. The historian’s face might have been reckoned handsome in a timeless, ageless fashion. But none who saw his face ever remembered it. They simply remembered the eyes—dark, intent, aware, constantly moving, seeing everything. Those eyes could also communicate vast worlds of impatience, reminding Bertrem that time was passing. Even as the two spoke, whole minutes of history were ticking by, unrecorded.

“Forgive me, Master!” Bertrem bowed in profound reverence, then backed precipitately out of the study, closing the door quietly on his way. Once outside, he mopped his shaved head that was glistening with perspiration, then hurried down the silent, marble corridors of the Great Library of Palanthas.

Astinus paused in the doorway to his private residence, his gaze on the woman who sat within.

Located in the western wing of the Great Library, the residence of the historian was small and, like all other rooms in the library, was filled with books of every type and binding, lining the shelves on the walls and giving the central living area a faint musty odor, like a mausoleum that had been sealed for centuries. The furniture was sparse, pristine. The chairs, wooden and handsomely carved, were hard and uncomfortable to sit upon. A low table, standing by a window, was absolutely free of any ornament or object, reflecting the light from the setting sun upon its smooth black surface. Everything in the room was in the most perfect order. Even the wood for the evening fire—the late spring nights were cool, even this far north—was stacked in such orderly rows it resembled a funeral pyre.

And yet, cool and pristine and pure as was this private chamber of the historian, the room itself seemed only to mirror the cold, pristine, pure beauty of the woman who sat, her hands folded in her lap, waiting.

Crysania of Tarinius waited patiently. She did not fidget or sigh or glance often at the water-run timing device in the corner. She did not read—though Astinus was certain Bertrem would have her offered a book. She did not pace the room or examine the few rare ornaments that stood in shadowed nooks within the bookcases. She sat in the straight, uncomfortable, wooden chair, her clear, bright eyes fixed upon the red-stained fringes of the clouds above the mountains as if she were watching the sun set for possibly the first—or last—time upon Krynn.

So intent was she upon the sight beyond the window that Astinus entered without attracting her attention. He regarded her with intense interest. This was not unusual for the historian, who scrutinized all beings living upon Krynn with the same fathomless, penetrating gaze. What was unusual was that, for a moment, a look of pity and of profound sorrow passed across the historian’s face.

Astinus recorded history. He had recorded it since the beginning of time, watching it pass before his eyes and setting it down in his books. He could not foretell the future, that was the province of the gods. But he could sense all the signs of change, those same signs that had so disturbed Bertrem. Standing there, he could hear the drops of water falling in the timing device. By placing his hand beneath them, he could cease the flow of the drops, but time would go on.

Sighing, Astinus turned his attention to the woman, whom he had heard of but never met.

Her hair was black, blue-black, black as the water of a calm sea at night. She wore it combed straight back from a central part, fastened at the back of her head with a plain, unadorned, wooden comb. The severe style was not becoming to her pale, delicate features, emphasizing their pallor. There was no color at all in her face. Her eyes were gray and seemingly much too large. Even her lips were bloodless.

Some years ago, when she had been young, servants had braided and coiled that thick, black hair into the latest, fashionable styles, tucking in pins of silver and of gold, decorating the somber hues with sparkling jewels. They had tinted her cheeks with the juice of crushed berries and dressed her in sumptuous gowns of palest pinks and powdery blues. Once she had been beautiful. Once her suitors had waited in lines.

The gown she wore now was white, as befitted a cleric of Paladine, and plain though made of fine material. It was unadorned save for the belt of gold that encircled her slim waist. Her only ornament was Paladine’s—the medallion of the Platinum Dragon. Her hair was covered by a loose white hood that enhanced the marble smoothness and coldness of her complexion.

She might have been made of marble, Astinus thought, with one difference—marble could be warmed by the sun.

“Greetings, Revered Daughter of Paladine,” Astinus said, entering and shutting the door behind him.

“Greetings, Astinus,” Crysania of Tarinius said, rising to her feet.

As she walked across the small room toward him, Astinus was somewhat startled to note the swiftness and almost masculine length of her stride. It seemed oddly incongruous with her delicate features. Her handshake, too, was firm and strong, not typical of Palanthian women, who rarely shook hands and then did so only by extending their fingertips.

“I must thank you for giving up your valuable time to act as a neutral party in this meeting,” Crysania said coolly. “I know how you dislike taking time from your studies.”

“As long as it is not wasted time, I do not mind,” Astinus replied, holding her hand and regarding her intently. “I must admit, however, that I resent this.”

“Why?” Crysania searched the man’s ageless face in true perplexity. Then—in sudden understanding—she smiled, a cold smile that brought no more life to her face than the moonlight upon snow. “You don’t believe he will come, do you?”

Astinus snorted, dropping the woman’s hand as though he had completely lost interest in her very existence. Turning away, he walked to the window and looked out over the city of Palanthas, whose gleaming white buildings glowed in the sun’s radiance with a breathtaking beauty, with one exception. One building remained untouched by the sun, even in brightest noontime.

And it was upon this building that Astinus’s gaze fixed. Thrusting itself up in the center of the brilliant, beautiful city, its black stone towers twisted and writhed, its minarets—newly repaired and constructed by the powers of magic—glistened blood-red in the sunset, giving the appearance of rotting, skeletal fingers clawing their way up from some unhallowed burial ground.

“Two years ago, he entered the Tower of High Sorcery,” Astinus said in his calm, passionless voice as Crysania joined him at the window. “He entered in the dead of night in darkness, the only moon in the sky was the moon that sheds no light. He walked through the Shoikan Grove—a stand of accursed oak trees that no mortal—not even those of the kender race—dare approach. He made his way to the gates upon which hung still the body of the evil mage who, with his dying breath, cast the curse upon the Tower and leapt from the upper windows, impaling himself upon its gates—a fearsome watchman. But when he came there, the watchman bowed before him, the gates opened at his touch, then they shut behind him. And they have not opened again these past two years. He has not left and, if any have been admitted, none have seen them. And you expect him... here?”

“The master of past and of present.” Crysania shrugged. “He came, as was foretold.”

Astinus regarded her with some astonishment.

“You know his story?”

“Of course,” the cleric replied calmly, glancing up at him for an instant, then turning her clear eyes back to look at the Tower, already shrouding itself with the coming night’s shadows. “A good general always studies the enemy before engaging in battle. I know Raistlin Majere very well, very well indeed. And I know—he will come this night.”

Crysania continued gazing at the dreadful Tower, her chin lifted, her bloodless lips set in a straight, even line, her hands clasped behind her back.

Astinus’s face suddenly became grave and thoughtful, his eyes troubled, though his voice was cool as ever. “You seem very sure of yourself, Revered Daughter. How do you know this?”

“Paladine has spoken to me,” Crysania replied, never taking her eyes from the Tower. “In a dream, the Platinum Dragon appeared before me and told me that evil—once banished from the world—had returned in the person of this black-robed wizard, Raistlin Majere. We face dire peril, and it has been given to me to prevent it.” As Crysania spoke, her marble face grew smooth, her gray eyes were clear and bright. “It will be the test of my faith I have prayed for!” She glanced at Astinus. “You see, I have known since childhood that my destiny was to perform some great deed, some great service to the world and its people. This is my chance.”

Astinus’s face grew graver as he listened, and even more stern.

“Paladine told you this?” he demanded abruptly.

Crysania, sensing, perhaps, this man’s disbelief, pursed her lips. A tiny line appearing between her brows was, however, the only sign of her anger, that and an even more studied calmness in her reply.

“I regret having spoken of it, Astinus, forgive me. It was between my god and myself, and such sacred things should not be discussed. I brought it up simply to prove to you that this evil man will come. He cannot help himself. Paladine will bring him.”

Astinus’s eyebrows rose so that they very nearly disappeared into his graying hair.

“This ‘evil man’ as you call him, Revered Daughter, serves a goddess as powerful as Paladine—Takhisis, Queen of Darkness! Or perhaps I should not say serves,” Astinus remarked with a wry smile. “Not of him...”

Crysania’s brow cleared, her cool smile returned. “Good redeems its own,” she answered gently. “Evil turns in upon itself. Good will triumph again, as it did in the War of the Lance against Takhisis and her evil dragons. With Paladine’s help, I shall triumph over this evil as the hero, Tanis Half-Elven, triumphed over the Queen of Darkness herself.”

“Tanis Half-Elven triumphed with the help of Raistlin Majere,” Astinus said imperturbably. “Or is that a part of the legend you choose to ignore?”

Not a ripple of emotion marred the still, placid surface of Crysania’s expression. Her smile remained fixed. Her gaze was on the street.

“Look, Astinus,” she said softly. “He comes.”

The sun sank behind the distant mountains, the sky, lit by the afterglow, was a gemlike purple. Servants entered quietly, lighting the fire in the small chamber of Astinus. Even it burned quietly, as if the flames themselves had been taught by the historian to maintain the peaceful repose of the Great Library. Crysania sat once more in the uncomfortable chair, her hands folded once more in her lap. Her outward mien was calm and cool as always. Inwardly, her heart beat with excitement that was visible only by a brightening of her gray eyes.

Born to the noble and wealthy Tarinius family of Palanthas, a family almost as ancient as the city itself, Crysania had received every comfort and benefit money and rank could bestow. Intelligent, strong-willed, she might easily have grown into a stubborn and willful woman. Her wise and loving parents, however, had carefully nurtured and pruned their daughter’s strong spirit so that it had blossomed into a deep and steadfast belief in herself. Crysania had done only one thing in her entire life to grieve her doting parents, but that one thing had cut them deeply. She had turned from an ideal marriage with a fine and noble young man to a life devoted to serving long-forgotten gods.

She first heard the cleric, Elistan, when he came to Palanthas at the end of the War of the Lance. His new religion—or perhaps it should have been called the old religion—was spreading like wildfire through Krynn, because new-born legend credited this belief in old gods with having helped defeat the evil dragons and their masters, the Dragon Highlords.

On first going to hear Elistan talk, Crysania had been skeptical. The young woman—she was in her mid-twenties—had been raised on stories of how the gods had inflicted the Cataclysm upon Krynn, hurling down the fiery mountain that rent the lands asunder and plunged the holy city of Istar into the Blood Sea. After this, so people related, the gods turned from men, refusing to have any more to do with them. Crysania was prepared to listen politely to Elistan, but had arguments at hand to refute his claims.

She was favorably impressed on meeting him. Elistan, at that time, was in the fullness of his power. Handsome, strong, even in his middle years, he seemed like one of the clerics of old, who had ridden to battle—so some legends said—with the mighty knight, Huma. Crysania began the evening finding cause to admire him. She ended on her knees at his feet, weeping in humility and joy, her soul at last having found the anchor it had been missing.

The gods had not turned from men, was the message. It was men who had turned from the gods, demanding in their pride what Huma had sought in humility. The next day, Crysania left her home, her wealth, her servants, her parents, and her betrothed to move into the small, chill house that was the forerunner of the new Temple Elistan planned to build in Palanthas.

Now, two years later, Crysania was a Revered Daughter of Paladine, one of a select few who had been found worthy to lead the church through its youthful growing pangs. It was well the church had this strong, young blood. Elistan had given unstintingly of his life and his energy. Now, it seemed, the god he served so faithfully would soon be summoning his cleric to his side. And when that sorrowful event occurred, many believed Crysania would carry on his work.

Certainly Crysania knew that she was prepared to accept the leadership of the church, but was it enough? As she had told Astinus, the young cleric had long felt her destiny was to perform some great service for the world. Guiding the church through its daily routines, now that the war was over, seemed dull and mundane. Daily she had prayed to Paladine to assign her some hard task. She would sacrifice anything, she vowed, even life itself, in the service of her beloved god.

And then had come her answer.

Now, she waited, in an eagerness she could barely restrain. She was not frightened, not even of meeting this man, said to be the most powerful force for evil now living on the face of Krynn. Had her breeding permitted it, her lip would have curled in a disdainful sneer. What evil could withstand the mighty sword of her faith? What evil could penetrate her shining armor?

Like a knight riding to a joust, wreathed with the garlands of his love, knowing that he cannot possibly lose with such tokens fluttering in the wind, Crysania kept her eyes fixed on the door, eagerly awaiting the tourney’s first blows. When the door opened, her hands—until now calmly folded—clasped together in excitement.

Bertrem entered. His eyes went to Astinus, who sat immovable as a pillar of stone in a hard, uncomfortable chair near the fire.

“The mage, Raistlin Majere,” Bertrem said. His voice cracked on the last syllable. Perhaps he was thinking about the last time he had announced this visitor—the time Raistlin had been dying, vomiting blood on the steps of the Great Library. Astinus frowned at Bertrem’s lack of self-control, and the Aesthetic disappeared back through the door as rapidly as his fluttering robes permitted.

Unconsciously, Crysania held her breath. At first she saw nothing, only a shadow of darkness in the doorway, as if night itself had taken form and shape within the entrance. The darkness paused there.

“Come in, old friend,” Astinus said in his deep, passionless voice.

The shadow was lit by a shimmer of warmth—the firelight gleamed on velvety soft, black robes—and then by tiny sparkles, as the light glinted off silver threads, embroidered runes around a velvet cowl. The shadow became a figure, black robes completely draping the body. For a brief moment, the figure’s only human appendage that could be seen was a thin, almost skeletal hand clutching a wooden staff. The staff itself was topped by a crystal ball, held fast in the grip of a carved golden dragon’s claw.

As the figure entered the room, Crysania felt the cold chill of disappointment. She had asked Paladine for some difficult task! What great evil was there to fight in this? Now that she could see him clearly, she saw a frail, thin man, shoulders slightly stooped, who leaned upon his staff as he walked, as if too weak to move without its aid. She knew his age, he would be about twenty-eight now. Yet he moved like a human of ninety—his steps slow and deliberate, even faltering.

What test of my faith lies in conquering this wretched creature? Crysania demanded of Paladine bitterly. I have no need to fight him. He is being devoured from within by his own evil!

Facing Astinus, keeping his back to Crysania, Raistlin folded back his black hood.

“Greetings again, Deathless One,” he said to Astinus in a soft voice.

“Greetings, Raistlin Majere,” Astinus said without rising. His voice had a faint sardonic note, as if sharing some private joke with the mage. Astinus gestured. “May I present Crysania of the House of Tarinius.”

Crysania gasped, a terrible ache in her chest caused her throat to close, and for a moment she could not draw a breath. Sharp, tingling pins jabbed her fingertips, a chill convulsed her body. Unconsciously, she shrank back in her chair, her hands clenching, her nails digging into her numb flesh.

All she could see before her were two golden eyes shining from the depths of darkness. The eyes were like a gilt mirror, flat, reflective, revealing nothing of the soul within. The pupils—Crysania stared at the dark pupils in rapt horror. The pupils within the golden eyes were the shape of hourglasses! And the face—Drawn with suffering, marked with the pain of the tortured existence the young man had led for seven years, ever since the cruel Tests in the Tower of High Sorcery left his body shattered and his skin tinged gold, the mage’s face was a metallic mask, impenetrable, unfeeling as the golden dragon’s claw upon his staff.

“Revered Daughter of Paladine,” he said in a soft voice, a voice filled with respect and—even reverence.

Crysania started, staring at him in astonishment. Certainly that was not what she had expected.

Still, she could not move. His gaze held her, and she wondered in panic if he had cast a spell upon her. Seeming to sense her fear, he walked across the room to stand before her in an attitude that was both patronizing and reassuring. Looking up, she could see the firelight flickering in his golden eyes.

“Revered Daughter of Paladine,” Raistlin said again, his soft voice enfolding Crysania like the velvety blackness of his robes. “I hope I find you well?” But now she heard bitter, cynical sarcasm in that voice. This she had expected, this she was prepared for. His earlier tone of respect had taken her by surprise, she admitted to herself angrily, but her first weakness was past. Rising to her feet, bringing her eyes level with his, she unconsciously clasped the medallion of Paladine with her hand. The touch of the cool metal gave her courage.

“I do not believe we need to exchange meaningless social amenities,” Crysania stated crisply, her face once more smooth and cold. “We are keeping Astinus from his studies. He will appreciate our completing our business with alacrity.”

“I could not agree more,” the black-robed mage said with a slight twist of his thin lip that might have been a smile. “I have come in response to your request. What is it you want of me?”

Crysania sensed he was laughing at her. Accustomed only to the highest respect, this increased her anger. She regarded him with cold gray eyes. “I have come to warn you, Raistlin Majere, that your evil designs are known to Paladine. Beware, or he will destroy you—”

“How?” Raistlin asked suddenly, and his strange eyes flared with a strange, intense light. “How will he destroy me?” he repeated. “Lightning bolts? Flood and fire? Perhaps another fiery mountain?”

He took another step toward her. Crysania moved coolly away from him, only to back into her chair. Gripping the hard wooden back firmly, she walked around it, then turned to face him.

“It is your own doom you mock,” she replied quietly.

Raistlin’s lip twisted further still, but he continued talking, as if he had not heard her words. “Elistan?” Raistlin’s voice sank to a hissing whisper. “He will send Elistan to destroy me?” The mage shrugged. “But no, surely not. By all reports, the great and holy cleric of Paladine is tired, feeble, dying...”

“No!” Crysania cried, then bit her lip, angry that this man had goaded her into showing her feelings. She paused, drawing a deep breath. “Paladine’s ways are not to be questioned or mocked,” she said with icelike calm, but she could not help her voice from softening almost imperceptibly. “And Elistan’s health is no concern of yours.”

“Perhaps I take a greater interest in his health than you realize,” Raistlin replied with what was, to Crysania, a sneering smile.

Crysania felt blood pound in her temples. Even as he had spoken, the mage moved around the chair, coming nearer the young woman. He was so close to her now that Crysania could feel a strange, unnatural heat radiate from his body through his black robes. She could smell a faintly cloying but pleasant scent about him. A spiciness—His spell components, she realized suddenly. The thought sickened and disgusted her. Holding the medallion of Paladine in her hand, feeling its smoothly chiseled edges bite into her flesh, she moved away from him again.

“Paladine came to me in a dream—” she said haughtily.

Raistlin laughed.

Few there were who had ever heard the mage laugh, and those who had heard it remembered it always, resounding through their darkest dreams. It was thin, high-pitched, and sharp as a blade. It denied all goodness, mocked everything right and true, and it pierced Crysania’s soul.

“Very well,” Crysania said, staring at him with a disdain that hardened her bright, gray eyes to steel blue, “I have done my best to divert you from this course. I have given you fair warning. Your destruction is now in the hands of the gods.”

Suddenly, perhaps realizing the fearlessness with which she confronted him, Raistlin’s laughter ceased. Regarding her intently, his golden eyes narrowed. Then he smiled, a secret inner smile of such strange joy that Astinus, watching the exchange between the two, rose to his feet. The historian’s body blocked the light of the fire. His shadow fell across them both. Raistlin started, almost in alarm. Half-turning, he regarded Astinus with a burning, menacing stare.

“Beware, old friend,” the mage warned, “or would you meddle with history?”

“I do not meddle,” Astinus replied, “as you well know. I am an observer, a recorder. In all things, I am neutral. I know your schemes, your plans as I know the schemes and plans of all who draw breath this day. Therefore, hear me, Raistlin Majere, and heed this warning. This one is beloved of the gods—as her name implies.”

“Beloved of the gods? So are we all, are we not, Revered Daughter?” Raistlin asked, turning to face Crysania once more. His voice was soft as the velvet of his robes. “Is that not written in the Disks of Mishakal? Is that not what the godly Elistan teaches?”

“Yes,” Crysania said slowly, regarding him with suspicion, expecting more mockery. But his metallic face was serious, he had the appearance, suddenly, of a scholar—intelligent, wise. “So it is written.” She smiled coldly. “I am pleased to find you have read the sacred Disks, though you obviously have not learned from them. Do you not recall what is said in the—”

She was interrupted by Astinus, snorting.

“I have been kept from my studies long enough.” The historian crossed the marble floor to the door of the antechamber. “Ring for Bertrem when you are ready to depart. Farewell, Revered Daughter. Farewell... old friend.”

Astinus opened the door. The peaceful silence of the library flowed into the room, bathing Crysania in refreshing coolness. She felt herself in control and she relaxed. Her hand let loose of the medallion. Formally and gracefully, she bowed her farewell to Astinus, as did Raistlin. And then the door shut behind the historian. The two were alone.

For long moments, neither spoke. Then Crysania, feeling Paladine’s power flowing through her, turned to face Raistlin. “I had forgotten that it was you and those with you who recovered the sacred Disks. Of course, you would have read them. I would like to discuss them with you further but, henceforth, in any future dealings we might have, Raistlin Majere,” she said in her cool voice, “I will ask you to speak of Elistan more respectfully. He—”

She stopped amazed, watching in alarm as the mage’s slender body seemed to crumble before her eyes.

Wracked by spasms of coughing, clutching his chest, Raistlin gasped for breath. He staggered. If it had not been for the staff he leaned upon, he would have fallen to the floor. Forgetting her aversion and her disgust, reacting instinctively, Crysania reached out and, putting her hands upon his shoulders, murmured a healing prayer. Beneath her hands, the black robes were soft and warm. She could feel Raistlin’s muscles twisting in spasms, sense his pain and suffering. Pity filled her heart.

Raistlin jerked away from her touch, shoving her to one side. His coughing gradually eased. Able to breathe freely once more, he regarded her with scorn.

“Do not waste your prayers on me, Revered Daughter,” he said bitterly. Pulling a soft cloth from his robes, he dabbed his lips and Crysania saw that it came away stained with blood. “There is no cure for my malady. This is the sacrifice, the price I paid for my magic.”

“I don’t understand,” she murmured. Her hands twitched, as she remembered vividly the velvety soft smoothness of the black robes, and she unconsciously clasped her fingers behind her back.

“Don’t you’?” Raistlin asked, staring deep into her soul with his strange, golden eyes. “What was the sacrifice you made for your power?”

A faint flush, barely visible in the dying firelight, stained Crysania cheeks with blood, much as the mage’s lips were stained. Alarmed at this invasion of her being, she averted her face, her eyes looking once more out the window. Night had fallen over Palanthas. The silver moon, Solinari, was a sliver of light in the dark sky. The red moon that was its twin had not yet risen. The black moon—She caught herself wondering, where is it? Can he truly see it?

“I must go,” Raistlin said, his breath rasping in his throat. “These spasms weaken me. I need rest.”

“Certainly.” Crysania felt herself calm once more. All the ends of her emotions tucked back neatly into place, she turned to face him again. “I thank you for coming—”

“But our business is not concluded,” Raistlin said softly. “I would like a chance to prove to you that these fears of your god are unfounded. I have a suggestion. Come visit me in the Tower of High Sorcery. There you will see me among my books and understand my studies. When you do, your mind will be at ease. As it teaches in the Disks, we fear only that which is unknown.” He took a step nearer her.

Astounded at his proposal, Crysania’s eyes opened wide. She tried to move away from him, but she had inadvertently let herself become trapped by the window. “I cannot go... to the Tower,” she faltered as his nearness smothered her, stole her breath. She tried to walk around him, but he moved his staff slightly, blocking her path. Coldly, she continued, “The spells laid upon it keep out all—”

“Except those I choose to admit,” Raistlin whispered. Folding the blood-stained cloth, he tucked it back into a secret pocket of his robes. Then, reaching out, he took hold of Crysania’s hand.

“How brave you are, Revered Daughter,” he commented. “You do not tremble at my evil touch.”

“Paladine is with me,” Crysania replied disdainfully.

Raistlin smiled, a warm smile, dark and secret—a smile for just the two of them. It fascinated Crysania. He drew her near to him. Then, he dropped her hand. Resting the staff against the chair, he reached out and took hold of her head with his slender hands, placing his fingers over the white hood she wore. Now, Crysania trembled at his touch, but she could not move, she could not speak or do anything more than stare at him in a wild fear she could neither suppress nor understand.

Holding her firmly, Raistlin leaned down and brushed his blood-flecked lips across her forehead. As he did so, he muttered strange words. Then he released her.

Crysania stumbled, nearly falling. She felt weak and dizzy. Her hand went to her forehead where the touch of his lips burned into her skin with a searing pain. “What have you done?” she cried brokenly. “You cannot cast a spell upon me! My faith protects—”

“Of course.” Raistlin sighed wearily, and there was an expression of sorrow in his face and voice, the sorrow of one who is constantly suspected, misunderstood. “I have simply given you a charm that will allow you to pass through Shoikan Grove. The way will not be easy”—his sarcasm returned—“but, undoubtedly your faith will sustain you!”

Pulling his hood low over his eyes, the mage bowed silently to Crysania, who could only stare at him, then he walked toward the door with slow, faltering steps. Reaching out a skeletal hand, he pulled the bell rope. The door opened and Bertrem entered so swiftly and suddenly that Crysania knew he must have been posted outside. Her lips tightened. She flashed the Aesthetic such a furious, imperious glance that the man paled visibly, though totally unaware of what crime he had committed, and mopped his shining forehead with the sleeve of his robe.

Raistlin started to leave, but Crysania stopped him. “I-I apologize for not trusting you, Raistlin Majere,” she said softly. “And, again, I thank you for coming.”

Raistlin turned. “And I apologize for my sharp tongue,” he said. “Farewell, Revered Daughter. If you truly do not fear knowledge, then come to the Tower two nights from this night, when Lunitari makes its first appearance in the sky.”

“I will be there,” Crysania answered firmly, noting with pleasure Bertrem’s look of shocked horror. Nodding in good-bye, she rested her hand lightly on the back of the ornately carved wooden chair.

The mage left the room, Bertrem followed, shutting the door behind him.

Left alone in the warm, silent room, Crysania fell to her knees before the chair. “Oh, thank you, Paladine!” she breathed. “I accept your challenge. I will not fail you! I will not fail!”

Chapter 1

Behind her, she could hear the sound of clawed feet, scrapping through the leaves of the forest. Tika tensed, but tried to act as if she didn’t hear, luring the creature on. Firmly, she gripped her sword in her hand. Her heart pounded. Closer and closer came the footsteps, she could hear the harsh breathing. The touch of a clawed hand fell upon her shoulder. Whirling about, Tika swung her sword and... knocked a tray full of mugs to the floor with a crash.

Dezra shrieked and sprang backward in alarm. Patrons sitting at the bar burst into raucous laughter. Tika knew her face must be as red as her hair. Her heart was pounding, her hands shook.

“Dezra,” she said coldly, “you have all the grace and brains of a gully dwarf. Perhaps you and Raf should switch places. You carry out the garbage and I’ll let him wait tables!”

Dezra looked up from where she knelt, picking broken pieces of crockery up off the floor, where they floated in a sea of beer. “Perhaps I should!” the waitress cried, tossing the pieces back onto the floor. “Wait tables yourself... or is that beneath you now, Tika Majere, Heroine of the Lance?”

Flashing Tika a hurt, reproachful glance, Dezra stood up, kicked the broken crockery out of her way, and flounced out of the Inn.

As the front door banged open, it hit sharply against its frame, making Tika grimace as she envisioned scratches on the woodwork. Sharp words rose to her lips, but she bit her tongue and stopped their utterance, knowing she would regret them later.

The door remained standing open, letting the bright light of fading afternoon flood the Inn. The ruddy glow of the setting sun gleamed in the bar’s freshly polished wood surface and sparkled off the glasses. It even danced on the surface of the puddle on the floor. It touched Tika’s flaming red curls teasingly, like the hand of a lover, causing many of the sniggering patrons to choke on their laughter and gaze at the comely woman with longing.

Not that Tika noticed. Now ashamed of her anger, she peered out the window, where she could see Dezra, dabbing at her eyes with an apron. A customer entered the open door, dragging it shut behind him. The light vanished, leaving the Inn once more in cool, half-darkness.

Tika brushed her hand across her own eyes. What kind of monster am I turning into? she asked herself remorsefully. After all, it wasn’t Dezra’s fault. It’s this horrible feeling inside of me! I almost wish there were draconians to fight again. At least then I knew what I feared, at least then I could fight it with my own hands! How can I fight something I can’t even name?

Voices broke in on her thoughts, clamoring for ale, for food. Laughter rose, echoing through the Inn of the Last Home.

This is what I came back to find. Tika sniffed and wiped her nose with the bar rag. This is my home. These people are as right and beautiful and warm as the setting sun. I’m surrounded by the sounds of love—laughter, good fellowship, a lapping dog...

Lapping dog! Tika groaned and hurried out from behind the bar.

“Raf!” she exclaimed, staring at the gully dwarf in despair.

“Beer spill. Me mop up,” he said, looking at her and cheerfully wiping his hand across his mouth.

Several of the old-time customers laughed, but there were a few, new to the Inn, who were staring at the gully dwarf in disgust.

“Use this rag to clean it up!” Tika hissed out of the corner of her mouth as she grinned weakly at the customers in apology. She tossed Raf the bar rag and the gully dwarf caught it. But he only held it in his hand, staring at it with a mystified expression.

“What me do with this?”

“Clean up the spill!” Tika scolded, trying unsuccessfully to shield him from the customer’s view with her long, flowing skirt.

“Oh! Me not need that,” Raf said solemnly. “Me not get nice rag dirty.” Handing the cloth back to Tika, the gully dwarf got down on all fours again and began to lick up the spilled beer, now mingled with tracked-in mud.

Her cheeks burning, Tika reached down and jerked Raf up by his collar, shaking him. “Use the rag!” she whispered furiously. “The customers are losing their appetites! And when you’re finished with that, I want you to clear off that big table near the firepit. I’m expecting friends—” Tika stopped.

Raf was staring at her, wide-eyed, trying to absorb the complicated instructions. He was exceptional, as gully dwarves go. He’d only been there three weeks and Tika had already taught him to count to three (few gully dwarves ever get past two) and had finally gotten rid of his stench. This new-found intellectual prowess combined with cleanliness would have made him a king in a gully dwarf realm, but Raf had no such ambitions. He knew no king lived like he did—“mopping up” spilled beer (if he were quick) and “taking out” the garbage. But there were limits to Raf’s talents, and Tika had just reached them.

“I’m expecting friends and—” she started again, then gave up. “Oh, never mind. Just mop this up—with the rag,” she added severely, “then come to me to find out what to do next.”

“Me no drink?” Raf began, then caught Tika’s furious glare. “Me do.”

Sighing in disappointment, the gully dwarf took the rag back and slopped it around, muttering about “waste good beer.” Then he picked up pieces of the broken mugs and, after staring at them a moment, grinned and stuck them in the pockets of his shirt.

Tika wondered briefly what he planned to do with them, but knew it was wiser not to ask. Returning to the bar, she grabbed some more mugs and filled them, trying not to notice that Raf had cut himself on some of the sharper pieces and was now leaning back on his heels, watching, with intense interest, the blood drip from his hand.

“Have you... uh... seen Caramon?” Tika asked the gully dwarf casually.

“Nope.” Raf wiped his bloody hand in his hair. “But me know where to look.” He leaped up eagerly. “Me go find?”

“No!” snapped Tika, frowning. “Caramon’s at home.”

“Me no think so,” Raf said, shaking his head. “Not after sun go down—”

“He’s home!” Tika snapped so angrily that the gully dwarf shrank away from her.

“You want to make bet?” Raf muttered, but well under his breath. Tika’s temper these days was as fiery as her flaming hair.

Fortunately for Raf, Tika didn’t hear him. She finished filling the beer mugs, then carried the tray over to a large party of elves, seated near the door.

I’m expecting friends, she repeated to herself dully. Dear friends. Once she would have been so excited, so eager to see Tanis and Riverwind. Now... She sighed, handing out the beer mugs without conscious awareness of what she was doing. Name of the true gods, she prayed, let them come and go quickly! Yes, above all, go quickly! If they stayed... If they found out...

Tika’s heart sank at the thought. Her lower lip trembled. If they stayed, that would be the end. Plain and simple. Her life would be over. The pain was suddenly more than she could bear. Hurriedly setting the last beer mug down, Tika left the elves, blinking her eyes rapidly. She did not notice the bemused gazes the elves exchanged among themselves as they stared at the beer mugs, and she never did remember that they had all ordered wine.

Half blinded by her tears, Tika’s only thought was to escape to the kitchen where she could weep unseen. The elves looked about for another waitress, and Raf, sighing in contentment, got back down on his hands and knees, happily lapping up the rest of the beer.

Tanis Half-Elven stood at the bottom of a small rise, staring up the long, straight, muddy road that stretched ahead of him. The woman he escorted and their mounts waited some distance behind him. The woman had been in need of rest, as had their horses. Though her pride had kept her from saying a word, Tanis saw her face was gray and drawn with fatigue. Once today, in fact, she had nodded off to sleep in the saddle, and would have fallen but for Tanis’s strong arm. Therefore, though eager to reach her destination, she had not protested when Tanis stated that he wanted to scout the road ahead alone. He helped her from her horse and saw her settled in a hidden thicket.

He had misgivings about leaving her unattended, but he sensed that the dark creatures pursuing them had fallen far behind. His insistence on speed had paid off, though—both he and the woman were aching and exhausted. Tanis hoped to stay ahead of the things until he could turn his companion over to the one person on Krynn who might be able to help her.

They had been riding since dawn, fleeing a horror that had followed them since leaving Palanthas. What it was exactly, Tanis—with all his experience during the wars—could not name. And that made it all the more frightening. Never there when confronted, it was only seen from the corner of the eye that was looking for something else. His companion had sensed it, too, he could tell, though, characteristically, she was too proud to admit to fear.

Walking away from the thicket, Tanis felt guilty. He shouldn’t be leaving her alone, he knew. He shouldn’t be wasting precious time. All his warrior senses protested. But there was one thing he had to do, and he had to do it alone. To do otherwise would have seemed sacrilege.

And so Tanis stood at the bottom of the hill, summoning his courage to move forward. Anyone looking at him might have supposed he was advancing to fight an ogre. But that was not the case. Tanis Half-Elven was returning home. And he both longed for and dreaded his first sight.

The afternoon sun was beginning its downward journey toward night. It would be dark before he reached the Inn, and he dreaded traveling the roads by night. But, once there, this nightmarish journey would be over, He would leave the woman in capable hands and continue on to Qualinesti. But, first, there was this he had to face. With a deep sigh, Tanis Half-Elven drew his green hood up over his head and began the climb.

Topping the rise, his gaze fell upon a large, moss-covered boulder. For a moment, his memories overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes, feeling the sting of swift tears beneath the lids.

“Stupid quest,” he heard the dwarf’s voice echo in his memory. “Silliest thing I ever did!”

Flint! My old friend!

I can’t go on, Tanis thought. This is too painful. Why did I ever agree to come back? It holds nothing for me now... nothing except the pain of old wounds. My life is good, at last. Finally I am at peace, happy. Why... why did I tell them I would come?

Drawing a shuddering sigh, he opened his eyes and looked at the boulder. Two years ago—it would be three this autumn—he had topped this rise and met his long-time friend, the dwarf, Flint Fireforge, sitting on that boulder, carving wood, and complaining—as usual. That meeting had set in motion events that had shaken the world, culminating in the War of the Lance, the battle that cast the Queen of Darkness back into the Abyss, and broke the might of the Dragon Highlords.

Now I am a hero, Tanis thought, glancing down ruefully at the gaudy panoply he wore: breastplate of a Knight of Solamnia; green silken sash, mark of the Wildrunners of Silvanesti, the elves’ most honored legions; the medallion of Kharas, the dwarves’ highest honor; plus countless others. No one—human, elf, or half-elf—had been so honored. It was ironic. He who hated armor, who hated ceremony, now forced to wear it as befitting his station. How the old dwarf would have laughed.

“You—a hero!” He could almost hear the dwarf snort. But Flint was dead. He had died two years ago this spring in Tanis’s arms.

“Why the beard?” He could swear once again that he heard Flint’s voice, the first words he had said upon seeing the half-elf in the road. “You were ugly enough...”

Tanis smiled and scratched the beard that no elf on Krynn could grow, the beard that was the outward, visible sign of his half-human heritage. Flint knew well enough why the beard, Tanis thought, gazing fondly at the sun-warmed boulder. He knew me better than I knew myself. He knew of the chaos that raged inside my soul. He knew I had a lesson to learn.

“And I learned it,” Tanis whispered to the friend who was with him in spirit only. “I learned it, Flint. But... oh, it was bitter!”

The smell of wood smoke came to Tanis. That and the slanting rays of the sun and the chill in the spring air reminded him he still had some distance to travel. Turning, Tanis Half-Elven looked down into the valley where he had spent the bittersweet years of his young manhood. Turning, Tanis Half-Elven looked down upon Solace.

It had been autumn when he last saw the small town. The vallenwood trees in the valley had been ablaze with the season’s colors, the brilliant reds and golds fading into the purple of the peaks of the Kharolis mountains beyond, the deep azure of the sky mirrored in the still waters of Crystalmir Lake. There had been a haze of smoke over the valley, the smoke of home fires burning in the peaceful town that had once roosted in the vallenwood trees like contented birds. He and Flint had watched the lights flicker on, one by one, in the houses that sheltered among the leaves of the huge trees. Solace—tree city—one of the beauties and wonders of Krynn.

For a moment, Tanis saw the vision in his mind’s eye as clearly as he had seen it two years before. Then the vision faded. Then it had been autumn. Now it was spring. The smoke was there still, the smoke of the home fires. But now it came mostly from houses built on the ground. There was the green of living, growing things, but it only seemed—in Tanis’s mind—to emphasize the black scars upon the land; scars that could never be totally erased, though here and there he saw the marks of the plow across them.

Tanis shook his head. Everyone thought that, with the destruction of the Queen’s foul temple at Neraka, the war was over. Everyone was anxious to plow over the black and burned land, scorched by dragonfire, and forget their pain.

His eyes went to a huge circle of black that stood in the center of town. Here, nothing would grow. No plow could turn the soil ravaged by dragonfire and soaked by the blood of innocents, murdered by the troops of the Dragon Highlords.

Tanis smiled grimly. He could imagine how an eyesore like that must irritate those who were working to forget. He was glad it was there. He hoped it would remain, forever.

Softly, he repeated words he had heard Elistan speak, as the cleric dedicated in solemn ceremony the High Clerist’s Tower to the memory of those knights who had died there.

“We must remember or we will fall into complacency—as we did before—and the evil will come again.”

If it is not already upon us, Tanis thought grimly. And, with that in mind, he turned and walked rapidly back down the hill.

The Inn of the Last Home was crowded that evening. While the war had brought devastation and destruction to the residents of Solace, the end of the war had brought such prosperity that there were already some who were saying it hadn’t been “such a bad thing.” Solace had long been a crossroads for travelers through the lands of Abanasinia. But, in the days before the war, the numbers of travelers had been relatively few. The dwarves—except,for a few renegades like Flint Fireforge—had shut themselves up in their mountain kingdom of Thorbardin or barricaded themselves in the hills, refusing to have anything to do with the rest of the world. The elves had done the same, dwelling in the beautiful lands of Qualinesti to the southwest and Silvanesti on the eastern edge of the continent of Ansalon.

The war had changed all that. Elves and dwarves and humans traveled extensively now, their lands and their kingdoms open to all. But it had taken almost total annihilation to bring about this fragile state of brotherhood.

The Inn of the Last Home—always popular with travelers because of its fine drink and Otik’s famous spiced potatoes—became more popular still. The drink was still fine and the potatoes as good as ever—though Otik had retired—but the real reason for the Inn’s increase in popularity was that it had become a place of some renown. The Heroes of the Lance—as they were now called—had been known to frequent this Inn in days gone by.

Otik had, in fact, before his retirement, seriously considered putting up a plaque over the table near the firepit—perhaps something like “Tanis Half-Elven and Companions Drank Here.” But Tika had opposed the scheme so vehemently (the mere thought of what Tanis would say if he caught sight of that made Tika’s cheeks burn) that Otik had let it drop. But the rotund barkeep never tired of telling his patrons the story of the night the barbarian woman had sung her strange song and healed Hederick the Theocrat with her blue crystal staff, giving the first proof of the existence of the ancient, true gods.

Tika, who took over management of the Inn upon Otik’s retirement and was hoping to save enough money to buy the business, fervently hoped Otik would refrain from telling that story again tonight. But she might have spent her hope on better things.

There were several parties of elves who had traveled all the way from Silvanesti to attend the funeral of Solostaran—Speaker of the Suns and ruler of the elven lands of Qualinesti. They were not only urging Otik to tell his story, but were telling some of their own, about the Heroes’ visit to their land and how they freed it from the evil dragon, Cyan Bloodbane.

Tika saw Otik glance her direction wistfully at this—Tika had, after all, been one of the members of the group in Silvanesti. But she silenced him with a furious shake of her red curls. That was one part of their journey she refused ever to relate or even discuss. In fact, she prayed nightly that she would forget the hideous nightmares of that tortured land.

Tika closed her eyes a moment, wishing the elves would drop the conversation. She had her own nightmares now. She needed no past ones to haunt her. “Just let them come and go quickly,” she said softly to herself and to whatever god might be listening.

It was just past sunset. More and more customers entered, demanding food and drink. Tika had apologized to Dezra, the two friends had shed a few tears together, and now were kept busy running from kitchen to bar to table. Tika started every time the door opened, and she scowled irritably when she heard Otik’s voice rise above the clatter of mugs and tongues.

“... beautiful autumn night, as I recall, and I was, of course, busier than a draconian drill sergeant.” That always got a laugh. Tika gritted her teeth. Otik had an appreciative audience and was in full swing. There would be no stopping him now. “The Inn was up in the vallenwood trees then, like the rest of our lovely city before the dragons destroyed it. Ah, how beautiful it was in the old days.” He sighed—he always sighed at this point—and wiped away a tear. There was a sympathetic murmur from the crowd. “Where was I?” He blew his nose, another part of the act. “Ah, yes. There I was, behind the bar, when the door opened...”

The door opened. It might have been done on cue, so perfect was the timing. Tika brushed back a strand of red hair from her perspiring forehead and glanced over nervously. Sudden silence filled the room. Tika stiffened, her nails digging into her hands.

A tall man, so tall he had to duck to enter the door, stood in the doorway. His hair was dark, his face grim and stern. Although cloaked in furs, it was obvious from his walk and stance that his body was strong and muscular. He cast a swift glance around the crowded Inn, sizing up those who were present, wary and watchful of danger.

But it was an instinctive action only, for when his penetrating, somber gaze rested on Tika, his stern face relaxed into a smile and he held his arms open wide.

Tika hesitated, but the sight of her friend suddenly filled her with joy and a strange wave of homesickness. Shoving her way through the crowd, she was caught in his embrace.

“Riverwind, my friend!” she murmured brokenly.

Grasping the young woman in his arms, Riverwind lifted her effortlessly, as though she were a child. The crowd began to cheer, banging their mugs on the table. Most couldn’t believe their luck. Here was a Hero of the Lance himself, as if carried on the wings of Otik’s story. And he even looked the part! They were enchanted.

For, upon releasing Tika, the tall man had thrown his fur cloak back from his shoulders, and now all could see the Mantle of the Chieftain that the Plainsman wore, its V-shaped sections of alternating furs and tooled leathers each representing one of the Plains tribes over which he ruled. His handsome face, though older and more careworn than when Tika had seen him last, was burned bronze by the sun and weather, and there was an inner joy within the man’s eyes which showed that he had found in his life the peace he had been searching for years before.

Tika felt a choking sensation in her throat and turned quickly away, but not quickly enough.

“Tika,” he said, his accent thick from living once more among his people, “it is good to see you well and beautiful still. Where’s Caramon? I cannot wait to see—Why, Tika, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Tika said briskly, shaking her red curls and blinking her eyes. “Come, I have a place saved for you by the fire. You must be exhausted and hungry.”

She led him through the crowd, talking nonstop, never giving him a chance to say a word. The crowd inadvertently helped her, keeping Riverwind occupied as they gathered around to touch and marvel over his fur cloak, or tried to shake his hand (a custom Plainsmen consider barbaric) or thrust drinks into his face.

Riverwind accepted it all stoically, as he followed Tika through the excited throng, clasping the beautiful sword of elven make close to his side. His stern face grew a shade darker, and he glanced often out the windows as though already longing to escape the confines of this noisy, hot room and return to the outdoors he loved. But Tika skillfully shoved the more exuberant patrons aside and soon had her old friend seated by the fire at an isolated table near the kitchen door.

“I’ll be back,” she said, flashing him a smile and vanishing into the kitchen before he could open his mouth.

The sound of Otik’s voice rose once again, accompanied by a loud banging. His story having been interrupted, Otik was using his cane—one of the most feared weapons in Solace—to restore order. The barkeep was crippled in one leg now and he enjoyed telling that story, too—about how he had been injured during the fall of Solace, when, by his own account, he single-handedly fought off the invading armies of draconians.

Grabbing a panful of spiced potatoes and hurrying back to Riverwind, Tika glared at Otik irritably. She knew the true story, how he had hurt his leg being dragged out of his hiding place beneath the floor. But she never told it. Deep within, she loved the old man like a father. He had taken her in and raised her, when her own father disappeared, giving her honest work when she might have turned to thievery. Besides, just reminding him that she knew the truth was useful in keeping Otik’s tall tales from stretching to new heights.

The crowd was fairly quiet when Tika returned, giving her a chance to talk to her old friend.

“How is Goldmoon and your son?” she asked brightly, seeing Riverwind looking at her, studying her intently.

“She is fine and sends her love,” Riverwind answered in his deep, low baritone. “My son”—his eyes glowed with pride—“is but two, yet already stands this tall and sits a horse better than most warriors.”

“I was hoping Goldmoon would come with you,” Tika said with a sigh she didn’t mean Riverwind to hear. The tall Plainsman ate his food for a moment in silence before he answered.

“The gods have blessed us with two more children,” he said, staring at Tika with a strange expression in his dark eyes.

“Two?” Tika looked puzzled, then, “oh, twins!” she cried joyfully. “Like Caramon and Rais—” She stopped abruptly, biting her lip.

Riverwind frowned and made the sign that wards off evil. Tika flushed and looked away. There was a roaring in her ears. The heat and the noise made her dizzy. Swallowing the bitter taste in her mouth, she forced herself to ask more about Goldmoon and, after awhile, could even listen to Riverwind’s answer.

“... still too few clerics in our land. There are many converts, but the powers of the gods come slowly. She works hard, too hard to my mind, but she grows more beautiful every day. And the babies, our daughters, both have silver-golden hair—”

Babies... Tika smiled sadly. Seeing her face, Riverwind fell silent, finished eating, and pushed his plate away. “I can think of nothing I would rather do than continue this visit,” he said slowly, “but I cannot be gone long from my people. You know the urgency of my mission. Where is Cara—”

“I must go check on your room,” Tika said, standing up so quickly she jostled the table, spilling Riverwind’s drink. “That gully dwarf is supposed to be making the bed. I’ll probably find him sound asleep—”

She hurried away. But she did not go upstairs to the rooms. Standing outside by the kitchen door, feeling the night wind cool her fevered cheeks, she stared out into the darkness. “Let him go away!” she whispered. “Please...”

2

Perhaps most of all, Tanis feared his first sight of the Inn of the Last Home. Here it had all started, three years ago this autumn. Here he and Flint and the irrepressible kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, had come that night to meet old friends. Here his world had turned upside down, never to exactly right itself again.

But, riding toward the Inn, Tanis found his fears eased. It had changed so much it was like coming to some place strange, a place that held no memories. It stood on the ground, instead of in the branches of a great vallenwood. There were new additions, more rooms had been built to accommodate the influx of travelers, it had a new roof, much more modern in design. All the scars of war had been purged, along with the memories.

Then, just as Tanis was beginning to relax, the front door of the Inn opened. Light streamed out, forming a golden path of’ welcome, the smell of spiced potatoes and the sound of laughter came to him on the evening breeze. The memories returned in a rush, and Tanis bowed his head, overcome.

But, perhaps fortunately, he did not have time to dwell upon the past. As he and his companion approached the Inn, a stableboy ran out to grab the horses’ reins.

“Food and water,” said Tanis, sliding wearily from the saddle and tossing the boy a coin. He stretched to ease the cramps in his muscles. “I sent word ahead that I was to have a fresh horse waiting for me here. My name is Tanis Half-Elven.”

The boy’s eyes opened wide; he had already been staring at the bright armor and rich cloak Tanis wore. Now his curiosity was replaced by awe and admiration.

“Y-yes, sir,” he stammered, abashed at being addressed by such a great hero. “T-the horse is ready, sh-shall I bring him around n-now, sir?”

“No.” Tanis smiled. “I will eat first. Bring him in two hours.”

“T-two hours. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Bobbing his head, the boy took the reins Tanis pressed into his unfeeling hand, then stood there, gaping, completely forgetting his task until the impatient horse nudged him, nearly knocking him over.

As the boy hurried off, leading Tanis’s horse away, the half-elf turned to assist his companion down from her saddle.

“You must be made of iron,” she said, looking at Tanis as he helped her to the ground. “Do you really intend to ride further tonight?”

“To tell the truth, every bone in my body aches,” Tanis began, then paused, feeling uncomfortable. He was simply unable to feel at ease around this woman.

Tanis could see her face reflected in the light beaming from the Inn. He saw fatigue and pain. Her eyes were sunken into pale, hollow cheeks. She staggered as she stepped upon the ground, and Tanis was quick to give her his arm to lean upon. This she did, but only for a moment. Then, drawing herself up, she gently but firmly pushed him away and stood alone, glancing at her surroundings without interest.

Every move hurt Tanis, and he could imagine how this woman must feel, unaccustomed as she was to physical exertion or hardship, and he was forced to regard her with grudging admiration. She had not complained once on their long and frightening journey. She had kept up with him, never lagging behind and obeying his instructions without question.

Why, then, he wondered, couldn’t he feel anything for her? What was there about her that irritated him and annoyed him? Looking at her face, Tanis had his answer. The only warmth there was the warmth reflected from the Inn’s light. Her face itself—even exhausted—was cold, passionless, devoid of—what? Humanity? Thus she had been all this long, dangerous journey. Oh, she had been coolly polite, coolly grateful, coolly distant and remote. She probably would have coolly buried me, Tanis thought grimly. Then, as if to reprimand him for his irreverent thoughts, his gaze was drawn to the medallion she wore around her neck, the Platinum Dragon of Paladine. He remembered Elistan’s parting words, spoken in private just before their journey’s beginning.

“It is fitting that you escort her, Tanis,” said the now-frail cleric. “In many ways, she begins a journey much like your own years ago—seeking self-knowledge. No, you are right, she doesn’t know this herself yet.” This in answer to Tanis’s dubious look. “She walks forward with her gaze fixed upon the heavens.” Elistan smiled sadly. “She has not yet learned that, in so doing, one will surely stumble. Unless she learns, her fall may be hard.” Shaking his head, he murmured a soft prayer. “But we must put our trust in Paladine.”

Tanis had frowned then and he frowned now, thinking about it. Though he had come to a strong belief in the true gods—more through Laurana’s love and faith in them than anything else—he felt uncomfortable trusting his life to them, and he grew impatient with those like Elistan who, it seemed, placed too great a burden upon the gods. Let man be responsible for himself for a change, Tanis thought irritably.

“What is it, Tanis?” Crysania asked coldly.

Realizing he had been staring at her all this while, Tanis coughed in embarrassment, cleared his throat, and looked away. Fortunately, the boy returned for Crysania’s horse at this moment, sparing Tanis the need to answer. He gestured at the Inn, and the two walked toward it.

“Actually,” Tanis said when the silence grew awkward, “I would like nothing better than to stay here and visit with my friends. But I have to be in Qualinesti the day after tomorrow, and only by hard riding will I arrive in time. My relations with my brother-in-law are not such that I can afford to offend him by missing Solostaran’s funeral.” He added with a grim smile, “Both politically and personally, if you take my meaning.”

Crysania smiled in turn, but—Tanis saw—it was not a smile of understanding. It was a smile of tolerance, as if this talk of politics and family were beneath her.

They had reached the door to the Inn. “Besides,” Tanis added softly, “I miss Laurana. Funny, isn’t it. When she is near and we’re busy about our own tasks, we’ll sometimes go for days with just a quick smile or a touch and then we disappear into our worlds. But when I’m far away from her, it’s like I suddenly awaken to find my right arm cut off. I may not go to bed thinking of my right arm, but when it is gone...”

Tanis stopped abruptly, feeling foolish, afraid he sounded like a lovesick adolescent. But Crysania, he realized, was apparently not paying the least bit of attention to him. Her smooth, marble face had grown, if anything, more cold until the moon’s silver light seemed warm by comparison. Shaking his head, Tanis pushed open the door.

I don’t envy Caramon and Riverwind, he thought grimly.

The warm, familiar sounds and smells of the Inn washed over Tanis and, for long moments, everything was a blur. Here was Otik, older and fatter, if possible, leaning upon a cane and pounding him on the back. Here were people he had not seen in years, who had never had much to do with him before, now shaking his hand and claiming his friendship. Here was the old bar, still brightly polished, and somehow he managed to step on a gully dwarf...

And then there was a tall man cloaked in furs, and Tanis was clasped inside his friend’s warm embrace.

“Riverwind,” he whispered huskily, holding onto the Plainsman tightly.

“My brother,” Riverwind said in Que-shu, the language of his people. The crowd in the Inn was cheering wildly, but Tanis didn’t hear them, because a woman with flaming red hair and a smattering of freckles had her hand upon his arm. Reaching out, still holding fast to Riverwind, Tanis gathered Tika into their embrace and for long moments the three friends clung to each other—bound together by sorrow and pain and glory.

Riverwind brought them to their senses. Unaccustomed to such public displays of emotion, the tall Plainsman regained his composure with a gruff cough and stood back, blinking his eyes rapidly and frowning at the ceiling until he was master of himself again. Tanis, his reddish beard wet with his own tears, gave Tika another swift hug, then looked around.

“Where’s that big lummox of a husband of yours?” he asked cheerfully. “Where’s Caramon?”

It was a simple question, and Tanis was totally unprepared for the response. The crowd fell completely silent; it seemed as if someone had shut them all up in a barrel. Tika’s face flushed an ugly red, she muttered something unintelligible, and, bending down, dragged a gully dwarf up off the floor and shook him so his teeth rattled in his head.

Startled, Tanis looked at Riverwind, but the Plainsman only shrugged and raised his dark eyebrows. The half-elf turned to ask Tika what was going on, but just then felt a cool touch upon his arm. Crysania! He had completely forgotten her!

His own face flushing, he made his belated introductions.

“May I present Crysania of Tarinius, Revered Daughter of Paladine,” Tanis said formally. “Lady Crysania, Riverwind, Chieftain of the Plainsmen, and Tika Waylan Majere.”

Crysania untied her traveling cloak and drew back her hood. As she did so, the platinum medallion she wore around her neck flashed in the bright candlelight of the Inn. The woman’s pure white lamb’s wool robes peeped through the folds of her cloak. A murmur—both reverent and respectful—went through the crowd.

“A holy cleric!”

“Did you catch her name? Crysania! Next in line...”

“Elistan’s successor...”

Crysania inclined her head. Riverwind bowed from the waist, his face solemn, and Tika, her own face still so flushed she appeared feverish, shoved Raf hurriedly behind the bar, then made a deep curtsey.

At the sound of Tika’s married name, Majere, Crysania glanced at Tanis questioningly and received his nod in return.

“I am honored,” Crysania said in her rich, cool voice, “to meet two whose deeds of courage shine as an example to us all.”

Tika flushed in pleased embarrassment. Riverwind’s stern face did not change expression, but Tanis saw how much the cleric’s praise meant to the deeply religious Plainsman. As for the crowd, they cheered boisterously at this honor to their own and kept on cheering. Otik, with all due ceremony, led his guests to a waiting table, beaming on the heroes as if he had arranged the entire war especially for their benefit.

Sitting down, Tanis at first felt disturbed by the confusion and noise but soon decided it was beneficial. At least he could talk to Riverwind without fear of being overheard. But first, he had to find out—where was Caramon?

Once again, he started to ask, but Tika—after seeing them seated and fussing over Crysania like a mother hen—saw him open his mouth and, turning abruptly, disappeared into the kitchen.

Tanis shook his head, puzzled, but before he could think about it further, Riverwind was asking him questions. The two were soon deeply involved in talk.

“Everyone thinks the war is over,” Tanis said, sighing. “And that places us in worse danger than before. Alliances between elves and humans that were strong when times were dark are beginning to melt in the sun. Laurana’s in Qualinesti now, attending the funeral of her father and also trying to arrange an agreement with that stiff-necked brother of hers, Porthios, and the Knights of Solamnia. The only ray of hope we have is in Porthios’s wife, Alhana Starbreeze.” Tanis smiled. “I never thought I would live to see that elfwoman not only tolerant of humans and other races, but even warmly supporting them to her intolerant husband.”

“A strange marriage,” Riverwind commented, and Tanis nodded in agreement. Both men’s thoughts were with their friend, the knight, Sturm Brightblade, now lying dead—hero of the High Clerist’s Tower. Both knew Alhana’s heart had been buried there in the darkness with Sturm.

“Certainly not a marriage of love.” Tanis shrugged. “But it may be a marriage that will help restore order to the world. Now, what of you, my friend? Your face is dark and drawn with new worries, as well as beaming with new joy. Goldmoon sent Laurana word of the twins.”

Riverwind smiled briefly. “You are right. I begrudge every minute I am away,” the Plainsman said in his deep voice, “though seeing you again, my brother, lightens my heart’s burden. But I left two tribes on the verge of war. So far, I have managed to keep them talking, and there has been no blood shed yet. But malcontents work against me, behind my back. Every minute I am away gives them a chance to stir up old blood feuds.”

Tanis clasped his arm. “I am sorry, my friend, and I am grateful you came.” Then he sighed again and glanced at Crysania, realizing he had new problems. “I had hoped you would be able to offer this lady your guidance and protection.” His voice sank to a murmur. “She travels to the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest.”

Riverwind’s eyes widened in alarm and disapproval. The Plainsman distrusted mages and anything connected with them.

Tanis nodded. “I see you remember Caramon’s stories about the time he and Raistlin traveled there. And they had been invited. This lady goes without invitation, to seek the mages’ advice about—”

Crysania gave him a sharp, imperious glance. Frowning, she shook her head. Tanis, biting his lip, added lamely, “I was hoping you could escort her—”

“I feared as much,” said Riverwind, “when I received your message, and that was why I felt I had to come—to offer you some explanation for my refusal. If it were any other time, you know I would gladly help and, in particular, I would be honored to offer my services to a person so revered.” He bowed slightly to Crysania, who accepted his homage with a smile that vanished instantly when she returned her gaze to Tanis. A small, deep line of anger appeared between her brows.

Riverwind continued, “But there is too much at stake. The peace I have established between the tribes, many who have been at war for years, is a fragile one. Our survival as a nation and a people depend upon us uniting and working together to rebuild our land and our lives.”

“I understand,” Tanis said, touched by Riverwind’s obvious unhappiness in having to refuse his request for help. The half—elf caught Lady Crysania’s displeased stare, however, and he turned to her with grim politeness. “All will be well, Revered Daughter,” he said, speaking with elaborate patience. “Caramon will guide you, and he is worth three of us ordinary mortals, right, Riverwind?”

The Plainsman smiled, old memories returning. “He can eat as much as three ordinary mortals, certainly. And he is as strong as three or more. Do you remember, Tanis, when he used to lift stout Pig-faced William off his feet, when we put on that show in... where was it... Flotsam?”

“And the time he killed those two draconians by bashing their heads together.” Tanis laughed, feeling the darkness of the world suddenly lift in sharing those times with his friend. “And do you remember when we were in the dwarven kingdom and Caramon sneaked up behind Flint and—” Leaning forward, Tanis whispered in Riverwind’s ear. The Plainsman’s face flushed with laughter. He recounted another tale, and the two men continued, recalling stories of Caramon’s strength, his skill with a sword, his courage and honor.

“And his gentleness,” Tanis added, after a moment’s quiet reflection. “I can see him now, tending to Raistlin so patiently, holding his brother in his arms when those coughing fits nearly tore the mage apart—”

He was interrupted by a smothered cry, a crash, and a thud. Turning in astonishment, Tanis saw Tika staring at him, her face white, her green eyes glimmering with tears.

“Leave now!” she pleaded through pale lips. “Please, Tanis! Don’t ask any questions! Just go!” She grabbed his arm, her nails digging painfully into his flesh.

“Look, what in the name of the Abyss is going on, Tika?” Tanis asked in exasperation, standing up and facing her.

A splintering crash came in answer. The door to the Inn burst open, hit from outside by some tremendous force. Tika jumped back, her face convulsed in such fear and horror as she looked at the door that Tanis turned swiftly, his hand on his sword, and Riverwind rose to his feet.

A large shadow filled the doorway, seeming to spread a pall over the room. The crowd’s cheerful noise and laughter ceased abruptly, changing to low, angry mutterings.

Remembering the dark and evil things that had been chasing them, Tanis drew his sword, placing himself between the darkness and Lady Crysania. He sensed, though he did not see, Riverwind’s stalwart presence behind him, backing him up.

So, it’s caught up with us, Tanis thought, almost welcoming the chance to fight this vague, unknown terror. Grimly he stared at the door, watching as a bloated, grotesque figure entered into the light.

It was a man, Tanis saw, a huge man, but, as he looked more closely, he saw it was a man whose giant girth had run to flab. A bulging belly hung over cinched up leather leggings. A filthy shirt gaped open at the navel, there being too little shirt to cover too much flesh. The man’s face—partially obscured by a three-day growth of beard—was unnaturally flushed and splotchy, his hair greasy and unkempt. His clothes, while fine and well-made, were dirty and smelled strongly of vomit and the raw liquor known as dwarf spirits.

Tanis lowered his sword, feeling like a fool. It was just some poor drunken wretch, probably the town bully, using his great size to intimidate the citizenry. He looked at the man with pity and disgust, thinking, even as he did so, that there was something oddly familiar about him. Probably someone he had known when he lived in Solace long ago, some poor slob who had fallen on hard times.

The half-elf started to turn away, then noticed—to his amazement—that everyone in the Inn was looking at him expectantly.

What do they want me to do, Tanis thought in sudden, swift anger. Attack him? Some hero I’d look—beating up the town drunk!

Then he heard a sob at his elbow. “I told you to leave,” Tika moaned, sinking down into a chair. Burying her face in her hands, she began to cry as if her heart would break.

Growing more and more mystified, Tanis glanced at Riverwind, but the Plainsman was obviously as much in the dark as his friend. The drunk, meanwhile, staggered into the room and gazed about in anger.

“Wash ish thish? A party?” he growled. “And nobody in-in-invited their old... invited me?”

No one answered. They were fixedly ignoring the slovenly man, their eyes still on Tanis, and now even the drunk’s attention turned to the half-elf. Attempting to bring him into focus, the drunk stared at Tanis in a kind of puzzled anger, as though blaming him for being the cause of all his troubles. Then, suddenly, the drunk’s eyes widened, his face split into a foolish grin, and he lurched forward, hands outstretched.

“Tanish... my fri—”

“Name of the gods,” Tanis breathed, recognizing him at last.

The man staggered forward and stumbled over a chair. For a moment he stood swaying unsteadily, like a tree that has been cut and is ready to fall. His eyes rolled back in his head, people scrambled to get out of his way. Then—with a thud that shook the Inn—Caramon Majere, Hero of the Lance, passed out cold at Tanis’s feet.

3

Name of the gods,” Tanis repeated in sorrow as he stooped down beside the comatose warrior. “Caramon...”

“Tanis—” Riverwind’s voice caused the half-elf to glance up quickly. The Plainsman held Tika in his arms, both he and Dezra trying to comfort the distraught young woman. But people were pressing close, trying to question Riverwind or asking Crysania for a blessing. Others were demanding more ale or just standing around, gawking.

Tanis rose swiftly to his feet. “The Inn is closed for the night,” he shouted.

There were jeers from the crowd, except for some scattered applause near the back where several customers thought he was buying a round of drinks.

“No, I mean it,” Tanis said firmly, his voice carrying over the noise. The crowd quieted. “Thank you all for this welcome. I cannot tell you what it means to me to come back to my homeland. But, my friends and I would like to be alone now. Please, it is late...”

There were murmurs of sympathy and some good-natured clapping. Only a few scowled and muttered comments about the greater the knight the more his own armor glares in his eyes (an old saying from the days when the Solamnic Knights were held in derision). Riverwind, leaving Dezra to take care of Tika, came forward to prod those few stragglers who assumed Tanis meant everyone except them. The half-elf stood guard over Caramon, who was snoring blissfully on the floor, keeping people from stepping on the big man. He exchanged glances with Riverwind as the Plainsman passed, but neither had time to speak until the Inn was emptied.

Otik Sandeth stood by the door, thanking everyone for coming and assuring each that the Inn would be open again tomorrow night. When everyone else had gone, Tanis stepped up to the retired proprietor, feeling awkward and embarrassed. But Otik stopped him before he could speak.

Gripping Tanis’s hand in his, the elderly man whispered, “I’m glad you’ve come back. Lock up when you’re finished.” He glanced at Tika, then motioned the half-elf forward conspiratorially. “Tanis,” he said in a whisper, “if you happen to see Tika take a little out of the money box, pay it no mind. She’ll pay it back someday. I just pretend not to notice.” His gaze went to Caramon, and he shook his head sadly. “I know you’ll be able to help,” he murmured, then he nodded and stumped off into the night, leaning on his cane.

Help! Tanis thought wildly. We came seeking his help. Caramon snored particularly loudly, half-woke himself up, belched up great fumes of dwarf spirits, then settled back down to sleep. Tanis looked bleakly at Riverwind, then shook his head in despair.

Crysania stared down at Caramon in pity mingled with disgust. “Poor man,” she said softly. The medallion of Paladine shone in the candlelight. “Perhaps I—”

“There’s nothing you can do for him,” Tika cried bitterly. “He doesn’t need healing. He’s drunk, can’t you see that? Dead drunk!”

Crysania’s gaze turned to Tika in astonishment, but before the cleric could say anything, Tanis hurried back to Caramon. “Help me, Riverwind,” he said, bending down. “Let’s get him hom—”

“Oh, leave him!” Tika snapped, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. “He’s spent enough nights on the barroom floor. Another won’t matter.” She turned to Tanis. “I wanted to tell you. I really did. But I thought... I kept hoping... He was excited when your letter arrived. He was... well, more like himself than I’ve seen him in a long time. I thought maybe this might do it. He might change. So I let you come.” She hung her head. “I’m sorry...”

Tanis stood beside the big warrior, irresolute. “I don’t understand. How long—”

“It’s why we couldn’t come to your wedding, Tanis,” Tika said, twisting her apron into knots. “I wanted to, so much! But—” She began to cry again. Dezra put her arms around her.

“Sit down, Tika,” Dezra murmured, helping her to a seat in a high-backed, wooden booth.

Tika sank down, her legs suddenly giving out beneath her, then she hid her head in her arms.

“Let’s all sit down,” Tanis said firmly, “and get our wits about us. You there”—the half-elf beckoned to the gully dwarf, who was peering out at them from beneath the wooden bar. “Bring us a pitcher of ale and some mugs, wine for Lady Crysania, some spiced potatoes—”

Tanis paused. The confused gully dwarf was staring at him, round-eyed, his mouth hanging open in confusion.

“Better let me get it for you, Tanis,” Dezra offered, smiling. “You’d probably end up with a pitcher of potatoes if Raf went after it.”

“Me help!” Raf protested indignantly.

“You take out the garbage!” Dezra snapped.

“Me big help...” Raf mumbled disconsolately as he shuffled out, kicking at the table legs to relieve his hurt feelings.

“Your rooms are in the new part of the Inn,” Tika mumbled. “I’ll show you...”

“We’ll find them later,” Riverwind said sternly, but as he looked at Tika, his eyes were filled with gentle sympathy. “Sit and talk to Tanis. He has to leave soon.”

“Damn! My horse!” Tanis said, starting up suddenly. “I asked the boy to bring it around—”

“I will go have them wait,” Riverwind offered.

“No, I’ll go. It’ll just take a moment—”

“My friend,” Riverwind said softly as he went past him, “I need to be outdoors! I’ll come back to help with—” He nodded his head toward the snoring Caramon.

Tanis sat back down, relieved. The Plainsman left. Crysania sat down beside Tanis on the opposite side of the table, staring at Caramon in perplexity. Tanis kept talking to Tika about small, inconsequential matters until she was able to sit up and even smile a little. By the time Dezra returned with drinks, Tika seemed more relaxed, though her face was still drawn and strained. Crysania, Tanis noticed, barely touched her wine. She simply sat, glancing occasionally at Caramon, the daric line appearing once again between her brows. Tanis knew he should explain to her what was going on, but he wanted someone to explain it to him first.

“When did this—” he began, hesitantly.

“Start?” Tika sighed. “About six months after we got back here.” Her gaze went to Caramon. “He was so happy—at first. The town was a mess, Tanis. The winter had been terrible for the survivors. Most of them were starving, the draconians and goblin soldiers took everything. Those whose houses had been destroyed were living in whatever shelter they could find—caves, lean-to hovels. The draconians had abandoned the town by the time we got back, and people were beginning to rebuild. They welcomed Caramon as a hero—the bards had been here already, singing their songs about the defeat of the Queen.”

Tika’s eyes shimmered with tears and remembered pride.

“He was so happy, Tanis, for a while. People needed him. He worked day and night—cutting trees, hauling timber from the hills, putting up houses. He even took up smithy work, since Theros was gone. Oh, he wasn’t very good at it.” Tika smiled sadly. “But he was happy, and no one really minded. He made nails and horseshoes and wagon wheels. That first year was good for us—truly good. We were married, and Caramon seemed to forget about... about...”

Tika swallowed. Tanis patted her hand and, after eating a little and drinking some wine in silence, Tika was able to continue.

“A year ago last spring, though, everything started to change. Something happened to Caramon. I’m not sure what. It had something to do with—” She broke off, shook her head. “The town was prosperous. A blacksmith who had been held captive at Pax Tharkas moved here and took over the smithy trade. Oh, people still needed homes built, but there was no hurry. I took over running the Inn.” Tika shrugged. “I guess Caramon just had too much time on his hands.”

“No one needed him,” Tanis said grimly.

“Not even me...” Tika said, gulping and wiping her eyes. “Maybe it’s my fault—”

“No,” said Tanis, his thoughts—and his memories—far away. “Not your fault, Tika. I think we know whose fault this is.”

“Anyway”—Tika drew a deep breath—“I tried to help, but I was so busy here. I suggested all sorts of things he could do and he tried—he really did. He helped the local constable, tracking down renegade draconians. He was a bodyguard, for a while, hiring out to people traveling to Haven. But no one ever hired him twice.” Her voice dropped. “Then one day, last winter, the party he’d been supposed to protect returned, dragging him on a sled. He was dead drunk. They’d ended up protecting him! Since then, he’s spent all his time either sleeping, eating, or hanging out with some ex-mercenaries at the Trough, that filthy place at the other end of town.”

Wishing Laurana were here to discuss such matters, Tanis suggested softly, “Maybe a—um—baby?”

“I was pregnant, last summer,” Tika said dully, leaning her head on her hand. “But not for long. I miscarried. Caramon never even knew. Since then”—she stared down at the wooden table—“well, we haven’t been sleeping in the same room.”

Flushing in embarrassment, Tanis could do nothing more than pat her hand and hurriedly change the subject. “You said a moment before 'it had something to do with—’... with what?”

Tika shivered, then took another drink of wine. “Rumors started, then, Tanis,” she said in a low, hushed voice. “Dark rumors. You can guess who they were about!”

Tanis nodded.

“Caramon wrote to him, Tanis. I saw the letter. It was—it tore my heart. Not a word of blame or reproach. It was filled with love. He begged his brother to come back and live with us. He pleaded with him to turn his back on the darkness.”

“And what happened?” Tanis asked, though he already guessed the answer.

“It came back,” Tika whispered. “Unopened. The seal wasn’t even broken. And on the outside was written, 'I have no brother. I know no one named Caramon.’ And it was signed, Raistlin!”

“Raistlin!” Crysania looked at Tika, as if seeing her for the first time. Her gray eyes were wide and startled as they went from the red-haired young woman to Tanis, then to the huge warrior on the floor, who belched comfortably in his drunken sleep. “Caramon... This is Caramon Majere? This is his brother? The twin you were telling me about? The man who could guide me—”

“I’m sorry, Revered Daughter,” Tanis said, flushing. “I had no idea he—”

“But Raistlin is so... intelligent, powerful. I thought his twin must be the same. Raistlin is sensitive, he exerts such strong control over himself and those who serve him. He is a perfectionist, while this”—Crysania gestured—“this pathetic wretch, while he deserves our pity and our prayers, is—”

“Your 'sensitive and intelligent perfectionist’ had a hand in making this man the 'pathetic wretch’ you see, Revered Daughter,” Tanis said acidly, keeping his anger carefully under control.

“Perhaps it was the other way around,” Crysania said, regarding Tanis coldly. “Perhaps it was for lack of love that Raistlin turned from the light to walk in darkness.”

Tika looked up at Crysania, an odd expression in her eyes. “Lack of love?” she repeated gently.

Caramon moaned in his sleep and began thrashing about on the floor. Tika rose quickly to her feet.

“We better get him home.” She glanced up to see Riverwind’s tall figure appear in the doorway, then turned to Tanis. “I’ll see you in the morning, won’t... Couldn’t you stay... just overnight?”

Tanis looked at her pleading eyes and felt like biting off his tongue before he answered. But there was no help for it. “I’m sorry, Tika,” he said, taking her hands. “I wish I could, but I must go. It is a long ride to Qualinost from here, and I dare not be late. The fate of two kingdoms, perhaps, depends on my being there.”

“I understand,” Tika said softly. “This isn’t your problem anyway. I’ll cope.”

Tanis could have torn out his beard with frustration. He longed to stay and help, if he even could help. At least he might talk with Caramon, try to get some sense into that thick skull. But Porthios would take it as a personal affront if Tanis did not come to the funeral, which would affect not only his personal relationships with Laurana’s brother, but would affect the treaty of alliance being negotiated between Qualinesti and Solamnia.

And then, his eyes going to Crysania, Tanis realized he had another problem. He groaned inwardly. He couldn’t take her to Qualinost. Porthios had no use for human clerics.

“Look,” Tanis said, suddenly getting an idea, “I’ll come back, after the funeral.” Tika’s eyes brightened. He turned to Lady Crysania. “I’ll leave you here, Revered Daughter. You’ll be safe in this town, in the Inn, Then I can escort you back to Palanthas since your journey has failed—”

“My journey has not failed,” Crysania said resolutely. “I will continue as I began. I intend to go to the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, there to council with Par-Salian of the White Robes.”

Tanis shook his head. “I cannot take you there,” he said. “And Caramon obviously is incapable. Therefore I suggest—”

“Yes,” Crysania interrupted complacently. “Caramon is clearly incapacitated. Therefore I will wait for the kender friend of yours to meet me here with the person he was sent to find, then I will continue on my own.”

“Absolutely not!” Tanis shouted. Riverwind raised his eye-brows, reminding Tanis who he was addressing. With an effort, the half-elf regained control. “My lady, you have no idea of the danger! Besides those dark things that pursued us—and I think we all know who sent them—I’ve heard Caramon’s stories about the Forest of Wayreth. It’s darker still! We’ll go back to Palanthas, I’ll find some Knights—”

For the first time, Tanis saw a pale stain of color touch Crysania’s marble cheeks. Her dark brows contracted as she seemed to be thinking. Then her face cleared. Looking up at Tanis, she smiled.

“There is no danger,” she said. “I am in Paladine’s hands. The dark creatures may have been sent by Raistlin, but they have no power to harm me! They have merely strengthened my resolve.” Seeing Tanis’s face grow even grimmer, she sighed. “I promise this much. I will think about it. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps the journey is too dangerous—”

“And a waste of time!” Tanis muttered, sorrow and exhaustion making him speak bluntly what he had felt all along about this woman’s crazy scheme. “If Par-Salian could have destroyed Raistlin, he would have done it long before—”

“Destroy!” Crysania regarded Tanis in shock, her gray eyes cold. “I do not seek his destruction.”

Tanis stared at her in amazement.

“I seek to reclaim him,” Crysania continued. “I will go to my rooms now, if someone will be so kind as to guide me to them.”

Dezra hurried forward. Crysania calmly bade them all good-night, then followed Dezra from the room. Tanis gazed after her, totally at a loss for words. He heard Riverwind mutter something in Que-shu. Then Caramon groaned again. Riverwind nudged Tanis. Together they bent over the slumbering Caramon and—with an effort—hauled the big man to his feet.

“Name of the Abyss, he’s heavy!” Tanis gasped, staggering under the man’s dead weight as Caramon’s flacid arms flopped over his shoulders. The putrid smell of the dwarf spirit made him gag.

“How can he drink that stuff?” Tanis said to Riverwind as the two dragged the drunken man to the door, Tika following along anxiously behind.

“I saw a warrior fall victim to that curse once,” Riverwind grunted. “He perished leaping over a cliff, being chased by creatures that were there only in his mind.”

“I should stay—” Tanis murmured.

“You cannot fight another’s battle, my friend,” Riverwind said firmly. “Especially when it is between a man and his own soul.”

It was past midnight when Tanis and Riverwind had Caramon safely at home and dumped—unceremoniously—into his bed. Tanis had never been so tired in his life. His shoulders ached from carrying the dead weight of the giant warrior. He was worn out and felt drained, his memories of the past—once pleasant—were now like old wounds, open and bleeding. And he still had hours to ride before morning.

“I wish I could stay,” he repeated again to Tika as they stood together with Riverwind outside her door, gazing out over the sleeping, peaceful town of Solace. “I feel responsible—”

“No, Tanis,” Tika said quietly. “Riverwind’s right. You can’t fight this war. You have your own life to live, now. Besides, there’s nothing you can do. You might only make things worse.”

“I suppose.” Tanis frowned. “At any rate, I’ll be back in about a week. I’ll talk to Caramon then.”

“That would be nice.” Tika sighed, then, after a pause, changed the subject. “By the way, what did Lady Crysania mean about a kender coming here? Tasslehoff’?”

“Yes,” Tanis said, scratching his beard. “It has something to do with Raistlin, though I’m not sure what. We ran into Tas in Palanthas. He started in on some of his stories—I warned her that only about half of what he says is true and even that half’s nonsense, but he probably convinced her to send him after some person she thinks can help her reclaim Raistlin!”

“The woman may be a holy cleric of Paladine,” Riverwind said sternly, “and may the gods forgive me if I speak ill of one of their chosen. But I think she’s mad.” Having made this pronouncement, he slung his bow over his shoulder and prepared to depart.

Tanis shook his head. Putting his arm around Tika, he kissed her. “I’m afraid Riverwind’s right,” he said to her softly. “Keep an eye on Lady Crysania while she’s here. I’ll have a talk with Elistan about her when we return. I wonder how much he knew about this wild scheme of hers. Oh, and if Tasslehoff does show up, hang onto him, will you? I don’t want him turning up in Qualinost! I’m going to have enough trouble with Porthios and the elves as it is!”

“Sure, Tanis,” Tika said softly. For a moment she nestled close to him, letting herself be comforted by his strength and the compassion she could sense in both his touch and his voice.

Tanis hesitated, holding her, reluctant to let her go. Glancing inside the small house, he could hear Caramon crying out in his sleep.

“Tika—” he began.

But she pushed herself away. “Go along, Tanis,” she said firmly. “You’ve got a long ride ahead of you.”

“Tika. I wish—” But there was nothing he could say that would help, and they both knew it.

Turning slowly, he trudged off after Riverwind.

Watching them go, Tika smiled.

“You are very wise, Tanis Half-Elven. But this time you are wrong,” she said to herself as she stood alone on her porch. “Lady Crysania isn’t mad. She’s in love.”

4

An army of dwarves was marching around the bedroom, their steelshod boots going THUD, THUD, THUD. Each dwarf had a hammer in his hand and, as he marched past the bed, he banged it against Caramon’s head. Caramon groaned and flapped his hands feebly.

“Get away!” he muttered. “Get away!”

But the dwarves only responded by lifting his bed up onto their strong shoulders and whirling it around at a rapid pace, as they continued to march, their boots striking the wooden floor THUD. THUD, THUD.

Caramon felt his stomach heave. After several desperate tries, he managed to leap out of the revolving bed and make a clumsy dash for the chamber pot in the corner. Having vomited, he felt better. His head cleared. The dwarves disappeared—although he suspected they were hiding beneath the bed, waiting for him to lie down again.

Instead, he opened a drawer in the tiny bedside table where he kept his small flask of dwarf spirits. Gone! Caramon scowled. So Tika was playing this game again, was she! Grinning smugly, Caramon stumbled over to the large clothes chest on the other side of the room. He lifted the lid and rummaged through tunics and pants and shirts that would no longer fit over his flabby body. There it was—tucked into an old boot.

Caramon withdrew the flask lovingly, took a swig of the fiery liquor, belched, and heaved a sigh. There, the hammering in his head was gone. He glanced around the room. Let the dwarves stay under the bed. He didn’t care.

There was the clink of crockery in. the other room. Tika! Hurriedly, Caramon took another sip, then closed the flask and tucked it back into the boot again. Shutting the lid very, very quietly, he straightened up, ran a hand through his tangled hair, and started to go out into the main living area. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror as he passed.

“Change my shirt,” he muttered thickly.

After much pulling and tugging, he dragged off the filthy shirt he was wearing and tossed it in a corner. Perhaps he should wash? Bah! What was he—a sissy? So he smelled—it was a manly smell. Plenty of women liked it, found it attractive—found him attractive! Never complained or nagged, not like Tika. Why couldn’t she take him as he was? Struggling into a clean shirt he found at the foot of the bed, Caramon felt very sorry for himself. No one understood him... life was hard... he was going through a bad time just now... but that would change... just wait... someday—tomorrow maybe...

Lurching out of the bedroom, trying to appear nonchalant, Caramon walked unsteadily across the neat, clean living room and collapsed into a chair at the eating table. The chair creaked beneath his great weight. Tika turned around.

Catching her glance, Caramon sighed. Tika was mad—again. He tried grinning at her, but it was a sickly grin and didn’t help. Her red curls bouncing in anger, she whirled around and disappeared through a door into the kitchen. Caramon winced as he heard heavy iron pots bang. The sound brought the dwarves and their hammers back. Within a few moments, Tika returned, carrying a huge dish of sizzling bacon, fried maize cakes, and eggs. She slammed the plate down in front of him with such force the cakes leaped three inches into the air.

Caramon winced again. He wondered briefly about eating—considering the queasy state of his stomach—then grouchily reminded his stomach who was boss. He was starved, he couldn’t remember when he’d eaten last. Tika flounced down in a chair next to him. Glancing up, he saw her green eyes blazing. Her freckles stood out clearly against her skin—a certain sign of fury.

“All right,” Caramon growled, shoveling food into his mouth. “What’d I do now?”

“You don’t remember.” It was a statement.

Caramon cast about hastily in the foggy regions of his mind. Something stirred vaguely. He was supposed to have been somewhere last night. He’d stayed home all day, getting ready. He’d promised Tika... but he’d grown thirsty. His flask was empty. He’d just go down to the Trough for a quick nip, then to... where... why...

“I had business to attend to,” Caramon said, avoiding Tika’s gaze.

“Yes, we saw your business,” Tika snapped bitterly. “The business that made you pass out right at Tanis’s feet!”

“Tanis!” Caramon dropped his fork. “Tanis... last night...” With a heartsick moan, the big man let his aching head sink into his hands.

“You made quite a spectacle of yourself,” Tika continued, her voice choked. “In front of the entire town, plus half the elves in Krynn. Not to mention our old friends.” She was weeping quietly now. “Our best friends...”

Caramon moaned again. Now he was crying, too. “Why? Why?” he blubbered. “Tanis, of all of them...” His self-recriminations were interrupted by a banging on the front door.

“Now what?” Tika muttered, rising and wiping her tears away with the sleeve of her blouse. “Maybe it’s Tanis, after all.” Caramon lifted his head. “Try at least to look like the man you once were,” Tika said under her breath as she hurried to the door.

Throwing the bolt, she unlatched it. “Otik?” she said in astonishment. “What are—Whose food?”

The rotund, elderly innkeeper stood in the doorway, a plate of steaming food in his hand. He peered past Tika.

“Isn’t she here?” he asked, startled.

“Isn’t who here?” Tika replied, confused. “There’s no one here.”

“Oh, dear.” Otik’s face grew solemn. Absently, he began to eat the food from the plate. “Then I guess the stableboy was right. She’s gone. And after I fixed this nice breakfast.”

“Who’s gone?” Tika demanded in exasperation, wondering if he meant Dezra.

“Lady Crysania. She’s not in her room. Her things aren’t there, either. And the stableboy said she came this morning, told him to saddle her horse, and left. I thought—”

“Lady Crysania!” Tika gasped. “She’s gone off, by herself. Of course, she would...”

“What?” asked Otik, still munching.

“Nothing,” Tika said, her face pale. “Nothing, Otik. Uh, you better get back to the Inn. I’ll—I may be a little late today.”

“Sure, Tika,” Otik said kindly, having seen Caramon hunched over the table. “Get there when you can.” Then he left, eating as he walked. Tika shut the door behind him.

Seeing Tika return, and knowing he was in for a lecture, Caramon rose clumsily to his feet. “I’m not feeling too good,” he said. Lurching across the floor, he staggered into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. Tika could hear the sound of wracking sobs from inside.

She sat down at the table, thinking. Lady Crysania had gone, she was going to find Wayreth Forest by herself. Or rather, she had gone in search of it. No one ever found it, according to legend. It found you! Tika shivered, remembering Caramon’s stories. The dread Forest was on maps, but—comparing them—no two maps ever agreed on its location. And there was always a symbol of warning beside it. At its center stood the Tower of High Sorcery of Wayreth, where all the power of the mages of Ansalon was now concentrated. Well, almost all—

In sudden resolution, Tika got up and thrust open the bedroom door. Going inside, she found Caramon flat upon the bed, sobbing and blubbering like a child. Hardening her heart against this pitiful sight, Tika walked with firm steps over to the large chest of clothes. As she threw open the lid and began sorting through the clothes, she found the flask, but simply tossed it into a corner of the room. Then—at the very bottom—she came upon what she had been searching for. Caramon’s armor.

Lifting out a cuisse by its leather strap, Tika stood up and, turning around, hurled the polished metal straight at Caramon.

It struck him in the shoulder, bouncing off to fall to the floor with a clatter.

“Ouch!” the big man cried, sitting up. “Name of the Abyss, Tika! Leave me alone for—”

“You’re going after her,” Tika said firmly, lifting out another piece of armor. “You’re going after her, if I have to haul you out of here in a wheelbarrow!”

“Uh, pardon me,” said a kender to a man loitering near the edge of the road on the outskirts of Solace. The man instantly clapped his hand over his purse. “I’m looking for the home of a friend of mine. Well, actually two friends of mine. One’s a woman, pretty, with red curls. Her name is Tika Waylan—”

Glaring at the kender, the man jerked a thumb. “Over there yonder.”

Tas looked. “There?” he said pointing, impressed. “That truly magnificent house in the new vallenwood?”

“What?” The man gave a brief, sharp laugh. “What’d you call it? Truly magnificent? That’s a good one.” Still chuckling, he walked off, laughing and hastily counting the coins in his purse at the same time.

How rude! Tas thought, absently slipping the man’s pocket knife into one of his pouches. Then, promptly forgetting the incident, the kender headed for Tika’s home. His gaze lingered fondly on each detail of the fine house nestled securely in the limbs of the still-growing vallenwood tree.

“I’m so glad for Tika,” Tas remarked to what appeared to be a mound of clothes with feet walking beside him. “And for Caramon, too,” he added. “But Tika’s never really had a true home of her own. How proud she must be!”

As he approached the house, Tas saw it was one of the better homes in the township. It was built in the ages-old tradition.of Solace. The delicate turns of the vaulting gables were shaped to appear to be part of the tree itself. Each room extended off from the main body of the house, the wood of the walls carved and polished to resemble the tree trunk. The structure conformed to the shape of the tree, a peaceful harmony existed between man’s work and nature’s to create a pleasing whole. Tas felt a warm glow in his heart as he thought of his two friends working on and living in such a wonderful dwelling. Then—

“That’s funny,” said Tas to himself, “I wonder why there’s no roof.”

As he drew closer, looking at the house more intently, he noticed it was missing quite a few things—a roof among them.

The great vaulting gables actually did nothing more than form a framework for a roof that wasn’t there. The walls of the rooms extended only part way around the building. The floor was only a barren platform.

Coming to stand right beneath it, Tas peered upwards, wondering what was going on. He could see hammers and axes and saws lying out in the open, rusting away. From their looks, they hadn’t been used in months. The structure itself was showing the effects of long exposure to weather. Tas tugged his topknot thoughtfully. The building had all the makings of the most magnificent structure in all of Solace—if it was ever finished!

Then Tas brightened. One section of the house was finished.

All of the glass had been carefully placed into the window frames, the walls were intact, a roof protected the room from the elements. At least Tika has one room of her own, the kender thought. But, as he studied the room more closely, his smile faded. Above the door, he could see clearly, despite some weathering, the carefully crafted mark denotating a wizard’s residence.

“I might have known,” Tas said, shaking his head. He glanced around. “Well, Tika and Caramon certainly can’t be living there. But that man said—Oh.”

As he walked around the huge vallenwood tree, he came upon a small house, almost lost amidst overgrown weeds, hidden by the shadow of the vallenwood tree. Obviously built only as a temporary measure, it had the look of becoming all too permanent. If ever a building could look unhappy, Tas mused, this one did. Its gables sagged into a frown. Its paint was cracked and peeling. Still, there were flowers in the windowboxes and frilly curtains in the windows. The kender sighed. So this was Tika’s house, built in the shadow of a dream.

Approaching the little house, he stood outside the door, listening attentively. There was the most awful commotion going on inside. He could hear thuds and glass breaking and shouts and thumping.

“I think you better wait out here,” Tas said to the bundle of clothes.

The bundle grunted and plopped itself comfortably down into the muddy road outside the house. Tas glanced at it uncertainly, then shrugged and walked up to the door. Putting his hand on the doorknob, he turned it and took a step forward, confidently expecting to walk right in. Instead he smashed his nose on the wood. The door was locked.

“That’s odd,” Tas said, stepping back and looking around. “What is Tika thinking about? Locking doors! How barbaric. And a bolt lock at that. I’m sure I was expected...” He stared at the lock gloomily. The shouts and yells continued inside. He thought he could hear Caramon’s deep voice.

“It sure sounds interesting in there.” Tas glanced around, and felt cheered immediately. “The window! Of course!”

But, on hurrying over to the window, Tas found it locked, too! “I never would have expected that of Tika, of all people,” the kender commented sadly to himself. Studying the lock, he noticed it was a simple one and would open quite easily. From the set of tools in his pouch, Tas removed the lock-picking device that is a kender’s birthright. Inserting it, he gave it an expert twist and had the satisfaction of hearing the lock click.

Smiling happily, he pushed the paned glass open and crawled inside. He hit the floor without a sound. Peering back out the window, he saw the shapeless bundle napping in the gutter.

Relieved on that point, Tasslehoff paused to look around the house, his sharp eyes taking in everything, his hands touching everything.

“My, isn’t this interesting,” went Tas’s running commentary as he headed for the closed door from beyond which came the crashing sounds. “Tika won’t mind if I study it for a moment. I’ll put it right back.” The object tumbled, of its accord, into his pouch. “And look at this! Uh-oh, there’s a crack in it. She’ll thank me for telling her about it.” That object slipped into another pouch. “And what’s the butter dish doing clear over here? I’m sure Tika kept it in the pantry. I better return it to its proper place.” The butter dish settled into a third pouch.

By this time, Tas had reached the closed door. Turning the handle—(he was thankful to see Tika hadn’t locked it as well!)—he walked inside.

“Hullo,” he said merrily. “Remember me? Say, this looks like fun! Can I play? Give me something to throw at him, too, Tika. Gee, Caramon”—Tas entered the bedroom and walked over to where Tika stood, a breastplate in her hand, staring at him in profound astonishment—“what is the matter with you—you look awful, just awful! Say, why are we throwing armor at Caramon, Tika?” Tas asked, picking up a chain mail vest and turning to face the big warrior, who had barricaded himself behind the bed. “Is this something you two do regularly? I’ve heard married couples do some strange things, but this seems kind of weird—”

“Tasslehoff Burrfoot!” Tika recovered her power of speech. “What in the name of the gods are you doing here?”

“Why, I’m sure Tanis must have told you I was coming,” Tas said, hurling the chain mail at Caramon. “Hey—this is fun! I found the front door locked.” Tas gave her a reproachful glance. “In fact, I had to come in a window, Tika,” he said severely. “I think you might have more consideration. Anyway, I’m supposed to meet Lady Crysania here and—”

To Tas’s amazement, Tika dropped the breastplate, burst into tears, and collapsed onto the floor. The kender looked over at Caramon, who was rising up from behind the backboard like a spectre rising from the grave. Caramon stood looking at Tika with a lost and wistful expression. Then he picked his way through pieces of armor that lay scattered about on the floor and knelt down beside her.

“Tika,” he whispered pathetically, patting her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean all those things I said, you know that. I love you! I’ve always loved you. It’s just... I don’t know what to do!”

“You know what to do!” Tika shouted. Pulling away from him, she sprang to her feet. “I just told you! Lady Crysania’s in danger. You’ve got to go to her!”

“Who is this Lady Crysania?” Caramon yelled back. “Why should I give a damn whether she’s in danger or not?”

“Listen to me for once in your life,” Tika hissed through clenched teeth, her anger drying her tears. “Lady Crysania is a powerful cleric of Paladine, one of the most powerful in the world, next to Elistan. She was warned in a dream that Raistlin’s evil could destroy the world. She is going to the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth to talk to Par-Salian to—”

“To get help destroying him, isn’t that it?” Caramon snarled.

“And what if they did?” Tika flared. “Does he deserve to live? He’d kill you without a second thought!”

Caramon’s eyes flashed dangerously, his face flushed. Tas gulped, seeing the big man’s fist clench, but Tika walked right up to stand in front of him. Though her head barely came to his chin, Tas thought the big man cowered at her anger. His hand opened weakly.

“But, no, Caramon,” Tika said grimly, “she doesn’t want to destroy him. She’s just as big a fool as you are. She loves your brother, may the gods help her. She wants to save him, to turn him from evil.”

Caramon stared at Tika in wonder. His expression softened.

“Truly?” he said.

“Yes, Caramon,” Tika said wearily. “That’s why she came here, to see you. She thought you might be able to help. Then, when she saw you last night—”

Caramon’s head drooped. His eyes filled with tears. “A woman, a stranger, wants to help Raist. And risks her life to do it.” He began to blubber again.

Tika stared at him in exasperation. “Oh, for the love of—Go after her, Caramon!” she cried, stamping her foot on the floor. “She’ll never reach the Tower alone. You know that! You’ve been through the Forest of Wayreth.”

“Yes,” Caramon said, sniffing. “I went with Raist. I took him there, so he could find the Tower and take the Test. That evil Test! I guarded him. He needed me... then.”

“And Crysania needs you now!” Tika said grimly. Caramon was still standing, irresolute, and Tas saw Tika’s face settle in firm, hard lines. “You don’t have much time to lose, if you’re going to catch up with her. Do you remember the way?”

“I do!” shouted Tas in excitement. “That is, I have a map.” Tika and Caramon turned around to stare at the kender in astonishment, both having forgotten his existence.

“I dunno,” Caramon said, regarding Tas darkly. “I remember your maps. One of them took us to a seaport that didn’t have any sea!”

“That wasn’t my fault!” Tas cried indignantly. “Even Tanis said so. My map was drawn before the Cataclysm struck and took the sea away. But you have to take me with you, Caramon! I’m supposed to meet Lady Crysania. She sent me on a quest, a real quest. And I completed it. I found”—sudden movement caught Tas’s attention—“oh, here she is.”

He waved his hand, and Tika and Caramon turned to see the shapeless bundle of clothes standing in the door to their bedroom. Only now the bundle had grown two black, suspicious eyes.

“Me hungry,” said the bundle to Tas accusingly. “When we eat?”

“I went on a quest for Bupu,” Tasslehoff Burrfoot said proudly.

“But what in the name of the Abyss does Lady Crysania want with a gully dwarf?” Tika said in absolute mystification. She had taken Bupu to the kitchen, given her some stale bread and half a cheese, then sent her back outside—the gully dwarf’s smell doing nothing to enhance the comfort of the small house. Bupu returned happily to the gutter, where she supplemented her meal by drinking water out of a puddle in the street.

“Oh, I promised I wouldn’t tell,” Tas said importantly. The kender was helping Caramon to strap on his armor—a rather involved task, since the big man was considerably bigger since the last time he’d worn it. Both Tika and Tas worked until they were sweating, tugging on straps, pushing and prodding rolls of fat beneath the metal.

Caramon groaned and moaned, sounding very much like a man being stretched on the rack. The big man’s tongue licked his lips and his longing gaze went more than once to the bedroom and the small flask Tika had so casually tossed into the corner.

“Oh, come now, Tas,” Tika wheedled, knowing the kender couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. “I’m sure Lady Crysania wouldn’t mind—”

Tas’s face twisted in agony. “She—she made me promise and swear to Paladine, Tika!” The kender’s face grew solemn. “And you know that Fizban—I mean Paladine—and I are personal friends.” The kender paused. “Suck in your gut, Caramon,” he ordered irritably. “How did you ever get yourself into this condition, anyway?”

Putting his foot against the big man’s thigh, Tas tugged. Caramon yelped in pain.

“I’m in fine shape,” the big man mumbled angrily. “It’s the armor. It’s shrunk or something.”

“I didn’t know this kind of metal shrinks,” Tas said with interest. “I’ll bet it has to be heated! How did you do that? Or did it just get real, real hot around here?”

“Oh, shut up!” Caramon snarled.

“I was only being helpful,” Tas said, wounded. “Anyway, oh, about Lady Crysania.” His face took on a lofty look. “I gave my sacred oath. All I can say is she wanted me to tell her everything I could remember about Raistlin. And I did. And this has to do with that. Lady Crysania’s truly a wonderful person, Tika,” Tas continued solemnly. “You might not have noticed, but I’m not very religious. Kender aren’t as a rule. But you don’t have to be religious to know that there is something truly good about Lady Crysania. She’s smart, too. Maybe even smarter than Tanis.”

Tas’s eyes were bright with mystery and importance. “I think I can tell you this much,” he said in a whisper. “She has a plan! A plan to help save Raistlin! Bupu’s part of the plan. She’s taking her to Par-Salian!”

Even Caramon looked dubious at this, and Tika was privately beginning to think maybe Riverwind and Tanis were right. Maybe Lady Crysania was mad. Still, anything that might help Caramon, might give him some hope—

But Caramon had apparently been working things out in his own mind. “You know. It’s all the fault of this Fis-Fistandoodle or whatever his name was,” he said, tugging uncomfortably at the leather straps where they bit into his flabby flesh. “You know, that mage Fizban—er—Paladine told us about. And Par-Salian knows something about that, too!” His face brightened. “We’ll fix everything. I’ll bring Raistlin back here, like we planned, Tika! He can move into the room we’ve got fixed up for him. We’ll take care of him, you and I. In our new house. It’s going to be fine, fine!” Caramon’s eyes shone. Tika couldn’t look at him. He sounded so much like the old Caramon, the Caramon she had loved...

Keeping her expression stern, she turned abruptly and headed for the bedroom. “I’ll go get the rest of your things—”

“Wait!” Caramon stopped her. “No, uh—thanks, Tika. I can manage. How about you—uh—pack us something to eat.”

“I’ll help,” Tas offered, heading eagerly for the kitchen.

“Very well,” Tika said. Reaching out, she caught hold of the kender by the topknot of hair that tumbled down his back. “Just one minute, Tasslehoff Burrfoot. You’re not going anywhere until you sit down and empty out every one of your pouches!”

Tas wailed in protest. Under cover of the confusion, Caramon hurried into the bedroom and shut the door. Without pausing, he went straight for the corner and retrieved the flask. Shaking it, he found it over half-full. Smiling to himself in satisfaction, he thrust it deep into his pack, then hastily crammed some additional clothes in on top of it.

“Now, I’m all set!” he called out cheerfully to Tika.

“I’m all set,” Caramon repeated, standing disconsolately on the porch.

He was a ludicrous sight. The stolen dragonarmor he had worn during the last months of the campaign had been completely refurbished by the big warrior when he arrived back in Solace. He had beaten the dents out, cleaned and polished and redesigned it so completely that it no longer resembled the original. He had taken a great deal of care with it, then packed it away lovingly. It was still in excellent condition. Only now, unfortunately, there was a large gap between the shining black chain mail that covered his chest and the big belt that girdled his rotund waist. Neither he nor Tas had been able to strap the metal plates that guarded his legs around his flabby thighs. He had stowed these away in his pack. He groaned when he lifted his shield and looked at it suspiciously, as if certain someone had filled it with lead weights during the last two years. His swordbelt would not fit around his sagging gut. Blushing furiously, he strapped the sword in its worn scabbard onto his back.

At this point, Tas was forced to look somewhere else. The kender thought he was going to laugh but was startled to find himself on the verge of tears.

“I look a fool,” Caramon muttered, seeing Tas turn away hurriedly. Bupu was staring at him with eyes as wide as tea-cups, her mouth hanging open.

“Him look just like my Highbulp, Phudge I.” Bupu sighed.

A vivid memory of the fat, slovenly king of the gully dwarf clan in Xak Tsaroth came to Tas’s mind. Grabbing the gully dwarf, he stuffed a hunk of bread in her mouth to shut her up. But the damage had been done. Apparently Caramon, too, remembered.

“That does it,” he snarled, flushing darkly and hurling his shield to the wooden porch where it banged and clattered loudly. “I’m not going! This was a stupid idea anyway!” He stared accusingly at Tika, then, turning around, he started for the door. But Tika moved to stand in front of him.

“No,” she said quietly. “You’re not coming back into my house, Caramon, until you come back one whole person.”

“Him more like two whole person,” mumbled Bupu in a muffled voice. Tas stuffed more bread in her mouth.

“You’re not making any sense!” Caramon snapped viciously, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Get out of my way, Tika!”

“Listen to me, Caramon,” Tika said. Her voice was soft, but penetrating; her eyes caught and held the big man’s attention. Putting her hand on his chest, she looked up at him earnestly. “You offered to follow Raistlin into darkness, once. Do you remember?”

Caramon swallowed, then nodded silently, his face pale.

“He refused,” Tika continued gently, “saying it would mean your death. But, don’t you see, Caramon—you have followed him into darkness! And you’re dying by inches! Raistlin himself told you to walk your own path and let him walk his. But you haven’t done that! You’re trying to walk both paths, Caramon. Half of you is living in darkness and the other half is trying to drink away the pain and the horror you see there.”

“It’s my fault!” Caramon began to blubber, his voice breaking. “It’s my fault he turned to the Black Robes. I drove him to it! That’s what Par-Salian tried to make me see—”

Tika bit her lip. Tas could see her face grow grim and stern with anger, but she kept it inside. “Perhaps,” was all she said. Then she drew a deep breath. “But you are not coming back to me as husband or even friend until you come back at peace with yourself.”

Caramon stared at her, looking as though he was seeing her for the first time. Tika’s face was resolute and firm, her green eyes were clear and cold. Tas suddenly remembered her fighting draconians in the Temple at Neraka that last horrible night of the War. She had looked just the same.

“Maybe that’ll be never,” Caramon said surlily. “Ever think of that, huh, my fine lady?”

“Yes,” Tika said steadily. “I’ve thought of it. Good-bye, Caramon.”

Turning away from her husband, Tika walked back through the door of her house and shut it. Tas heard the bolt slide home with a click. Caramon heard it, too, and flinched at the sound. He clenched his huge fists, and for a minute Tas feared he might break down the door. Then his hands went limp. Angrily, trying to salvage some of his shattered dignity, Caramon stomped off the porch.

“I’ll show her,” he muttered, striding off, his armor clanking and clattering. “Come back, three or four days, with that Lady Crysle-whatever. Then we’ll talk about this. She can’t do this to me! No, by all the gods! Three, four days, she’ll be begging me to come back. But maybe I will and maybe I won’t...”

Tas stood, irresolute. Behind him, inside the house, his sharp kender ears could hear grief-stricken sobbing. He knew that Caramon, between his own self-pitying ramblings and his clanking armor, could hear nothing. But what could he do?

“I’ll take care of him, Tika!” Tas shouted, then, grabbing Bupu, they hurried along after the big man. Tas sighed. Of all the adventures he had been on, this one was certainly starting out all wrong.

5

Palanthas—fabled city of beauty.

A city that has turned its back upon the world and sits gazing, with admiring eyes, into its mirror.

Who had described it thus? Kitiara, seated upon the back of her blue dragon, Skie, pondered idly as she flew within sight of the city walls. The late, unlamented Dragon Highlord Ariakas, perhaps. It sounded pretentious enough, like something he would say. But he had been right about the Palanthians, Kit was forced to admit. So terrified were they of seeing their beloved city laid waste, they had negotiated a separate peace with the Highlords. It wasn’t until right before the end of the war—when it was obvious they had nothing to lose—that they had reluctantly joined with others to fight the might of the Dark Queen.

Because of the heroic sacrifice of the Knights of Solamnia, the city of Palanthas was spared the destruction that had laid other cities—such as Solace and Tarsis—to waste. Kit, flying within arrow shot of the walls, sneered. Now, once more, Palanthas had turned her eyes to her mirror, using the new influx of prosperity to enhance her already legendary charm.

Thinking this, Kitiara laughed out loud as she saw the stir upon the Old City walls. It had been two years since a blue dragon had flown above the walls. She could picture the chaos, the panic. Faintly, on the still night air, she could hear the beating of drums and the clear calls of trumpets.

Skie, too, could hear. His blood stirred at the sounds of war, and he turned a blazing red eye round to Kitiara, begging her to reconsider.

“No, my pet,” Kitiara called, reaching down to pat his neck soothingly. “Now is not the time! But soon—if we prove successful! Soon, I promise you!”

Skie was forced to content himself with that. He achieved some satisfaction, however, by breathing a bolt of lightning from his gaping jaws, blackening the stone wall as he soared past, keeping just out of arrow range. The troops scattered like ants at his coming, the dragonfear sweeping over them in waves.

Kitiara flew slowly, leisurely. None dared touch her—a state of peace existed between her armies in Sanction and the Palanthians, though there were some among the Knights who were trying to persuade the free peoples of Ansalon to unite and attack Sanction where Kitiara had retreated following the war. But the Palanthians couldn’t be bothered. The war was over, the threat gone.

“And daily I grow in strength and in might,” Kit said to them as she flew above the city, taking it all in, storing it in her mind for future reference.

Palanthas is built like a wheel. All of the important buildings—the palace of the reigning lord, government offices, and the ancient homes of the nobles—stand in the center. The city revolves around this hub. In the next circle are built the homes of the wealthy guildsmen—the “new” rich—and the summer homes of those who live outside the city walls. Here, too, are the educational centers, including the Great Library of Astinus. Finally, near the walls of Old City, is the marketplace and shops of every type and description.

Eight wide avenues lead out from the center of Old City, like spokes on the wheel. Trees line these avenues, lovely trees, whose leaves are like golden lace all year long. The avenues lead to the seaport to the north and to the seven gates of Old City Wall.

Surrounding the wall, Kit saw New City, built just like Old City, in the same circular pattern. There are no walls around New City, since walls “detract from the overall design,” as one of the lords put it.

Kitiara smiled. She did not see the beauty of the city. The trees were nothing to her. She could look upon the dazzling marvels of the seven gates without a catch in her throat—well, perhaps, a small one. How easy it would be, she thought with a sigh, to capture!

Two other buildings attracted her interest. One was a new one being built in the center of the city—a Temple, dedicated to Paladine. The other building was her destination. And, on this one, her gaze rested thoughtfully.

It stood out in such vivid contrast to the beauty of the city around it that even Kitiara’s cold, unfeeling gaze noted it. Thrusting up from the shadows that surrounded it like a bleached fingerbone, it was a thing of darkness and twisted ugliness, all the more horrible because once it must have been the most wonderful building in Palanthas—the ancient Tower of High Sorcery.

Shadow surrounded it by day and by night, for it was guarded by a grove of huge oak trees, the largest trees growing on Krynn, some of the more well-traveled whispered in awe. No one knew for certain because there were none, even of the kender race which fears little on this world, who could walk in the trees’ dread darkness.

“The Shoikan Grove,” Kitiara murmured to an unseen companion. “No living being of any race dared enter it. Not until he came—the master of past and of present.” If she said this with a sneer in her voice, it was a sneer that quivered as Skie began to circle nearer and nearer that patch of blackness.

The blue dragon settled down upon the empty, abandoned streets near the Shoikan Grove. Kit had urged Skie with everything from bribes to dire threats to fly her over the Grove to the Tower itself. But Skie, although he would have shed the last drop of his blood for his master, refused her this. It was beyond his power. No mortal being, not even a dragon, could enter that accursed ring of guardian oaks.

Skie stood glaring into the grove with hatred, his red eyes burning, while his claws nervously tore up the paving stones. He would have prevented his master from entering, but he knew Kitiara well. Once her mind was set upon something, nothing could deter her. So Skie folded his great, leathery wings around his body and gazed at this fat, beautiful city while thoughts of flames and smoke and death filled him with longing.

Kitiara dismounted from her dragonsaddle slowly. The silver moon, Solinari, was a pale, severed head in the sky. Its twin, the red moon Lunitari, had just barely risen and now flickered on the horizon like the wick of a dying candle. The faint light of both moons shimmered in Kitiara’s dragonscale armor, turning it a ghastly blood-hued color.

Kit studied the grove intently, took a step toward it, then stopped nervously. Behind her, she could hear a rustle—Skie’s wings giving unspoken advice—Let us flee this place of doom, lady! Flee while we still have our lives!

Kitiara swallowed. Her tongue felt dry and swollen. Her stomach muscles knotted painfully. Vivid memories of her first battle returned to her, the first time she had faced an enemy and known that she must kill this man—or she herself would be dead. Then, she had conquered with the skillful thrust of her sword blade. But this?

“I have walked many dark places upon this world,” Kit said to her unseen companion in a deep, low voice, “and I have not known fear. But I cannot enter here.”

“Simply hold the jewel he gave you high in your hand,” said her companion, materializing out of the night. “The Guardians of the Grove will be powerless to harm you.”

Kitiara looked into the dense ring of tall trees. Their vast, spreading branches blotted out the light of moons and stars by night, of the sun by day. Around their roots flowed perpetual night. No soft breeze touched their hoary arms, no storm wind moved the great limbs. It was said that even during the awful days before the Cataclysm, when storms the like of which had not been known before on Krynn swept the land, the trees of Shoikan Grove alone had not bent to the anger of the gods.

But, more horrible even than their everlasting darkness, was the echo of everlasting life that pulsed from deep within. Everlasting life, everlasting misery and torment...

“What you say my head believes,” Kitiara answered, shivering, “but my heart does not, Lord Soth.”

“Turn back, then,” the death knight answered, shrugging. “Show him that the most powerful Dragon Highlord in the world is a coward.”

Kitiara stared at Soth from the eye slits of her dragonhelm. Her brown eyes glinted, her hand closed spasmodically over the hilt of her sword. Soth returned her gaze, the orange flame flickering within his eyesockets burned bright in hideous mockery. And if his eyes laughed at her, what would those golden eyes of the mage reveal? Not laughter—triumph!

Compressing her lips tightly, Kitiara reached for the chain around her neck where hung the charm Raistlin had sent her. Grasping hold of the chain, she gave it a quick jerk, snapping it easily. Then she held the jewel in her gloved hand.

Black as dragon’s blood, the jewel felt cold to the touch, radiating a chill even through her heavy, leather gloves. Unshining, unlovely, it lay heavy in her palm.

“How can these Guardians see it?” Kitiara demanded, holding it to the moons’ light. “Look, it does not gleam or sparkle. It seems I hold nothing more than a lump of coal in my hand.”

“The moon that shines upon the nightjewel you cannot see, nor can any see save those who worship it,” Lord Soth replied. “Those—and the dead who, like me, have been damned to eternal life. We can see it! For us, it shines more clearly than any light in the sky. Hold it high, Kitiara, hold it high and walk forward. The Guardians will not stop you. Take off your helm, that they may look upon your face and see the light of the jewel reflected in your eyes.”

Kitiara hesitated a moment longer. Then—with thoughts of Raistlin’s mocking laughter ringing in her ears—the Dragon Highlord removed the horned dragonhelm from her head. Still she stood, glancing around. No wind ruffled her dark curls. She felt cold sweat trickle down her temple. With an angry flick of her glove, she wiped it away. Behind her, she could hear the dragon whimper—a strange sound, one she had never heard Skie make before. Her resolution faltered. The hand holding the jewel shook.

“They feed off fear, Kitiara,” said Lord Soth softly. “Hold the jewel high, let them see it reflected in your eyes!”

Show him you are a coward! Those words echoed in her mind. Clutching the nightjewel, lifting it high above her head, Kitiara entered Shoikan Grove.

Darkness descended, dropping over her so suddenly Kitiara thought for one horrible, paralyzing moment she had been struck blind. Only the sight of Lord Soth’s flaming eyes flickering within his pale, skeletal visage reassured her. She forced herself to stand there calmly, letting that debilitating moment of fear fade. And then she noticed, for the first time, a light gleam from the jewel. It was like no other light she had ever seen. It did not illuminate the darkness so much as allow Kitiara to distinguish all that lived within the darkness from the darkness itself.

By the jewel’s power, Kitiara could begin to make out the trunks of the living trees. And now she could see a path forming at her feet. Like a river of night, it flowed onward, into the trees, and she had the eerie sensation that she was flowing along with it.

Fascinated, she watched her feet move, carrying her forward without her volition. The Grove had tried to keep her out, she realized in horror. Now, it was drawing her in!

Desperately she fought to regain control of her own body. Finally, she won—or so she presumed. At least, she quit moving. But now she could do nothing but stand in that flowing darkness and shiver, her body racked by spasms of fear. Branches creaked overhead, cackling at the joke. Leaves brushed her face. Frantically, Kit tried to bat them away, then she stopped. Their touch was chill, but not unpleasant. It was almost a caress, a gesture of respect. She had been recognized, known for one of their own. Immediately, Kit was in command of herself once more. Lifting her head, she made herself look at the path.

It was not moving. That had been an illusion borne of her own terror. Kit smiled grimly. The trees themselves were moving! Standing aside to let her pass. Kitiara’s confidence rose. She walked the path with firm steps and even turned to glance triumphantly at Lord Soth, who walked a few paces behind her. The death knight did not appear to notice her, however.

“Probably communing with his fellow spirits,” Kit said to herself with a laugh that was twisted, suddenly, into a shriek of sheer terror.

Something had caught hold of her ankle! A bone-freezing chill was seeping slowly through her body, turning her blood and her nerves to ice. The pain was intense. She screamed in agony. Clutching at her leg, Kitiara saw what had grabbed her—a white hand! Reaching up from the ground, its bony fingers were wrapped tightly around her ankle. It was sucking the life out of her, Kit realized, feeling the warmth leave. And then, horrified, she saw her foot begin to disappear into the oozing soil.

Panic swept her mind. Frantically she kicked at the hand, trying to break its freezing grip. But it held her fast, and yet another hand reached up from the black path and grabbed hold of her other ankle. Screaming in terror, Kitiara lost her balance and plunged to the ground.

“Don’t drop the jewel!” came Lord Soth’s lifeless voice. “They will drag you under!”

Kitiara kept hold of the jewel, clutching it in her hand even as she fought and twisted, trying to escape the deathly grasp that was slowly drawing her down to share its grave. “Help me!” she cried, her terror-stricken gaze seeking Soth.

“I cannot,” the death knight answered grimly. “My magic will not work here. The strength of your own will is all that can save you now, Kitiara. Remember the jewel...”

For a moment, Kitiara lay quite still, shivering at the chilling touch. And then anger coursed through her body. How dare he do this to me! she thought, seeing, once more, mocking golden eyes enjoying her torture. Her anger thawed the chill of fear and burned away the panic. She was calm now. She knew what she must do. Slowly, she pushed herself up out of the dirt.

Then, coldly and deliberately, she held the jewel down next to the skeletal hand and, shuddering, touched the jewel to the pallid flesh.

A muffled curse rumbled from the depths of the ground. The hand quivered, then released its grip, sliding back into the rotting leaves beside the trail.

Swiftly, Kitiara touched the jewel to the other hand that grasped her. It, too, vanished. The Dragon Highlord scrambled to her feet and stared around. Then she held the jewel aloft.

“See this, you accursed creatures of living death?” she screamed shrilly. “You will not stop me! I will pass! Do you hear me? I will pass!”

There was no answer. The branches creaked no longer, the leaves hung limply. After standing a moment longer in silence, the jewel in her hand, Kitiara started walking down the trail once more, cursing Raistlin beneath her breath. She was aware of Lord Soth near her.

“Not much farther,” he said. “Once again, Kitiara, you have earned my admiration.”

Kitiara did not answer. Her anger was gone, leaving a hollow place in the pit of her stomach that was rapidly filling up again with fear. She did not trust herself to speak. But she kept walking, her eyes now focused grimly on the path ahead of her. All around her now, she could see the fingers digging through the soil, seeking the living flesh they both craved and hated. Pale, hollow visages glared at her from the trees, black and shapeless things flitted about her, filling the cold, clammy air with a foul scent of death and decay.

But, though the gloved hand that held the jewel shook, it never wavered. The fleshless fingers did not stop her. The faces with their gaping mouths howled in vain for her warm blood. Slowly, the oak trees continued to part before Kitiara, the branches bending back out of the way.

There, standing at the trail’s end, was Raistlin.

“I should kill you, you damned bastard!” Kitiara said through numb lips, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

“I am overjoyed to see you, too, my sister,” Raistlin replied in his soft voice.

It was the first time brother and sister had met in over two years. Now that she was out from among the darkness of the trees, Kitiara could see her brother, standing in Solinari’s pale light. He was dressed in robes of the finest black velvet. Hanging from his slightly stooped, thin shoulders, they fell in soft folds around his slender body. Silver runes were stitched about the hood that covered his head, leaving all but his golden eyes in shadow. The largest rune was in the center—an hourglass. Other silver runes sparkled in the moons’ light upon the cuffs of his wide, full sleeves. He leaned upon the Staff of Magius, its crystal, which flamed into light only upon Raistlin’s command—dark and cold, clutched in a golden dragon’s claw.

“I should kill you!” Kitiara repeated, and, before she was quite aware of what she did, she cast a glance at the death knight, who seemed to form out of the darkness of the grove. It was a glance, not of command, but of invitation—an unspoken challenge.

Raistlin smiled, the rare smile that few ever saw. It was, however, lost in the shadows of his hood.

“Lord Soth,” he said, turning to greet the death knight.

Kitiara bit her lip as Raistlin’s hourglass eyes studied the undead knight’s armor. Here were still the graven symbols of a Knight of Solamnia—the Rose and the Kingfisher and the Sword—but all were blackened as if the armor burned in a fire.

“Knight of the Black Rose,” continued Raistlin, “who died in flames in the Cataclysm before the curse of the elfmaid you wronged dragged you back to bitter life.”

“Such is my tale,” the death knight said without moving. “And you are Raistlin, master of past and present, the one foretold.”

The two stood, staring at each other, both forgetting Kitiara, who—feeling the silent, deadly contest being waged between the two—forgot her own anger, holding her breath to witness the outcome.

“Your magic is strong,” Raistlin commented. A soft wind stirred the branches of the oak trees, caressed the black folds of the mage’s robes.

“Yes,” said Lord Soth quietly. “I can kill with a single word. I can hurl a ball of fire into the midst of my enemies. I rule a squadron of skeletal warriors, who can destroy by touch alone. I can raise a wall of ice to protect those I serve. The invisible is discernible to my eyes. Ordinary magic spells crumble in my presence.”

Raistlin nodded, the folds of his hood moving gently.

Lord Soth stared at the mage without speaking. Walking close to Raistlin, he stopped only inches from the mage’s frail body. Kitiara’s breath came fast.

Then, with a courtly gesture, the cursed Knight of Solamnia placed his hand over that portion of his anatomy that had once contained his heart.

“But I bow in the presence of a master,” Lord Soth said.

Kitiara chewed her lip, checking an exclamation.

Raistlin glanced over at her quickly, amusement flashing in his golden, hourglass eyes.

“Disappointed, my dear sister?”

But Kitiara was well accustomed to the shifting winds of fate. She had scouted out the enemy, discovered what she needed to know. Now she could proceed with the battle. “Of course not, little brother,” she answered with the crooked smile that so many had found so charming. “After all, it was you I came to see. It’s been too long since we visited. You look well.”

“Oh, I am, dear sister,” Raistlin said. Coming forward, he put his thin hand upon her arm. She started at his touch, his flesh felt hot, as though he burned with fever. But—seeing his eyes intent upon her, noting every reaction—she did not flinch. He smiled.

“It has been so long since we saw each other last. What, two years? Two years ago this spring, in fact,” he continued, conversationally, holding Kitiara’s arm within his hand. His voice was filled with mockery. “It was in the Temple of the Queen of Darkness at Neraka, that fateful night when my queen met her downfall and was banished from the world—”

“Thanks to your treachery,” Kitiara snapped, trying, unsuccessfully, to break free of his grip. Raistlin kept his hand upon Kitiara’s arm. Though taller and stronger than the frail mage, and seemingly capable of breaking him in two with her bare hands, Kitiara—nevertheless—found herself longing to pull away from that burning touch, yet not daring to move.

Raistlin laughed and, drawing her with him, led her to the outer gates of the Tower of High Sorcery.

“Shall we talk of treachery, dear sister? Didn’t you rejoice when I used my magic to destroy Lord Ariakas’s shield of protection, allowing Tanis Half-Elven the chance to plunge his sword into the body of your lord and master? Did not I—by that action—make you the most powerful Dragon Highlord in Krynn?”

“A lot of good it has done me!” Kitiara returned bitterly. “Kept almost a prisoner in Sanction by the foul Knights of Solamnia, who rule the lands all about! Guarded day and night by golden dragons, my every move watched. My armies scattered, roaming the land...”

“Yet you came here,” Raistlin said simply. “Did the gold dragons stop you? Did the Knights know of your leaving?”

Kitiara stopped on the path leading to the tower, staring at her brother in amazement. “Your doing?”

“Of course!” Raistlin shrugged. “But, we will talk of these matters later, dear sister,” he said as they walked. “You are cold and hungry. The Shoikan Grove shakes the nerves of the most stalwart. Only one other person has successfully passed through its borders, with my help, of course. I expected you to do well, but I must admit I was a bit surprised at the courage of Lady Crysania—”

“Lady Crysania!” Kitiara repeated, stunned. “A Revered Daughter of Paladine! You allowed her—here?”

“I not only allowed her, I invited her,” Raistlin answered imperturbably. “Without that invitation and a charm of warding, of course, she could never have passed.”

“And she came?”

“Oh, quite eagerly, I assure you.” Now it was Raistlin who paused. They stood outside the entrance to the Tower of High Sorcery. Torchlight from the windows shone upon his face. Kitiara could see it clearly. The lips were twisted in a smile, his flat golden eyes shone cold and brittle as winter sunlight. “Quite eagerly,” he repeated softly.

Kitiara began to laugh.

Late that night, after the two moons had set, in the still dark hours before the dawn, Kitiara sat in Raistlin’s study, a glass of dark-red wine in her hands, her brows creased in a frown.

The study was comfortable, or so it seemed to look upon. Large, plush chairs of the best fabric and finest construction stood upon hand-woven carpets only the wealthiest people in Krynn could afford to own. Decorated with woven pictures of fanciful beasts and colorful flowers, they drew the eye, tempting the viewer to lose himself for long hours in their beauty. Carved wooden tables stood here and there, objects rare and beautiful—or rare and ghastly—ornamented the room.

But its predominant feature were the books. It was lined with deep wooden shelves, holding hundreds and hundreds of books. Many were similar in appearance, all bound with a nightblue binding, decorated with runes of silver. It was a comfortable room, but, despite a roaring fire blazing in a huge, gaping fireplace at one end of the study, there was a bone-chilling cold in the air. Kitiara was not certain, but she had the feeling it came from the books.

Lord Soth stood far from the fire’s light, hidden in the shadows. Kit could not see him, but she was aware of his presence—as was Raistlin. The mage sat opposite his half-sister in a large chair behind a gigantic desk of black wood, carved so cunningly that the creatures decorating it seemed to watch Kitiara with their wooden eyes.

Squirming uncomfortably, she drank her wine, too fast. Although well accustomed to strong drink, she was beginning to feel giddy, and she hated that feeling. It meant she was losing control. Angrily, she thrust the glass away from her, determined to drink no more.

“This plan of yours is crazy!” she told Raistlin irritably. Not liking the gaze of those golden eyes upon her, Kitiara stood up and began to pace the room. “It’s senseless! A waste of time. With your help, we could rule Ansalon, you and I. In fact”—Kitiara turned suddenly, her face alight with eagerness—“with your power we could rule the world! We don’t need Lady Crysania or our hulking brother—”

“'Rule the world,’ ” Raistlin repeated softly, his eyes burning. “Rule the world? You still don’t understand, do you, my dear sister? Let me make this as plain as I know how.” Now it was his turn to stand up. Pressing his thin hands upon the desk, he leaned toward her, like a snake.

“I don’t give a damn about the world!” he said softly. “I could rule it tomorrow if I wanted it! I don’t.”

“You don’t want the world.” Kit shrugged, her voice bitter with sarcasm. “Then that leaves only—”

Kitiara almost bit her tongue. She stared at Raistlin in wonder. In the shadows of the room, Lord Soth’s flaming eyes blazed more brightly than the fire.

“Now you understand.” Raistlin smiled in satisfaction and resumed his seat once more. “Now you see the importance of this Revered Daughter of Paladine! It was fate brought her to me, just when I was nearing the time for my journey.”

Kitiara could only stare at him, aghast. Finally, she found her voice. “How—how do you know she will follow you? Surely you didn’t tell her!”

“Only enough to plant the seed in her breast.” Raistlin smiled, looking back to that meeting. Leaning back, he put his thin fingers to his lips. “My performance was, frankly, one of my best. Reluctantly I spoke, my words drawn from me by her goodness and purity. They came out, stained with blood, and she was mine... lost through her own pity.” He came back to the present with a start. “She will come,” he said coldly, sitting forward once more. “She and that buffoon of a brother. He will serve me unwittingly, of course. But then, that’s how he does everything.”

Kitiara put her hand to her head, feeling her blood pulse. It was not the wine, she was cold sober now. It was fury and frustration. He could help me! she thought angrily. He is truly as powerful as they said. More so! But he’s insane. He’s lost his mind... Then, unbidden, a voice spoke to her from somewhere deep inside.

What if he isn’t insane? What if he really means to go through with this?

Coldly, Kitiara considered his plan, looking at it carefully from all angles. What she saw horrified her. No. He could not win! And, worse, he would probably drag her down with him!

These thoughts passed through Kit’s mind swiftly, and none of them showed on her face. In fact, her smile grew only more charming. Many were the men who had died, that smile their last vision.

Raistlin might have been considering that as he looked at her intently. “You can be on a winning side for a change, my sister.”

Kitiara’s conviction wavered. If he could pull it off, it would be glorious! Glorious! Krynn would be hers.

Kit looked at the mage. Twenty-eight years ago, he had been a newborn baby, sick and weakly, a frail counterpart to his strong, robust twin brother.

“Let ’im die. ’Twill be best in the long run,” the midwife had said. Kitiara had been a teenager then. Appalled, she heard her mother weepingly agree.

But Kitiara had refused. Something within her rose to the challenge. The baby would live! She would make him live, whether he wanted to or not. “My first fight,” she used to tell people proudly, “was with the gods. And I won!”

And now! Kitiara studied him. She saw the man. She saw—in her mind’s eye—that whining, puking baby. Abruptly, she turned away.

“I must get back,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “You will contact me upon your return?”

“If I am successful, there will be no need to contact you,” Raistlin said softly. “You will know!”

Kitiara almost sneered but caught herself quickly. Glancing at Lord Soth, she prepared to leave the room. “Farewell then, my brother.” Controlled as she was, she could not keep an edge of anger from her voice. “I am sorry you do not share my desire for the good things of this life! We could have done much together, you and I!”

“Farewell, Kitiara,” Raistlin said, his thin hand summoning the shadowy forms of those who served him to show his guests to the door. “Oh, by the way,” he added as Kit stood in the doorway, “I owe you my life, dear sister. At least, so I have been told. I just wanted to let you know that—with the death of Lord Ariakas, who would, undoubtedly, have killed you—I consider my debt paid. I owe you nothing!”

Kitiara stared into the mage’s golden eyes, seeking threat, promise, what? But there was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. And then, in an instant, Raistlin spoke a word of magic and vanished from her sight.

The way out of Shoikan Grove was not difficult. The guardians had no care for those who left the Tower. Kitiara and Lord Soth walked together, the death knight moving soundlessly through the Grove, his feet leaving no impression on the leaves that lay dead and decaying on the ground. Spring did not come to Shoikan Grove.

Kitiara did not speak until they had passed the outer perimeter of trees and once more stood upon the solid paving stones of the city of Palanthas. The sun was rising, the sky brightening from its deep night blue to a pale gray. Here and there, those Palanthians whose business called for them to rise early were waking. Far down the street, past the abandoned buildings that surrounded the Tower, Kitiara could hear marching feet, the changing of the watch upon the wall. She was among the living once again.

She drew a deep breath, then, “He must be stopped,” she said to Lord Soth.

The death knight made no comment, one way or the other.

“It will not be easy, I know,” Kitiara said, drawing the dragonhelm over her head and walking rapidly toward Skie, who had reared his head in triumph at her approach. Patting her dragon lovingly upon his neck, Kitiara turned to face the death knight.

“But we do not have to confront Raistlin directly. His scheme hinges upon Lady Crysania. Remove her, and we stop him. He need never know I had anything to do with it, in fact. Many have died, trying to enter the Forest of Wayreth. Isn’t that so?”

Lord Soth nodded, his flaming eyes flaring slightly.

“You handle it. Make it appear to be... fate,” Kitiara said. “My little brother believes in that, apparently.” She mounted her dragon. “When he was small, I taught him that to refuse to do my bidding meant a whipping. It seems he must learn that lesson again!”

At her command, Skie’s powerful hind legs dug into the pavement, cracking and breaking the stones. He leaped into the air, spread his wings, and soared into the morning sky. The people of Palanthas felt a shadow lift from their hearts, but that was all they knew. Few saw the dragon or its rider leave.

Lord Soth remained standing upon the fringes of Shoikan Grove.

“I, too, believe in fate, Kitiara,” the death knight murmured. “The fate a man makes himself.”

Glancing up at the windows of the Tower of High Sorcery, Soth saw the light extinguished from the room where they had been. For a brief instant, the Tower was shrouded in the perpetual darkness that seemed to linger around it, a darkness the sun’s light could not penetrate. Then one light gleamed forth, from a room at the top of the tower.

The mage’s laboratory, the dark and secret room where Raistlin worked his magic.

“Who will learn this lesson, I wonder?” Soth murmured. Shrugging, he disappeared, melting into the waning shadows as daylight approached.

6

Let’s stop at this place,” Caramon said, heading for a ramshackle building that stood huddled back away from the trail, lurking in the forest like a sulking beast. “Maybe she’s been in here.”

“I really doubt it,” said Tas, dubiously eyeing the sign that hung by one chain over the door. “The 'Cracked Mug’ doesn’t seem quite the place—”

“Nonsense,” growled Caramon, as he had growled more times on this journey already than Tas could count, “she has to eat. Even great, muckety-muck clerics have to eat. Or maybe someone in here will have seen some sign of her on the trail. We’re not having any luck.”

“No,” muttered Tasslehoff beneath his breath, “but we might have more luck if we searched the road, not taverns.”

They had been on the road three days, and Tas’s worst misgivings about this adventure had proved true.

Ordinarily, kender are enthusiastic travelers. All kender are stricken with wanderlust somewhere near their twentieth year. At this time, they gleefully strike out for parts unknown, intent on finding nothing except adventure and whatever beautiful, horrible, or curious items might by chance fall into their bulging pouches. Completely immune to the self-preserving emotion of fear, afflicted by unquenchable curiosity, the kender population on Krynn was not a large one, for which most of Krynn was devoutly grateful.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot, now nearing his thirtieth year (at least as far as he could remember), was, in most regards, a typical kender. He had journeyed the length and breadth of the continent of Ansalon, first with his parents before they had settled down in Kenderhome. After coming of age, he wandered by himself until he met Flint Fireforge, the dwarven metalsmith and his friend, Tanis Half-Elven. After Sturm Brightblade, Knight of Solamnia, and the twins, Caramon and Raistlin, joined them, Tas became involved in the most wonderful adventure of his life—the War of the Lance.

But, in some respects, Tasslehoff was not a typical kender, although he would have denied this if it were mentioned. The loss of two people he loved dearly—Sturm Brightblade and Flint—touched the kender deeply. He had come to know the emotion of fear, not fear for himself, but fear and concern for those he cared about. His concern for Caramon, right now, was deep.

And it grew daily.

At first, the trip had been fun. Once Caramon got over his fit of sulks about Tika’s hard-heartedness and the inability of the world in general to understand him, he had taken a few swigs from his flask and felt better. After several more swigs, he began to relate stories about his days helping to track down draconians. Tas found this amusing and entertaining and, though he continually had to watch Bupu to make certain she didn’t get run over by a wagon or wander into a mudhole, he enjoyed his morning.

By afternoon, the flask was empty, and Caramon was even in such a good humor as to be ready to listen to some of Tas’s stories, which the kender never tired of relating. Unfortunately, right at the best part, when he was escaping with the woolly mammoth and the wizards were shooting lightning bolts at him, Caramon came to a tavern.

“Just fill up the flask,” he mumbled and went inside.

Tas started to follow, then saw Bupu staring in open-mouthed wonder at the red-hot blacksmith’s forge across the road. Realizing she would either set herself or the town or both on fire, and knowing that he couldn’t take her into the tavern (most refused to serve gully dwarves), Tas decided to stay out and keep an eye on her. After all, Caramon would probably be only a few minutes...

Two hours later, the big man stumbled out.

“Where in the Abyss have you been?” Tas demanded, pouncing on Caramon like a cat.

“Jusht having a... having a little...” Caramon swayed unsteadily, “one for the... road.”

“I’m on a quest!” Tas yelled in exasperation. “My first quest, given to me by an Important Person, who may be in danger. And I’ve been stuck out here two hours with a gully dwarf!” Tas pointed at Bupu, who was asleep in a ditch. “I’ve never been so bored in my life, and you’re in there soaking up dwarf spirits!”

Caramon glared at him, his lips pursed into a pout. “You know shomething,” the big man muttered as he staggered off down the road, “you’re st—starting to shound a lot like Tika...”

Things went rapidly downhill from there.

That night they came to the crossroads.

“Let’s go this way,” Tas said, pointing. “Lady Crysania’s certain to know people are going to try to stop her. She’ll take a route that’s not very well traveled to try and throw off pursuit. I think we should follow the same trail we took two years ago, when we left Solace—”

“Nonsense!” Caramon snorted. “She’s a woman and a cleric to boot. She’ll take the easiest road. We’ll go by way of Haven.”

Tas had been dubious about this decision, and his doubts proved well-founded. They hadn’t traveled more than a few miles when they came to another tavern.

Caramon went in to find out if anyone had seen a person matching Lady Crysania’s description, leaving Tas—once again—with Bupu. An hour later the big man emerged, his face flushed and cheerful.

“Well, has anyone seen her?” Tas asked irritably.

“Seen who? Oh—her. No...”

And now, two days later, they were only about halfway to Haven. But the kender could have written a book describing the taverns along the way.

“In the old days,” Tas fumed, “we could have walked to Tarsis and back in this time!”

“I was younger then, and immature. My body’s mature now, and I have to build up my strength,” Caramon said loftily, “little by little.”

“He’s building up something little by little,” Tas said to himself grimly, “but strength isn’t it!”

Caramon could not walk much more than an hour before he was forced to sit down and rest. Often he collapsed completely, moaning in pain, sweat rolling off his body. It would take Tas, Bupu, and the flask of dwarf spirits to get him back on his feet again. He complained bitterly and continually. His armor chafed, he was hungry, the sun was too hot, he was thirsty. At night, he insisted that they stop in some wretched inn. Then Tas had the thrill of watching the big man drink himself senseless.

Tas and the bartender would haul him to his room where he would sleep until half the morning was gone.

After the third day of this (and their twentieth tavern) and still no sign of Lady Crysania, Tasslehoff was beginning to think seriously about returning to Kenderhome, buying a nice little house, and retiring from adventuring.

It was about midday when they arrived at the Cracked Mug.

Caramon immediately disappeared inside. Heaving a sigh that came from the toes of his new, bright green shoes, Tas stood with Bupu, looking at the outside of the slovenly place in grim silence.

“Me no like this anymore,” Bupu announced. She glared at Tas accusingly. “You say we go find pretty man in red robes. All we find is one fat drunk. I go back home, back to Highbulp, Phudge I.”

“No, don’t leave! Not yet!” Tas cried desperately. “We’ll find the—uh—pretty man. Or at least a pretty lady who wants to help the pretty man. Maybe... maybe we’ll learn something here.”

It was obvious Bupu didn’t believe him. Tas didn’t believe himself.

“Look,” he said, “just wait for me here. It won’t be much farther. I know—I’ll bring you something to eat. Promise you won’t leave?”

Bupu smacked her lips, eyeing Tas dubiously. “Me wait,” she said, plopping down into the muddy road. “At least till after lunch.”

Tas, his pointed chin jutting out firmly, followed Caramon into the tavern. He and Caramon were going to have a little talk—

As it turned out, however, that wasn’t necessary.

“Your health, gentlemen,” Caramon said, raising a glass to the slovenly crowd gathered in the bar. There weren’t many—a couple of traveling dwarves, who sat near the door, and a party of humans, dressed like rangers, who lifted their mugs in return to Caramon’s salute.

Tas sat down next to Caramon, so depressed that he actually returned a purse his hands had (without his knowing it) removed from the belt of one of the dwarves as he passed.

“I think you dropped this,” Tas mumbled, handing it back to the dwarf, who stared at him in amazement.

“We’re looking for a young woman,” Caramon said, settling down for the afternoon. He recited her description as he had recited it in every tavern from Solace on. “Black hair, small, delicate, pale face, white robes. She’s a cleric—”

“Yeah, we’ve seen her,” said one of the rangers.

Beer spurted from Caramon’s mouth. “You have?” he managed to gasp, choking.

Tas perked up. “Where?” he asked eagerly.

“Wandering about the woods east of here,” said the ranger, jerking his thumb.

“Yeah?” Caramon said suspiciously. “What’re you doing out in the woods yourselves?”

“Chasing goblins. There’s a bounty for them in Haven.”

“Three gold pieces for goblin ears,” said his friend, with a toothless grin, “if you care to try your luck.”

“What about the woman?” Tas pursued.

“She’s a crazy one, I guess.” The ranger shook his head. “We told her the land out around here was crawling with goblins and she shouldn’t be out alone. She just said she was in the hands of Paladine, or some such name, and he would take care of her.”

Caramon heaved a sigh and lifted his drink to his lips. “That sounds like her all right—”

Leaping up, Tas snatched the glass from the big man’s hand.

“What the—” Caramon glared at him angrily.

“Come on!” Tas said, tugging at him. “We’ve got to go! Thanks for the help,” he panted, dragging Caramon to the door. “Where did you say you saw her?”

“About ten miles east of here. You’ll find a trail out back, behind the tavern. Branches off the main road. Follow it and it’ll take you through the forest. Used to be a short cut to Gateway, before it got too dangerous to travel.”

“Thanks again!” Tas pushed Caramon, still protesting, out the door.

“Confound it, what’s the hurry,” Caramon snarled angrily, jerking away from Tas’s prodding hands. “We coulda at least had dinner...”

“Caramon!” said Tas urgently, dancing up and down.

“Think! Remember! Don’t you realize where she is, Ten miles east of here! Look—”Yanking open one of his pouches, Tas pulled out a whole sheaf of maps. Hurriedly, he sorted through them, tossing them onto the ground in his haste. “Look,” he repeated finally, unrolling one and thrusting it into Caramon’s flushed face.

The big man peered at it, trying to bring it into focus.

“Huh,”

“Oh, for—Look, here’s where we are, near as I can figure.

And here’s Haven, still south of us. Across here is Gateway.

Here’s the path they were talking about and here—” Tas’s finger pointed.

Caramon squinted. “Dark—dar—dar Darken Wood,” he mumbled. “Darken Wood. That seems familiar...”

“Of course it seems familiar! We nearly died there!” Tas yelled, waving his arms. “It took Raistlin to save us—”

Seeing Caramon scowl, Tas hurried on. “What if she should wander in there alone,” he asked pleadingly.

Caramon looked out into the forest, his bleary eyes peering at the narrow, overgrown trail. His scowl deepened. “I suppose you expect me to stop her,” he grumbled.

“Well, naturally we’ll have to stop her!” Tas began, then came to a sudden halt. “You never meant to,” the kender said softly, staring at Caramon. “All along, you never meant to go after her. You were just going to stumble around here for a few days, have a few drinks, a few laughs, then go back to Tika, tell her you’re a miserable failure, figuring she’d take you back, same as usual—”

“So what did you expect me to do?” Caramon growled, turning away from Tas’s reproachful gaze. “How can I help this woman find the Tower of High Sorcery, Tas?” He began to whimper. “I don’t want to find it! I swore I’d never go near that foul place again! They destroyed him there, Tas. When he came out, his skin was that strange gold color. They gave him those cursed eyes so that all he sees is death. They shattered his body.

He couldn’t take a breath without coughing. And they made him... they made him kill me!” Caramon choked and buried his face in his hands, sobbing in pain, trembling in terror.

“He—he didn’t kill you, Caramon,” Tas said, feeling completely helpless. “Tanis told me. It was just an image of you. And he was sick and scared and hurting real bad inside. He didn’t know what he was doing—”

But Caramon only shook his head. And the tender-hearted kender couldn’t blame him. No wonder he doesn’t want to go back there, Tas thought remorsefully. Perhaps I should take him home. He certainly isn’t much good to anyone in this state.

But then Tas remembered Lady Crysania, out there all alone, blundering into Darken Wood...

“I talked to a spirit there once,” Tas murmured, “but I’m not certain they’d remember me. And there’re goblins out there.

And, while I’m not afraid of them, I don’t suppose I’d be much good fighting off more than three or four.”

Tasslehoff was at a loss. If only Tanis were here! The half-elf always knew what to say, what to do. He’d make Caramon listen to reason. But Tanis isn’t here, said a stern voice inside of the kender that sounded at times suspiciously like Flint. It’s up to you, you doorknob!

I don’t want it to be up to me! Tas wailed, then waited for a moment to see if the voice answered. It didn’t. He was alone.

“Caramon,” Tas said, making his voice as deep as possible and trying very hard to sound like Tanis, “look, just come with us as far as the edges of the Forest of Wayreth. Then you can go home. We’ll probably be safe after that—”

But Caramon wasn’t listening. Awash in liquor and self-pity, he collapsed onto the ground. Leaning back against a tree, he babbled incoherently about nameless horrors, begging Tika to take him back.

Bupu stood up and came to stand in front of the big warrior. “Me go,” she said in disgust. “Me want fat, slobbering drunk, me find plenty back home.” Nodding her head, she started off down the path. Tas ran after her, caught her, and dragged her back.

“No, Bupu! You can’t! We’re almost there!”

Suddenly Tasslehoff’s patience ran out. Tanis wasn’t here. No one was here to help. It was just like the time when he’d broken the dragon orb. Maybe what he was doing wasn’t the right thing, but it was the only thing he could think of to do.

Tas walked up and kicked Caramon in the shins.

“Ouch!” Caramon gulped. Startled, he stared at Tas, a hurt and puzzled look on his face. “What’dya do that for?”

In answer, Tas kicked him again, hard. Groaning, Caramon grabbed his leg.

“Hey, now we have some fun,” Bupu said. Running forward gleefully, she kicked Caramon in the other leg. “Me stay now.”

The big man roared. Blundering to his feet, he glared at Tas. “Blast it, Burrfoot, if this is one of your games—”

“It’s no game, you big ox!” the kender shouted. “I’ve decided to kick some sense into you, that’s all! I’ve had enough of your whining! All you’ve done, all these years, is whine! The noble Caramon, sacrificing everything for his ungrateful brother. Loving Caramon, always putting Raistlin first! Well—maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. I’m starting to think you always put Caramon first! And maybe Raistlin knew, deep inside, what I’m just beginning to figure out! You only did it because it made you feel good! Raistlin didn’t need you—you needed him! You lived his life because you’re too scared to live a life of your own!”

Caramon’s eyes glowed feverishly, his face paled with anger. Slowly, he stood up, his big fists clenched. “You’ve gone too far this time, you little bastard—”

“Have I?” Tas was screaming now, jumping up and down. “Well, listen to this, Caramon! You’re always blubbering about how no one needs you. Did you ever stop to think that Raistlin needs you now more than he’s ever needed you before? And Lady Crysania—she needs you! And there you stand, a big blob of quivering jelly with your brain all soaked and turned to mush!”

Tasslehoff thought for a moment he had gone too far. Caramon took an unsteady step forward, his face blotched and mottled and ugly. Bupu gave a yelp and ducked behind Tas. The kender stood his ground—just as he had when the furious elf lords had been about to slice him in two for breaking the dragon orb. Caramon loomed over him, the big man’s liquor-soaked breath nearly making Tas gag. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes. Not from fear, but from the look of terrible anguish and rage on Caramon’s face.

He stood, braced, waiting for the blow that would likely smash his nose back through to the other side of his head.

But the blow never fell. There was the sound of tree limbs ripping apart, huge feet stomping through dense brush.

Cautiously, Tas opened his eyes. Caramon was gone, crashing down the trail into the forest. Sighing, Tas stared after him. Bupu crept out from behind his back.

“That fun,” she announced. “I stay after all. Maybe we play game again?”

“I don’t think so, Bupu,” Tas said miserably. “Come on. I guess we better go after him.”

“Oh, well,” the gully dwarf reflected philosophically. “Some other game come along, just as fun.”

“Yeah,” Tas agreed absently. Turning around, afraid that perhaps someone in the wretched inn had overheard and might start trouble, the kender’s eyes opened wide.

The Cracked Mug tavern was gone. The dilapidated building, the sign swinging on one chain, the dwarves, the rangers, the bartender, even the glass Caramon had lifted to his lips. All had disappeared into the midafternoon air like an evil dream upon awakening.

7

By evening, Caramon was roaring drunk.

Tasslehoff and Bupu caught up with the big man as he was standing in the middle of the trail, draining the last of the dwarf spirits from the flask. He leaned his head back, tilting it to get every drop. When he finally lowered the flask, it was to peer inside it in disappointment. Wobbling unsteadily on his feet, he shook it.

“All gone,” Tas heard him mumble unhappily. The kender’s heart sank.

“Now I’ve done it,” Tas said to himself in misery. “I can’t tell him about the disappearing inn. Not when he’s in this condition! I’ve only made things worse!”

But he hadn’t realized quite how much worse until he came up to Caramon and tapped him on the shoulder. The big man whirled around in drunken alarm.

“What ish it? Who’sh there?” He peered around the rapidly darkening forest.

“Me, down here,” said Tas in a small voice. “I—I just wanted to say I was sorry, Caramon, and—”

“Uh? Oh...” Staggering backwards, Caramon stared at him, then grinned foolishly. “Oh, hullo there, little fellow. A kender”—his gaze wandered to Bupu—“and a gu—gul—gull—gullydorf,” he finished with a rush. He bowed. “Whashyour—names?”

“What?” Tas asked.

“Whashyournames?” Caramon repeated with dignity.

“You know me, Caramon,” Tas said, puzzled. “I’m Tasslehoff.”

“Me Bupu,” answered the gully dwarf, her face lighting up, obviously hoping this was another game. “Who youl”

“You know who he is,” Tas began irritably, then nearly swallowed his tongue as Caramon interrupted.

“I’m Raistlin,” said the big man solemnly with another, unsteady bow. “A—a great and pow—pow—powerful—magic-user.”

“Oh, come off it, Caramon!” Tas said in disgust. “I said I was sorry, so don’t—”

“Caramon?” The big man’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed shrewdly. “Caramon’s dead. I killed him. Long ago in the Tow—the Twowr—the TwerHighSorshry.”

“By Reorx’s beard!” Tas breathed.

“Him not Raistlin!” snorted Bupu. Then she paused, eyeing him dubiously. “Is him?”

“N-no! Of course not,” Tasslehoff snapped.

“This not fun game!” Bupu said with firm decision. “Me no like! Him not pretty man so nice to me. Him fat drunk. Me go home.” She looked around. “Which way home?”

“Not now, Bupu!” What was going on? Tas wondered bleakly. Clutching at his topknot, he gave his hair a hard yank. His eyes watered with the pain, and the kender sighed in relief. For a moment, he thought he’d fallen asleep without knowing it and was walking around in some weird dream.

But apparently it was all real—too real. Or at least for him.

For Caramon, it was quite a different story.

“Watch,” Caramon was saying solemnly, weaving back and forth. “I’ll casht a magicshpell.” Raising his hands, he blurted out a string of gibberish. “Ashanddust and ratsnests! Burrung!” He pointed at a tree. “Poof,” he whispered, stumbling backward. “Up in flames! Up! Up! Burning, burning, burning... jusht like poor Caramon.” He staggered forward, wobbling down the trail.

“All of the waitresshes love you,” he sang. “Every dog ish your friend. Whatever you shay is jusht what you m-mean—”

Wringing his hands, Tas hurried after him. Bupu trotted along behind.

“Tree not burn,” she said to Tas sternly.

“I know!” Tas groaned. “It’s just... he thinks—”

“Him one bad magician. My turn.” Rummaging around in the huge bag that kept tripping her periodically, Bupu gave a triumphant yell and pulled out a very stiff, very dead rat.

“Not now, Bupu—” Tas began, feeling what was left of his own sanity start to slip. Caramon, ahead of them, had quit singing and was shouting something about covering the forest in cobwebs.

“I going to say secret magic word,” Bupu stated. “You no listen. Spoil secret.”

“I won’t listen,” Tas said impatiently, trying to catch up with Caramon, who, for all his wobbling, was moving along at a fair rate of speed.

“You listening?” Bupu asked, panting along after him.

“No,” Tas said, sighing.

“Why not?”

“You told me not to!” Tas shouted in exasperation.

“But how you know when to no listen if you no listen?” Bupu demanded angrily. “You try to steal secret magic word! Me go home.”

The gully dwarf came to a dead stop, turned around, and trotted back down the path. Tas skidded to a halt. He could see Caramon now, clinging to a tree, conjuring up a host of dragons, by the sounds of it. The big man looked like he would stay put for a while at least. Cursing under his breath, the kender turned and ran after the gully dwarf.

“Stop, Bupu!” he cried frantically, catching hold of a handful of filthy rags that he mistook for her shoulder. “I swear, I’d never steal your secret magic word!”

“You stole it!” she shrieked, waving the dead rat at him. “You said it!”

“Said what?” Tasslehoff asked, completely baffled.

“Secret magic word! You say!” Bupu screamed in outrage.

“Here! Look!” Holding out the dead rat, she pointed ahead of them, down the trail, and yelled, “I say secret magic word now—secret magic word! There. Now we see some hot magic.”

Tas put his hand to his head. He felt giddy.

“Look! Look!” Bupu shouted in triumph, pointing a grubby finger. “See? I start fire. Secret magic word never fail. Umphf. Some bad magic-user—him.”

Glancing down the path, Tas blinked. There were flames visible ahead of them on the trail.

“I’m definitely going back to Kenderhome,” Tas mused quietly to himself. “I’ll get a little house... or maybe move in with the folks for a few months until I feel better.”

“Who’s out there?” called a clear, crystalline voice.

Relief flooded over Tasslehoff. “It’s a campfire!” he babbled, nearly hysterical with joy. And the voice! He hurried foward, running through the darkness toward the light. “It’s me—Tasslehoff Burrfoot. I’ve—oof!”

The “oof” was occasioned by Caramon plucking the kender off of his feet, lifting him in his strong arms, and clapping his hand over Tas’s mouth.

“Shhhh,” whispered Caramon close to Tas’s ear. The fumes from his breath made the kender’s head swim. “There’s shomeone out there!”

“Mpf blsxtchscat!” Tas wriggled frantically, trying to loosen Caramon’s hold. The kender was slowly being smothered to death.

“That’s who I thought it was,” Caramon whispered, nodding to himself solemnly as his hand clamped even more firmly over the kender’s mouth.

Tas began to see bright blue stars. He fought desperately, tearing at Caramon’s hands with all his strength, but it would have been the end of the kender’s brief but exciting life had not Bupu suddenly appeared at Caramon’s feet.

“Secret magic word!” she shrieked, thrusting the dead rat into Caramon’s face. The distant firelight was reflected in the corpse’s black eyes and glittered off the sharp teeth fixed in a perpetual grin.

“Ayiii!” Caramon screamed and dropped the kender. Tas fell heavily to the ground, gasping for breath.

“What is going on out there?” said a cold voice.

“We’ve come... to rescue you...” said Tasslehoff, standing up dizzily.

A white-robed figure cloaked in furs appeared on the path in front of them. Bupu looked up at it in deep suspicion.

“Secret magic word,” said the gully dwarf, waving the dead rat at the Revered Daughter of Paladine.

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not wildly grateful,” said Lady Crysania to Tasslehoff as they sat around the fire later that evening.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Tasslehoff said, sitting hunched in misery on the ground. “I made a mess of things. I generally do,” he continued woefully. “Ask anyone. I’ve often been told I drive people crazy—but this is the first time I ever did it for real!”

Snuffling, the kender’ cast an anxious gaze at Caramon. The big man sat near the fire, huddled in his cape. Still under the influence of the potent dwarf spirits, he was now sometimes Caramon and sometimes Raistlin. As Caramon, he ate voraciously, cramming food into his mouth with gusto. He then regaled them with several bawdy ballads—to the delight of Bupu, who clapped along out of time and came in strong on the choruses. Tas was torn by a strong desire to giggle wildly or crawl beneath a rock and die in shame.

But, the kender decided with a shudder, he would take Caramon—bawdy songs and all—over Caramon/Raistlin. The transformation occurred suddenly, right in the middle of a song, in fact. The big man’s frame collapsed, he began to cough, then—looking at them with narrow eyes—he coldly ordered himself to shut up.

“You didn’t do this to him,” Lady Crysania said to Tas, regarding Caramon with a cool gaze. “It is the drink. He is gross, thick-headed, and obviously lacking in self-control. He has let his appetites rule him. Odd, isn’t it, that he and Raistlin are twins’? His brother is so much in control, so disciplined, intelligent, and refined.”

She shrugged. “Oh, there is no doubt this poor man is to be greatly pitied.” Standing up, she walked over to where her horse was tethered and began to unstrap her bedroll from its place behind her saddle. “I shall remember him in my prayers to Paladine.”

“I’m sure prayers won’t hurt,” Tas said dubiously, “but I think some strong tarbean tea might be better just now.”

Lady Crysania turned and regarded the kender with a reproving stare. “I am certain you did not mean to blaspheme. Therefore I will take your statement in the sense it was uttered. Do endeavor to look at things with a more serious attitude, however.”

“I was serious,” Tas protested. “All Caramon needs is a few mugs of good, thick tarbean tea—”

Lady Crysania’s dark eyebrows rose so sharply that Tas fell silent, though he hadn’t the vaguest idea what he had said to upset her. He began to unpack his own blankets, his spirits just about as low as he could ever remember them being. He felt just as he had when he had ridden dragonback with Flint during the Battle of Estwilde Plains. The dragon had soared into the clouds, then it dove out, spinning round and round. For a few moments, up had been down, sky had been below, ground above, and then—whoosh! into a cloud, and everything was lost in the haze.

His mind felt just like it did then. Lady Crysania admired Raistlin and pitied Caramon. Tas wasn’t certain, but that seemed all backward. Then there was Caramon who was Caramon and then wasn’t Caramon. Inns that were there one minute and gone the next. A secret magic word he was supposed to listen for so he’d know when not to listen. Then he’d made a perfectly logical, common-sense suggestion about tarbean tea and been reprimanded for blasphemy!

“After all,” he mumbled to himself, jerking at his blankets, “Paladine and I are close personal friends. He’d know what I meant.”

Sighing, the kender pillowed his head upon a rolled-up cloak. Bupu—now quite convinced that Caramon was Raistlin—was sound asleep, curled up with her head resting adoringly on the big man’s foot. Caramon himself was sitting quietly now, his eyes closed, humming a song to himself. Occasionally he would cough, and once he demanded in a loud voice that Tas bring him his spellbook so that he could study his magic. But he seemed peaceful enough. Tas hoped he would soon dose and sleep off the effects of the dwarf spirits.

The fire burned low. Lady Crysania spread out her blankets on a bed of pine needles she had gathered to keep out the damp. Tas yawned. She was certainly getting on better than he’d expected. She had chosen a good, sensible location to make camp—near the trail, a stream of clear running water close by. Just as well not to have to wander too far in these dark and spooky woods—

Spooky wood... what did that remind him of, Tas caught himself as he was slipping over the edge of sleep. Something important. Spooky wood. Spooks... talk to spooks...

“Darken Wood!” he said in alarm, sitting bolt upright.

“What?” asked Lady Crysania, wrapping her cloak around her and preparing to lie down.

“Darken Wood!” Tas repeated in alarm. He was now thoroughly awake. “We’re close to Darken Wood. We came to warn you! It’s a horrible place. You might have blundered into it. Maybe we’re in it already—”

“Darken Wood?” Caramon’s eyes flared open. He stared around him vaguely.

“Nonsense,” Lady Crysania said comfortably, adjusting beneath her head a small traveling pillow she had brought with her. “We are not in Darken Wood, not yet. It is about five miles distant. Tomorrow we will come to a path that will take us there.”

“You—you want to go there!” Tas gasped.

“Of course,” Lady Crysania said coldly. “I go there to seek the Forestmaster’s help. It would take me many long months to travel from here to the Forest of Wayreth, even on horseback. Silver dragons dwell in Darken Wood with the Forestmaster. They will fly me to my destination.”

“But the spectres, the ancient dead king and his followers—”

“—were released from their terrible bondage when they answered the call to fight the Dragon Highlords,” Lady Crysania said, somewhat sharply. “You really should study the history of the war, Tasslehoff. Especially since you were involved in it. When the human and elven forces combined to recapture Qualinesti, the spectres of Darken Wood fought with them and thus broke the dark enchantment that held them bound to dreadful life. They left this world and have been seen no more.”

“Oh,” said Tas stupidly. After glancing about for a moment, he sat back down on his bedroll. “I talked to them,” he continued wistfully. “They were very polite—sort of abrupt in their comings and goings, but very polite. It’s kind of sad to think—”

“I am quite tired,” interrupted Lady Crysania. “And I have a long journey ahead of me tomorrow. I will take the gully dwarf and continue on to Darken Wood. You can take your besotted friend back home where he will—hopefully—find the help he needs. Now go to sleep.”

“Shouldn’t one of us... stay on watch?” Tas asked hesitantly. “Those rangers said—” He stopped suddenly. Those “rangers” had been in the inn that wasn’t.

“Nonsense. Paladine will guard our rest,” said Lady Crysania sharply. Closing her eyes, she began to recite soft words of prayer.

Tas gulped. “I wonder if we know the same Paladine?” he asked, thinking of Fizban and feeling very lonesome. But he said it under his breath, not wanting to be accused of blasphemy again. Lying down, he squirmed in his blankets but could not get comfortable. Finally, still wide awake, he sat back up and leaned against a tree trunk. The spring night was cool but not unpleasantly chill. The sky was clear, and there was no wind. The trees rustled with their own conversations, feeling new life running through their limbs, waking after their long winter’s sleep. Running his hand over the ground, Tas fingered the new grass poking up beneath the decaying leaves.

The kender sighed. It was a nice night. Why did he feel uneasy? Was that a sound? A twig breaking? Tas started and looked around, holding his breath to hear better. Nothing. Silence. Glancing up into the heavens, he saw the constellation of Paladine, the Platinum Dragon, revolving around the constellation of Gilean, the Scales of Balance. Across from Paladine—each keeping careful watch upon the other—was the constellation of the Queen of Darkness—Takhisis, the Five-Headed Dragon.

“You’re awfully far away up there,” Tas said to the Platinum Dragon. “And you’ve got a whole world to watch, not just us. I’m sure you won’t mind if I guard our rest tonight, too. No disrepect intended, of course. It’s just that I have the feeling Someone Else up there is watching us tonight, too, if you take my meaning.” The kender shivered. “I don’t know why I feel so queer all of a sudden. Maybe it’s just being so close to Darken Wood and—well, I’m responsible for everyone apparently!”

It was an uncomfortable thought for a kender. Tas was accustomed to being responsible for himself, but when he’d traveled with Tanis and the others, there had always been someone else responsible for the group. There had been strong, skilled warriors—

What was that? He’d definitely heard something that time! Jumping up, Tas stood quietly, staring into the darkness. There was silence, then a rustle, then—

A squirrel. Tas heaved a sigh that came from his toes.

“While I’m up, I’ll just go put another log on the fire,” he said to himself. Hurrying over, he glanced at Caramon and felt a pang. It would have been much easier standing watch in the darkness if he knew he could count on Caramon’s strong arm. Instead, the warrior had fallen over on his back, his eyes closed, his mouth open, snoring in drunken contentment. Curled about Caramon’s boot, her head on his foot, Bupu’s snores mingled with his. Across from them, as far away as possible, Lady Crysania slept peacefully, her smooth cheek resting on her folded hands.

With a trembling sigh, Tas cast the logs on the fire. Watching it blaze up, he settled himself down to watch, staring intently into the night-shrouded trees whose whispering words now had an ominous tone. Then, there it was again.

“Squirrel!” Tas whispered resolutely.

Was that something moving in the shadows? There was a distinct crack—like a twig snapping in two. No squirrel did that! Tas fumbled about in his pouch until his hand closed over a small knife.

The forest was moving! The trees were closing in!

Tas tried to scream a warning, but a thin-limbed branch grabbed hold of his arm...

“Aiiii,” Tas shouted, twisting free and stabbing at the branch with his knife.

There was a curse and yelp of pain. The branch let loose its hold, and Tas breathed a sigh. No tree he had ever met yelped in pain. Whatever they were facing was living, breathing...

“Attack!” the kender yelled, stumbling backward. “Caramon! Help! Caramon—”

Two years before, the big warrior would have been on his feet instantly, his hand closing over the hilt of his sword, alert and ready for battle. But Tas, scrambling to get his back to the fire, his small knife the only thing keeping whatever it was at bay, saw Caramon’s head loll to one side in drunken contentment.

“Lady Crysania!” Tas screamed wildly, seeing more dark shapes creep from the woods. “Wake up! Please, wake up!”

He could feel the heat of the fire now. Keeping an eye on the menacing shadows, Tas reached down and grabbed a smoldering log by one end—he hoped it was the cool end. Lifting it up, he thrust the firebrand out before him.

There was movement as one of the creatures made a dive for him. Tas swiped out with his knife, driving it back. But in that instant, as it came into the light of his brand, he’d caught a glimpse of it.

“Caramon!” he shrieked. “Draconians!”

Lady Crysania was awake now; Tas saw her sit up, staring around in sleepy confusion.

“The fire!” Tas shouted to her desperately. “Get near the fire!” Stumbling over Bupu, the kender kicked Caramon. “Draconians!” he yelled again.

One of Caramon’s eyes opened, then the other, glaring around muzzily.

“Caramon! Thank the gods!” Tas gasped in relief.

Caramon sat up. Peering around the camp, completely disoriented and confused, he was still warrior enough to be hazily aware of danger. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he gripped the hilt of his sword and belched.

“Washit?” he mumbled, trying to focus his eyes.

“Draconians!” Tasslehoff screeched, hopping around like a small demon, waving his firebrand and his knife with such vigor that he actually succeeded in keeping his enemies at bay.

“Draconians?” Caramon muttered, staring around in disbelief. Then he caught a glimpse of a twisted reptilian face in the light of the dying fire. His eyes opened wide. “Draconians!” he snarled. “Tanis! Sturm! Come to me! Raistlin—your magic! We’ll take them.”

Yanking his sword from its scabbard, Caramon plunged ahead with a rumbling battle cry—and fell flat on his face.

Bupu clung to his foot.

“Oh, no!” Tas groaned.

Caramon lay on the ground, blinking and shaking his head in wonder, trying to figure out what hit him. Bupu, rudely awakened, began to howl in terror and pain, then bit Caramon on the ankle.

Tas started forward to help the fallen warrior—at least drag Bupu off him—when he heard a cry. Lady Crysania! Damn! He’d forgotten about her! Whirling around, he saw the cleric struggling with one of the dragonmen.

Tas hurtled forward and stabbed viciously at the draconian. With a shriek, it let loose of Crysania and fell backward, its body turning to stone at Tas’s feet. Just in time, the kender remembered to retrieve his knife or the stony corpse would have kept it fast.

Tas dragged Crysania back with him toward the fallen Caramon, who was trying to shake the gully dwarf off his leg. The draconians closed in. Glancing about feverishly, Tas saw they were surrounded by the creatures. But why weren’t they attacking full force? What were they waiting for?

“Are you all right?” he managed to ask Crysania.

“Yes,” she said. Though very pale, she appeared calm and—if frightened—was keeping her fear under control. Tas saw her lips move—presumably in silent prayer. The kender’s own lips tightened.

“Here, lady,” he said, shoving the firebrand in her hand. “I guess you’re going to have to fight and pray at the same time.”

“Elistan did. So can I,” Crysania said, her voice shaking only slightly.

Shouted commands rang out from the shadows. The voice wasn’t draconian. Tas couldn’t make it out. He only knew that just hearing it gave him cold chills. But there wasn’t time to wonder about it. The draconians, their tongues flicking out of their mouths, jumped for them. Crysania lashed out with the smoldering brand clumsily, but it was enough to make the draconians hesitate. Tas was still trying to pry Bupu off Caramon. But it was a draconian who, inadvertantly, came to their aid. Shoving Tas backward, the dragonman laid a clawed hand on Bupu.

Gully dwarves are noted throughout Krynn for their extreme cowardice and total unreliability in battle. But—when driven into a corner—they can fight like rabid rats.

“Glupsludge!” Bupu screamed in anger and, turning from gnawing on Caramon’s ankle, she sank her teeth into the scaly hide of the draconian’s leg.

Bupu didn’t have many teeth, but what she did have were sharp, and she bit into the draconian’s green flesh with a relish occasioned by the fact that she hadn’t eaten much dinner.

The draconian gave a hideous yell. Raising its sword, it was about to end Bupu’s days upon Krynn when Caramon—bumbling around trying to see what was going on—accidentally sliced off the creature’s arm. Bupu sat back, licking her lips, and looked about eagerly for another victim.

“Hurrah! Caramon!” Tas cheered wildly, his small knife stabbing here and there as swiftly as a striking snake. Lady Crysania smashed one draconian with her firebrand, crying out the name of Paladine. The creature pitched over.

There were only two or three draconians still standing that Tas could see, and the kender began to feel elated. The creatures lurked just outside the firelight, eyeing the big warrior, Caramon, warily as he staggered to his feet. Seen only in the shadows, he still cut the menacing figure he had in the old days. His sword blade gleamed wickedly in the red flames.

“Get ’em, Caramon!” Tas yelled shrilly. “Clunk their heads—”

The kender’s voice died as Caramon turned slowly to face him, a strange look on his face.

“I’m not Caramon,” he said softly. “I’m his twin, Raistlin. Caramon’s dead. I killed him.” Glancing down at the sword in his hand, the big warrior dropped it as if it stung him. “What am I doing with cold steel in my hands?” he asked harshly. “I can’t cast spells with a sword and shield!”

Tasslehoff choked, casting an alarmed glance at the draconians. He could see them exchanging shrewd looks. They began to move forward slowly, though they all kept their gazes fixed upon the big warrior, probably suspecting a trap of some sort.

“You’re not Raistlin! You’re Caramon!” Tas cried in desperation, but it was no use. The man’s brain was still pickled in dwarf spirits. His mind completely unhinged, Caramon closed his eyes, lifted his hands, and began to chant.

“Antsnests silverash bookarah,” he murmured, weaving back and forth.

The grinning face of a draconian loomed up before Tas. There was a flash of steel, and the kender’s head seemed to explode in pain...

Tas was on the ground. Warm liquid was running down his face, blinding him in one eye, trickling into his mouth. He tasted blood. He was tired... very tired...

But the pain was awful. It wouldn’t let him sleep. He was afraid to move his head, afraid if he did it might separate into two pieces. And so he lay perfectly still, watching the world from one eye.

He heard the gully dwarf screaming on and on, like a tortured animal, and then the screams suddenly ended. He heard a deep cry of pain, a smothered groan, and a large body crashed to the ground beside him. It was Caramon, blood flowing from his mouth, his eyes wide open and staring.

Tas couldn’t feel sad. He couldn’t feel anything except the terrible pain in his head. A huge draconian stood over him, sword in hand. He knew that the creature was going to finish him off. Tas didn’t care. End the pain, he pleaded. End it quickly.

Then there was a flurry of white robes and a clear voice calling upon Paladine. The draconian disappeared abruptly with the sound of clawed feet scrambling through the brush. The white robes knelt beside him, Tas felt the touch of a gentle hand upon his head, and heard the name of Paladine again. The pain vanished. Looking up, he saw the cleric’s hand touch Caramon, saw the big man’s eyelids flutter and close in peaceful sleep.

It’s all right! Tas thought in elation. They’ve gone! We’re going to be all right. Then he felt the hand tremble. Regaining some of his senses as the cleric’s healing powers flooded through his body, the kender raised his head, peering ahead with his good eye.

Something was coming. Something had called off the draconians. Something was walking into the light of the fire.

Tas tried to cry out a warning, but his throat closed. His mind tumbled over and over. For a moment, too frightened and dizzy to think clearly, he thought someone had mixed up adventures on him.

He saw Lady Crysania rise to her feet, her white robes sweeping the dirt near his head. Slowly, she began backing away from the thing that stalked her. Tas heard her call to Paladine, but the words fell from lips stiff with terror.

Tas himself wanted desperately to close his eyes. Fear and curiosity warred in his small body. Curiosity won out. Peering out of his one good eye, Tas watched the horrible figure draw nearer and nearer to the cleric. The figure was dressed in the armor of a Solamnic Knight, but that armor was burned and blackened. As it drew near Crysania, the figure stretched forth an arm that did not end in a hand. It spoke words that did not come from a mouth. Its eyes flared orange, its transparent legs strode right through the smoldering ashes of the fire. The chill of the regions where it was forced to eternally dwell flowed from its body, freezing the very marrow in Tas’s bones.

Fearfully, Tas raised his head. He saw Lady Crysania backing away. He saw the death knight walk toward her with slow, steady steps.

The knight raised its right hand and pointed at Crysania with a pale, shimmering finger.

Tas felt a sudden, uncontrollable terror seize him. “No!” he moaned, shivering, though he had no idea what awful thing was about to happen.

The knight spoke one word.

“Die.”

At that moment, Tas saw Lady Crysania raise her hand and grasp the medallion she wore around her neck. He saw a bright flash of pure white light well from her fingers and then she fell to the ground as though stabbed by the fleshless finger.

“No!” Tasslehoff heard himself cry. He saw the orange flaring eyes turn their attention to him, and a chill, dank darkness, like the darkness of a tomb, sealed shut his eyes and closed his mouth...

8

Dalamar approached the door to the mage’s laboratory with trepidation, tracing a nervous finger over the runes of protection stitched onto the fabric of his black robes as he hastily rehearsed several spells of warding in his mind. A certain amount of caution would not have been thought unseemly in any young apprentice approaching the inner, secret chambers of a dark and powerful master. But Dalamar’s precautions were extraordinary. And with good reason. Dalamar had secrets of his own to hide, and he dreaded and feared nothing more in this world than the gaze of those golden, hourglass eyes.

And yet, deeper than his fear, an undercurrent of excitement pulsed in Dalamar’s blood as it always did when he stood before this door. He had seen wonderful things inside this chamber, wonderful... fearful...

Raising his right hand, he made a quick sign in the air before the door and muttered a few words in the language of magic. There was no reaction. The door had no spell cast upon it. Dalamar breathed a bit easier, or perhaps it was a sigh of disappointment. His master was not engaged in any potent, powerful magic, otherwise Raistlin would have cast a spell of holding upon the door. Glancing down at the floor, the dark elf saw no flickering, flaring lights beaming from beneath the heavy wooden door. He smelled nothing except the usual smells of spice and decay. Dalamar placed the five fingertips of his left hand upon the door and waited in silence.

Within the space of time it took the dark elf to draw a breath came the softly spoken command, “Enter, Dalamar.”

Bracing himself, Dalamar stepped into the chamber as the door swung silently open before him. Raistlin sat at a huge and ancient stone table, so large that one of the tall, broad-shouldered race of minotaurs living upon Mithas might have lain down upon it, stretched out his full height, and still had room to spare. The stone table, in fact the entire laboratory, were part of the original furnishings Raistlin had discovered when he claimed the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas as his own.

The great, shadowy chamber seemed much larger than it could possibly have been, yet the dark elf could never determine whether it was the chamber itself that seemed larger or he himself who seemed smaller whenever he entered it. Books lined the walls, here as in the mage’s study. Runes and spidery writing glowed through the dust gathered on their spines. Glass bottles and jars of twisted design stood on tables around the sides of the chamber, their bright-colored contents bubbling and boiling with hidden power.

Here, in this laboratory long ago, great and powerful magic had been wrought. Here, the wizards of all three Robes—the White of Good, the Red of Neutrality, and the Black of Evil—joined in alliance to create the Dragon Orbs—one of which was now in Raistlin’s possession. Here, the three Robes had come together in a final, desperate battle to save their Towers, the bastions of their strength, from the Kingpriest of Istar and the mobs. Here they had failed, believing it was better to live in defeat than fight, knowing that their magic could destroy the world.

The mages had been forced to abandon this Tower, carrying their spellbooks and other paraphernalia to the Tower of High Sorcery, hidden deep within the magical Forest of Wayreth. It was when they abandoned this Tower that the curse had been cast upon it. The Shoikan Grove had grown to guard it from all comers until—as foretold—“the master of past and present shall return with power.”

And the master had returned. Now he sat in the ancient laboratory, crouched over the stone table that had been dragged, long ago, from the bottom of the sea. Carved with runes that ward off all enchantments, it was kept free of any outside influences that might affect the mage’s work. The table’s surface was ground smooth and polished to an almost mirrorlike finish. Dalamar could see the nightblue bindings of the spellbooks that sat upon it reflected in the candlelight.

Scattered about on its surface were other objects, too—objects hideous and curious, horrible and lovely: the mage’s spell components. It was on these Raistlin was working now, scanning a spellbook, murmuring soft words as he crushed something between his delicate fingers, letting it trickle into a phial he held.

“Shalafi,” Dalamar said quietly, using the elven word for “master.”

Raistlin looked up.

Dalamar felt the stare of those golden eyes pierce his heart with an indefinable pain. A shiver of fear swept over the dark elf, the words, He knows! seethed in his brain. But none of this emotion was outwardly visible. The dark elf’s handsome features remained fixed, unchanged, cool. His eyes returned Raistlin’s gaze steadily. His hands remained folded within his robes as was proper.

So dangerous was this job that—when They had deemed it necessary to plant a spy inside the mage’s household—They had asked for volunteers, none of them willing to take responsibility for cold-bloodedly commanding anyone to accept this deadly assignment. Dalamar had stepped forward immediately.

Magic was Dalamar’s only home. Originally from Silvanesti, he now neither claimed nor was claimed by that noble race of elves. Born to a low caste, he had been taught only the most rudimentary of the magical arts, higher learning being for those of royal blood. But Dalamar had tasted the power, and it became his obsession. Secretly he worked, studying the forbidden, learning wonders reserved for only the high-ranking elven mages. The dark arts impressed him most, and thus, when he was discovered wearing the Black Robes that no true elf could even bear to look upon, Dalamar was cast out of his home and his nation. And he became known as a “dark elf,” one who is outside of the light. This suited Dalamar well for, early on, he had learned that there is power in darkness.

And so Dalamar had accepted the assignment. When asked to give his reasons why he would willingly risk his life performing this task, he had answered coldly, “I would risk my soul for the chance to study with the greatest and most powerful of our order who has ever lived!”

“You may well be doing just that,” a sad voice had answered him.

The memory of that voice returned to Dalamar at odd moments, generally in the darkness of the night—which was so very dark inside the Tower. It returned to him now. Dalamar forced it out of his mind.

“What is it?” Raistlin asked gently.

The mage always spoke gently and softly, sometimes not even raising his voice above a whisper. Dalamar had seen fearful storms rage in this chamber. The blazing lightning and crashing thunder had left him partially deaf for days. He had been present when the mage summoned creatures from the planes above and below to do his bidding; their screams and wails and curses still sounded in his dreams at night. Yet, through it all, he had never heard Raistlin raise his voice. Always that soft, sibilant whisper penetrated the chaos and brought it under control.

“Events are transpiring in the outside world, Shalafi, that demand your attention.”

“Indeed?” Raistlin looked down again, absorbed in his work.

“Lady Crysania—”

Raistlin’s hooded head lifted quickly. Dalamar, reminded forcibly of a striking snake, involuntarily fell back a step before that intense gaze.

“What? Speak!” Raistlin hissed the word.

“You—you should come, Shalafi,” Dalamar faltered. “The Live Ones report...”

The dark elf spoke to empty air. Raistlin had vanished.

Heaving a trembling sigh, the dark elf pronounced the words that would take him instantly to his master’s side.

Far below the Tower of High Sorcery, deep beneath the ground, was a small round room magically carved from the rock that supported the Tower. This room had not been in the Tower originally. Known as the Chamber of Seeing, it was Raistlin’s creation.

Within the center of the small room of cold stone was a perfectly round pool of still, dark water. From the center of the strange, unnatural pond spurted a jet of blue flame. Rising to the ceiling of the chamber, it burned eternally, day and night. And around it, eternally, sat the Live Ones.

Though the most powerful mage living upon Krynn, Raistlin’s power was far from complete, and no one realized that more than the mage himself. He was always forcibly reminded of his weaknesses when he came into this room—one reason he avoided it, if possible. For here were the visible, outward symbols of his failures—the Live Ones.

Wretched creatures mistakenly created by magic gone awry, they were held in thrall in this chamber, serving their creator. Here they lived out their tortured lives, writhing in a larva-like, bleeding mass about the flaming pool. Their shining wet bodies made a horrible carpet for the floor, whose stones, made slick with their oozings, could be seen only when they parted to make room for their creator.

Yet, despite their lives of constant, twisted pain, the Live Ones spoke no word of complaint. Far better their lot than those who roamed the Tower, those known as the Dead Ones.

Raistlin materialized within the Chamber of Seeing, a dark shadow emerging out of darkness. The blue flame sparkled off the silver threads that decorated his robes, shimmered within the black cloth. Dalamar appeared beside him, and the two walked over to stand beside the surface of the still, black water.

“Where?” Raistlin asked.

“Here, M-master,” blurbled one of the Live Ones, pointing a misshapen appendage.

Raistlin hurried to stand beside it, Dalamar walking by his side, their black robes making a soft, whispering sound upon the slimy stone floor. Staring into the water, Raistlin motioned Dalamar to do the same. The dark elf looked into the still surface, seeing for an instant only the reflection of the jet of blue flame. Then the flame and the water merged, then parted, and he was in a forest. A big human male, clad in ill-fitting armor, stood staring down at the body of a young human female, dressed in white robes. A kender knelt beside the body of the woman, holding her hand in his. Dalamar heard the big man speak as clearly as if he had been standing by his side.

“She’s dead...”

“I—I’m not sure, Caramon. I think—”

“I’ve seen death often enough, believe me. She’s dead. And it’s all my fault... my fault...”

“Caramon, you imbecile!” Raistlin snarled with a curse. “What happened? What went wrong?”

As the mage spoke, Dalamar saw the kender look up quickly.

“Did you say something?” the kender asked the big human, who was working in the soil.

“No. It was just the wind.”

“What are you doing?”

“Digging a grave. We’ve got to bury her.”

“Bury her?” Raistlin gave a brief, bitter laugh. “Oh, of course, you bumbling idiot! That’s all you can think of to do!” The mage fumed. ” Bury her! I must know what happened!” He turned to the Live One. “What did you see?”

“T-they c-camp in t-trees, M-master.” Froth dribbled from the creature’s mouth, its speech was practically unrecognizable. “D-draco k-kill—”

“Draconians?” Raistlin repeated in astonishment. “Near Solace? Where did they come from?”

“D-dunno! Dunno!” The Live One cowered in terror. “I-I—”

“Shhh,” Dalamar warned, drawing his master’s attention back to the pond where the kender was arguing.

“Caramon, you can’t bury her! She’s—”

“We don’t have any choice. I know it’s not proper, but Paladine will see that her soul journeys in peace. We don’t dare build a funeral pyre, not with those dragonmen around—”

“But, Caramon, I really think you should come look at her! There’s not a mark on her body!”

“I don’t want to look at her! She’s dead! It’s my fault! We’ll bury her here, then I’ll go back to Solace, go back to digging my own grave—”

“Caramon!”

“Go find some flowers and leave me be!”

Dalamar saw the big man tear up the moist dirt with his bare hands, hurling it aside while tears streamed down his face. The kender remained beside the woman’s body, irresolute, his face covered with dried blood, his expression a mixture of grief and doubt.

“No mark, no wound, draconians coming out of nowhere...” Raistlin frowned thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, he knelt beside the Live One, who shrank away from him. “Speak. Tell me everything. I must know. Why wasn’t I summoned earlier?”

“Th-the d-draco k-kill, M-master,” the Live One’s voice bubbled in agony. “B-but the b-big m-man k-kill, too. Th-then b-big d-dark c-come! E-eyes of f-fire. I-I s-scared. I-I f-fraid f-fall in wa-water...”

“I found the Live One lying at the edge of the pool,” Dalamar reported coolly, “when one of the others told me something strange was going on. I looked into the water. Knowing of your interest in this human female, I thought you—”

“Quite right,” Raistlin murmured, cutting off Dalamar’s explanation impatiently. The mage’s golden eyes narrowed, his thin lips compressed. Feeling his anger, the poor Live One dragged its body as far from the mage as possible. Dalamar held his breath. But Raistlin’s anger was not directed at them.

“'Big dark, eyes of fire’—Lord Soth! So, my sister, you betray me,” Raistlin whispered. “I smell your fear, Kitiara! You coward! I could have made you queen of this world. I could have given you wealth immeasurable, power unlimited. But no. You are, after all, a weak and petty-minded worm!”

Raistlin stood quietly, pondering, staring into the still pond. When he spoke next, his voice was soft, lethal. “I will not forget this, my dear sister. You are fortunate that I have more urgent, pressing matters at hand, or you would be residing with the phantom lord who serves you!” Raistlin’s thin fist clenched, then—with an obvious effort—he forced himself to relax. “But, now, what to do about this? I must do something before my brother plants the cleric in a flower bed!”

“Shalafi, what has happened?” Dalamar ventured, greatly daring. “This—woman. What is she to you? I do not understand.”

Raistlin glanced at Dalamar irritably and seemed about to rebuke him for his impertinence. Then the mage hesitated. His golden eyes flared once with a flash of inner light that made Dalamar cringe, before returning to their flat, impassive stare.

“Of course, apprentice. You shall know everything. But first—”

Raistlin stopped. Another figure had entered the scene in the forest they watched so intently. It was a gully dwarf, bundled in layers and layers of bright, gaudy clothing, a huge bag dragging behind her as she walked.

“Bupu!” Raistlin whispered, the rare smile touching his lips. “Excellent. Once more you shall serve me, little one.”

Reaching out his hand, Raistlin touched the still water. The Live Ones around the pool cried out in horror, for they had seen many of their own kind stumble into that dark water, only to shrivel and wither and become nothing more than a wisp of smoke, rising with a shriek into the air. But Raistlin simply murmured soft words, then withdrew his hand. The fingers were white as marble, a spasm of pain crossed his face. Hurriedly, he slid his hand into a pocket of his robe.

“Watch,” he whispered exultantly.

Dalamar stared into the water, watching the gully dwarf approach the still, lifeless form of the woman.

“Me help.”

No, Bupu!”

“You no like my magic! Me go home. But first me help pretty lady.”

“What in the name of the Abyss—” Dalamar muttered.

“Watch!” Raistlin commanded.

Dalamar watched as the gully dwarf’s small, grubby hand dove into the bag at her side. After fumbling about for several moments, it emerged with a loathsome object—a dead, stiff lizard with a leather thong wrapped around its neck. Bupu approached the woman and—when the kender tried to stop her—thrust her small fist into his face warningly. With a sigh and a sideways glance at Caramon, who was digging furiously, his face a mask of grief and blood, the kender stepped back. Bupu plopped down beside the woman’s lifeless form and carefully placed the dead lizard on the unmoving chest.

Dalamar gasped.

The woman’s chest moved, the white robes shivered. She began breathing, deeply and peacefully.

The kender let out a shriek.

“Caramon! Bupu’s cured her! She’s alive! Look!”

“What the—” The big man stopped digging and stumbled over, staring at the gully dwarf in amazement and fear.

“Lizard cure,” Bupu said in triumph. “Work every time.”

“Yes, my little one,” Raistlin said, still smiling. “It works well for coughs, too, as I remember.” He waved his hand over the still water. The mage’s voice became a lulling chant. “And now, sleep, my brother, before you do anything else stupid. Sleep, kender, sleep, little Bupu. And sleep as well, Lady Crysania, in the realm where Paladine protects you.”

Still chanting, Raistlin made a beckoning motion with his hand. “And now come, Forest of Wayreth. Creep up on them as they sleep. Sing them your magical song. Lure them onto your secret paths.”

The spell was ended. Rising to his feet, Raistlin turned to Dalamar. “And you come, too, apprentice”—there was the faintest sarcasm in the voice that made the dark elf shudder—“come to my study. It is time for us to talk.”

9

Dalamar sat in the mage’s study in the same chair Kitiara had occupied on her visit. The dark elf was far less comfortable, far less secure than Kitiara had been. Yet his fears were well-contained. Outwardly he appeared relaxed, composed. A heightened flush upon his pale elven features could be attributed, perhaps, to his excitement at being taken into his master’s confidence.

Dalamar had been in the study often, though not in the presence of his master. Raistlin spent his evenings here alone, reading, studying the tomes that lined his walls. No one dared disturb him then. Dalamar entered the study only during the daylight hours, and then only when Raistlin was busy elsewhere. At that time the dark elf apprentice was allowed—no, required—to study the spellbooks himself, some of them, that is. He had been forbidden to open or even touch those with the nightblue binding.

Dalamar had done so once, of course. The binding felt intensely cold, so cold it burned his skin. Ignoring the pain, he managed to open the cover, but after one look, he quickly shut it. The words inside were gibberish, he could make nothing of them. And he had been able to detect the spell of protection cast over them. Anyone looking at them too long without the proper key to translate them would go mad.

Seeing Dalamar’s injured hand, Raistlin asked him how it happened. The dark elf replied coolly that he had spilled some acid from a spell component he was mixing. The archmage smiled and said nothing. There was no need. Both understood.

But now he was in the study by Raistlin’s invitation, sitting here on a more or less equal basis with his master. Once again, Dalamar felt the old fear laced by intoxicating excitement.

Raistlin sat before him at the carved wooden table, one hand resting upon a thick nightblue-bound spellbook. The archmage’s fingers absently caressed the book, running over the silver runes upon the cover. Raistlin’s eyes stared fixedly at Dalamar. The dark elf did not stir or shift beneath that intense, penetrating gaze.

“You were very young, to have taken the Test,” Raistlin said abruptly in his soft voice.

Dalamar blinked. This was not what he had expected.

“Not so young as you, Shalafi,” the dark elf replied. “I am in my nineties, which figures to about twenty-five of your human years. You, I believe, were only twenty-one when you took the Test.”

“Yes,” Raistlin murmured, and a shadow passed across the mage’s golden-tinted skin. “I was... twenty-one.”

Dalamar saw the hand that rested upon the spellbook clench in swift, sudden pain; he saw the golden eyes flare. The young apprentice was not surprised at this show of emotion. The Test is required of any mage seeking to practice the arts of magic at an advanced level. Administered in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, it is conducted by the leaders of all three Robes. For, long ago, the magic-users of Krynn realized what had escaped the clerics—if the balance of the world is to be maintained, the pendulum must swing freely back and forth among all three—Good, Evil, Neutrality. Let one grow too powerful—any one—and the world would begin to tilt toward its destruction.

The Test is brutal. The higher levels of magic, where true power is obtained, are no place for inept bunglers. The Test was designed to get rid of those—permanently; death being the penalty for failure. Dalamar still had nightmares about his own testing, so he could well understand Raistlin’s reaction.

“I passed,” Raistlin whispered, his eyes staring back to that time. “But when I came out of that terrible place I was as you see me now. My skin had this golden tint, my hair was white, and my eyes...” He came back to the present, to look fixedly at Dalamar. “Do you know what I see with these hourglass eyes’?”

“No, Shalafi.”

“I see time as it affects all things,” Raistlin replied. “Human flesh withers before these eyes, flowers wilt and die, the rocks themselves crumble as I watch. It is always winter in my sight. Even you. Dalamar”—Raistlin’s eyes caught and held the young apprentice in their horrible gaze—“even elven flesh that ages so slowly the passing of the years are as rain showers in the spring—even upon your young face, Dalamar—I see the mark of death!”

Dalamar shivered, and this time could not hide his emotion. Involuntarily, he shrank back into the cushions of the chair. A shield spell came quickly to his mind, as did—unbidden—a spell designed to injure, not defend. Fool! he sneered at himself, quickly regaining control, what puny spell of mine could kill him?

“True, true,” Raistlin murmured, answering Dalamar’s thoughts, as he often did. “There live none upon Krynn who has the power to harm me. Certainly not you, apprentice. But you are brave. You have courage. Often you have stood beside me in the laboratory, facing those I have dragged from the planes of their existence. You knew that if I but drew a breath at the wrong time, they would rip the living hearts from our bodies and devour them while we writhed before them in torment.”

“It was my privilege,” Dalamar murmured.

“Yes,” Raistlin replied absently, his thoughts abstracted. Then he raised an eyebrow. “And you knew, didn’t you, that if such an event occurred, I would save myself but not you?”

“Of course, Shalafi,” Dalamar answered steadily. “I understand and I take the risk”—the dark elf’s eyes glowed. His fears forgotten, he sat forward eagerly in his chair—“no, Shalafi, I invite the risks! I would sacrifice anything for the sake of—”

“The magic,” Raistlin finished.

“Yes! The sake of the magic!” Dalamar cried.

“And the power it confers.” Raistlin nodded. “You are ambitious. But—how ambitious, I wonder? Do you, perhaps, seek rulership of your kinsmen? Or possibly a kingdom somewhere, holding a monarch in thrall while you enjoy the wealth of his lands? Or perhaps an alliance with some dark lord, as was done in the days of the dragons not far back. My sister, Kitiara, for example, found you quite attractive. She would enjoy having you about. Particularly if you have any magic arts you practice in the bedroom—”

“Shalafi, I would not desecrate—”

Raistlin waved a hand. “I joke, apprentice. But you take my meaning. Does one of those reflect your dreams?”

“Well, certainly, Shalafi.” Dalamar hesitated, confused. Where was all this leading? To some information he could use and pass on, he hoped, but how much of himself to reveal? “I—”

Raistlin cut him off. “Yes, I see I have come close to the mark. I have discovered the heights of your ambition. Have you never guessed at mine?”

Dalamar felt a thrill of joy surge through his body. This is what he had been sent to discover. The young mage answered slowly, “I have often wondered, Shalafi. You are so powerful”—Dalamar motioned at the window where the lights of Palanthas could be seen, shining in the night—“this city, this land of Solamnia, this continent of Ansalon could be yours.”

“This world could be mine!” Raistlin smiled, his thin lips parting slightly. “We have seen the lands beyond the seas, haven’t we, apprentice. When we look into the flaming water, we can see them and those who dwell there. To control them would be simplicity itself—”

Raistlin rose to his feet. Walking to the window, he stared out over the sparkling city spread out before him. Feeling his master’s excitement, Dalamar left his chair and followed him.

“I could give you that kingdom, Dalamar,” Raistlin said softly. His hand drew back the curtain, his eyes lingered upon the lights that gleamed more warmly than the stars above. “I could give you not only rulership of your miserable kinsmen, but control of the elves everywhere in Krynn.” Raistlin shrugged. “I could give you my sister.”

Turning from the window, Raistlin faced Dalamar, who watched him eagerly.

“But I care nothing for that”—Raistlin gestured, letting the curtain fall—“nothing. My ambition goes further.”

“But, Shalafi, there is not much left if you turn down the world.” Dalamar,faltered, not understanding. “Unless you have seen worlds beyond this one that are hidden from my eyes...”

“Worlds beyond?” Raistlin pondered. “Interesting thought. Perhaps someday I should consider that possibility. But, no, that is not what I meant.” The mage paused and, with a motion of his hand, beckoned Dalamar closer. “You have seen the great door in the very back of the laboratory? The door of steel, with runes of silver and of gold set within? The door without a lock?”

“Yes, Shalafi,” Dalamar replied, feeling a chill creep over him that not even the strange heat of Raistlin’s body so near him could dispell.

“Do you know where that door leads?”

“Yes... Shalafi.” A whisper.

“And you know why it is not opened?”

“You cannot open it, Shalafi. Only one of great and powerful magic and one of true holy powers may together open—” Dalamar stopped, his throat closing in fear, choking him.

“Yes,” Raistlin murmured, “you understand. ‘One of true holy powers.’ Now you know why I need her! Now you understand the heights—and the depths—of my ambition.”

“This is madness!” Dalamar gasped, then lowered his eyes in shame. “Forgive me, Shalafi, I meant no disrespect.”

“No, and you are right. It is madness, with my limited powers.” A trace of bitterness tinged the mage’s voice. “That is why I am about to undertake a journey.”

“Journey?” Dalamar looked up. “Where?”

“Not where—when,” Raistlin corrected. “You have heard me speak of Fistandantilus?”

“Many times, Shalafi,” Dalamar said, his voice almost reverent. “The greatest of our Order. Those are his spellbooks, the ones with the nightblue binding.”

“Inadequate,” Raistlin muttered, dismissing the entire library with a gesture. “I have read them all, many times in these past years, ever since I obtained the Key to their secrets from the Queen of Darkness herself. But they only frustrate me!” Raistlin clenched his thin hand. “I read these spellbooks and I find great gaps—entire volumes missing! Perhaps they were destroyed in the Cataclysm or, later, in the Dwarfgate Wars that proved Fistandantilus’s undoing. These missing volumes, this knowledge of his that has been lost, will give me the power I need!”

“And so your journey will take you—” Dalamar stopped in disbelief.

“Back in time,” Raistlin finished calmly. “Back to the days just prior to the Cataclysm, when Fistandantilus was at the height of his power.”

Dalamar felt dizzy, his thoughts swirled in confusion. What would They say? Amidst all Their speculation, They had certainly not foreseen this!

“Steady, my apprentice.” Raistlin’s soft voice seemed to come to Dalamar from far away. “This has unnerved you. Some wine?”

The mage walked over to a table. Lifting a carafe, he poured a small glass of blood-red liquid and handed it to the dark elf. Dalamar took it gratefully, startled to see his hand shaking. Raistlin poured a small glass for himself.

“I do not drink this strong wine often, but tonight it seems we should have a small celebration. A toast to—how did you put it?—one of true holy powers. This, then, to Lady Crysania!”

Raistlin drank his wine in small sips. Dalamar gulped his down. The fiery liquid bit into his throat. He coughed.

“Shalafi, if the Live One reported correctly, Lord Soth cast a death spell upon Lady Crysania, yet she still lives. Did you restore her life?”

Raistlin shook his head. “No, I simply gave her visible signs of life so that my dear brother would not bury her. I cannot be certain what happened, but it is not difficult to guess. Seeing the death knight before her and knowing her fate, the Revered Daughter fought the spell with the only weapon she had, and a powerful one it was—the holy medallion of Paladine. The god protected her, transporting her soul to the realms where the gods dwell, leaving her body a shell upon the ground. There are none—not even I—who can bring her soul and body back together again. Only a high cleric of Paladine has that power.”

“Elistan?”

“Bah, the man is sick, dying...”

“Then she is lost to you!”

“No,” said Raistlin gently. “You fail to understand, apprentice. Through inattention, I lost control. But I have regained it quickly. Not only that, I will make this work to my advantage.

Even now, they approach the Tower of High Sorcery. Crysania was going there, seeking the help of the mages. When she arrives, she will find that help, and so will my brother.”

“You want them to help her?” Dalamar asked in confusion. “She plots to destroy you!”

Raistlin quietly sipped his wine, watching the young apprentice intently. “Think about it, Dalamar,” he said softly, “think about it, and you will come to understand. But”—the mage set down his empty glass—“I have kept you long enough.”

Dalamar glanced out the window. The red moon, Lunitari, was starting to sink out of sight behind the black jagged edges of the mountains. The night was nearing its midpoint.

“You must make your journey and be back before I leave in the morning,” Raistlin continued. “There will undoubtedly be some last-minute instructions, besides many things I must leave in your care. You will be in charge here, of course, while I am gone.”

Dalamar nodded, then frowned. “You spoke of my journey, Shalafi? I am not going anywhere—” The dark elf stopped, choking as he remembered that he did, indeed, have somewhere to go, a report to make.

Raistlin stood regarding the young elf in silence, the look of horrified realization dawning on Dalamar’s face reflected in the mage’s mirrorlike eyes. Then, slowly, Raistlin advanced upon the young apprentice, his black robes rustling gently about his ankles. Stricken with terror, Dalamar could not move. Spells of protection slipped from his grasp. His mind could think of nothing, see nothing, except two flat, emotionless, golden eyes.

Slowly, Raistlin lifted his hand and laid it gently upon Dalamar’s chest, touching the young man’s black robes with the tips of five fingers.

The pain was excruciating. Dalamar’s face turned white, his eyes widened, he gasped in agony. But the dark elf could not withdraw from that terrible touch. Held fast by Raistlin’s gaze, Dalamar could not even scream.

“Relate to them accurately both what I have told you,” Raistlin whispered, “and what you may have guessed. And give the great Par-Salian my regards... apprentice!”

The mage withdrew his hand.

Dalamar collapsed upon the floor, clutching his chest, moaning. Raistlin walked around him without even a glance. The dark elf could hear him leave the room, the soft swish of the black robes, the door opening and closing.

In a frenzy of pain, Dalamar ripped open his robes. Five red, glistening trails of blood streamed down his breast, soaking into the black cloth, welling from five holes that had been burned into his flesh.

10

Caramon! Get up! Wake up!”

No. I’m in my grave. It’s warm here beneath the ground, warm and safe. You can’t wake me, you can’t reach me. I’m hidden in the clay, you can’t find me.

“Caramon, you’ve got to see this! Wake up!”

A hand shoved aside the darkness, tugged at him.

No, Tika, go away! You brought me back to life once, back to pain and suffering. You should have left me in the sweet realm of darkness below the Blood Sea of Istar. But I’ve found peace now at last. I dug my grave and I buried myself.

“Hey, Caramon, you better wake up and take a look at this!”

Those words! They were familiar. Of course, I said them! I said them to Raistlin long ago, when he and I first came to this forest. So how can I be hearing them? Unless I am Raistlin... Ah, that’s—

There was a hand on his eyelid! Two fingers were prying it open! At the touch, fear ran prickling through Caramon’s bloodstream, starting his heart beating with a jolt.

“Arghhhh!” Caramon roared in alarm, trying to crawl into the dirt as that one, forcibly opened eye saw a gigantic face hovering over him—the face of a gully dwarf!

“Him awake,” Bupu reported. “Here,” she said to Tasslehoff, “you hold this eye. I open other one.”

“No!” Tas cried hastily. Dragging Bupu off the warrior, Tas shoved her behind him. “Uh... you go get some water.”

“Good idea,” Bupu remarked and scuttled off.

“It—it’s all right, Caramon,” Tas said, kneeling beside the big man and patting him reassuringly. “It was only Bupu. I’m sorry, but I was—uh—looking at the... well, you’ll see... and I forgot to watch her.”

Groaning, Caramon covered his face with his hand. With Tas’s help, he struggled to sit up. “I dreamed I was dead,” he said heavily. “Then I saw that face—I knew it was all over. I was in the Abyss.”

“You may wish you were,” Tas said somberly.

Caramon looked up at the sound of the kender’s unusually serious tone. “Why? What do you mean?” he asked harshly.

Instead of answering, Tas asked, “How do you feel?”

Caramon scowled. “I’m sober, if that’s what you want to know,” the big man muttered. “And I wish to the gods I wasn’t. So there.”

Tasslehoff regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then, slowly, he reached into a pouch and drew forth a small leather-bound bottle. “Here, Caramon,” he said quietly, “if you really think you need it.”

The big man’s eyes flashed. Eagerly, he stretched out a trembling hand and snatched the bottle. Uncorking the top, he sniffed at it, smiled, and raised it to his lips.

“Quit staring at me!” he ordered Tas sullenly.

“I’m s-sorry.” Tas flushed. He rose to his feet. “I-I’ll just go look after Lady Crysania—”

“Crysania...” Caramon lowered the flask, untasted. He rubbed his gummed eyes. “Yeah, I forgot about her. Good idea, you looking after her. Take her and get out of here, in fact. You and that vermin-ridden gully dwarf of yours! Get out and leave me alone!” Raising the bottle to his lips again, Caramon took a long pull. He coughed once, lowered the bottle, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Go on,” he repeated, staring at Tas dully, “get out of here! All of you! Leave me alone!”

“I’m sorry, Caramon,” Tas said quietly. “I really wish we could. But we can’t.”

“Why?” snarled Caramon.

Tas drew a deep breath. “Because, if I remember the stories Raistlin told me, I think the Forest of Wayreth has found us.”

For a moment, Caramon stared at Tas, his blood-shot eyes wide.

“That’s impossible,” he said after a moment, his words little more than a whisper. “We’re miles from there! I—it took me and Raist... it took us months to find the Forest! And the Tower is far south of here! It’s clear past Qualinesti, according to your map.” Caramon regarded Tas balefully. “That isn’t the same map that showed Tarsis by the sea, is it?”

“It could be,” Tas hedged, hastily rolling up the map and hiding it behind his back. “I have so many...” He hurriedly changed the subject. “But Raistlin said it was a magic forest, so I suppose it could have found us, if it was so inclined.”

“It is a magic forest,” Caramon murmured, his voice deep and trembling. “It’s a place of horror.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, then—suddenly—he looked up, his face full of cunning. “This is a trick, isn’t it? A trick to keep me from drinking! Well, it won’t work—”

“It’s no trick, Caramon.” Tas sighed. Then he pointed. “Look over there. It’s just like Raistlin described to me once.”

Turning his head, Caramon saw, and he shuddered, both at the sight and at the bitter memories of his brother it brought back.

The glade they were camped in was a small, grassy clearing some distance from the main trail. It was surrounded by maple trees, pines, walnut trees, and even a few aspens. The trees were just beginning to bud out. Caramon had looked at them while digging Crysania’s grave. The branches shimmered in the early morning sunlight with the faint yellow-green glow of spring. Wild flowers bloomed at their roots, the early flowers of spring—crocuses and violets.

As Caramon looked around now, he saw that these same trees surrounded them still—on three sides. But now—on the fourth, the southern side—the trees had changed.

These trees, mostly dead, stood side-by-side, lined up evenly, row after row. Here and there, as one looked deeper into the Forest, a living tree might be seen, watching like an officer over the silent ranks of his troops. No sun shone in this Forest. A thick, noxious mist flowed out of the trees, obscuring the light. The trees themselves were hideous to look upon, twisted and deformed, their limbs like great claws dragging the ground. Their branches did not move, no wind stirred their dead leaves. But—most horrible—things within the Forest moved. As Caramon and Tas watched, they could see shadows flitting among the trunks, skulking among the thorny underbrush.

“Now, look at this,” Tas said. Ignoring Caramon’s alarmed shout, the kender ran straight for the Forest. As he did so, the trees parted! A path opened wide, leading right into the Forest’s dark heart. “Can you beat that?” Tas cried in wonder, coming to a halt right before he set foot upon the path. “And when I back away—”

The kender walked backward, away from the trees, and the trunks slid back together again, closing ranks, presenting a solid barrier.

“You’re right,” Caramon said hoarsely. “It is the Forest of Wayreth. So it appeared, one morning, to us.” He lowered his head. “I didn’t want to go in. I tried to stop Raist. But he wasn’t afraid! The trees parted for him, and he entered. ‘Stay by me, my brother,’ he told me, ‘and I will keep you from harm.’ How often had I said those words to him? He wasn’t afraid! I was!”

Suddenly, Caramon stood up. “Let’s get out of here!” Feverishly grabbing his bedroll with shaking hands, he slopped the contents of the bottle all over the blanket.

“No good,” Tas said laconically. “I tried. Watch.”

Turning his back on the trees, the kender walked north. The trees did not move. But—inexplicably—Tasslehoff was walking toward the Forest once more. Try as he might, turn as he might, he always ended up walking straight into the tree’s fogbound, nightmarish ranks.

Sighing, Tas came over to stand beside Caramon. The kender looked solemnly up into the big man’s tear-stained, red-rimmed eyes and reached out a small hand, resting it on the warrior’s once-strong arm.

“Caramon, you’re the only one who’s been through here! You’re the only one who knows the way. And, there’s something else.” Tas pointed. Caramon turned his head. “You asked about Lady Crysania. There she is. She’s alive, but she’s dead at the same time. Her skin is like ice. Her eyes are fixed in a terrible stare. She’s breathing, her heart’s beating, but it might just as well be pumping through her body that spicy stuff the elves use to preserve their dead!” The kender drew a deep, quivering breath.

“We’ve got to get help for her, Caramon. Maybe in there”—Tas pointed to the Forest—“the mages can help her! I can’t carry her.” He raised his hands helplessly. “I need you, Caramon. She needs you! I guess you could say you owe it to her.”

“Since it’s my fault she’s hurt?” Caramon muttered savagely.

“No, I didn’t mean that,” Tas said, hanging his head and brushing his hand across his eyes. “It’s no one’s fault, I guess.”

“No, it is my fault,” Caramon said. Tas glanced up at him, hearing a note in Caramon’s voice he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. The big man stood, staring at the bottle in his hands. “It’s time I faced up to it. I’ve blamed everyone else—Raistlin, Tika... But all the time I knew—deep inside—it was me. It came to me, in that dream. I was lying at the bottom of a grave, and I realized—this is the bottom! I can’t go any lower. I either stay here and let them throw dirt on top of me—just like I was going to bury Crysania—or I climb out.” Caramon sighed, a long, shuddering sigh. Then, in sudden resolution, he put the cork on the bottle and handed it back to Tas. “Here,” he said softly. “It’s going to be long climb, and I’m going to need help, I expect. But not that kind of help.”

“Oh, Caramon!” Tas threw his arms around the big man’s waist as far as he could reach, hugging him tightly. “I wasn’t afraid of that spooky wood, not really. But I was wondering how I was going to get through by myself. Not to mention Lady Crysania and—Oh, Caramon! I’m so glad you’re back! I—”

“There, there,” Caramon muttered, flushing in embarrassment and shoving Tasslehoff gently away from him. “It’s all right. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be—I was scared to death the first time I went into that place. But, you’re right. Maybe they can help Crysania.” Caramon’s face hardened. “Maybe they can answer a few questions I have about Raist, too. Now, where’s that gully dwarf gotten to? And”—he glanced down at his belt—“where’s my dagger?”

“What dagger?” Tas asked, skipping around, his gaze on the Forest.

Reaching out, his face grim, Caramon caught hold of the kender. His gaze went to Tas’s belt. Tas’s followed. His eyes opened wide in astonishment.

“You mean that dagger? My goodness, I wonder how it got there?You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ll bet you dropped it, during the fight.”

“Yeah,” Caramon muttered. Growling, he retrieved his dagger and was just putting it back into its sheath when he heard a noise behind him. Whirling around in alarm, he got a bucketful of icy water, right in the face.

“Him awake now,” Bupu announced complacently, dropping the bucket.

While drying his clothes, Caramon sat and studied the trees, his face drawn with the pain of his memories. Finally, heaving a sigh, he dressed, checked his weapons, then stood up. Instantly, Tasslehoff was right next to him.

“Let’s go!” he said eagerly.

Caramon stopped. “Into the Forest? he asked in a hopeless voice.

“Well, of course!” Tas said, startled. “Where else?

Caramon scowled, then sighed, then shook his head. “No, Tas,” he said gruffly. “You stay here with Lady Crysania. Now, look,” he said in answer to the kender’s indignant squawk of protest, “I’m just going into the Forest for a little ways—to, er, check it out.”

“You think there’s something in there, don’t you?” Tas accused the big man. “That’s why you’re making me stay out! You’ll go in there and there’ll be a big fight. You’ll probably kill it, and I’ll miss the whole thing!”

“I doubt that,” Caramon muttered. Glancing into the fog-ridden Forest apprehensively, he tightened his sword belt.

“At least you might tell me what you think it is,” Tas said. “And, say, Caramon, what am I supposed to do if it kills you? Can I go in then?How long should I wait? Could it kill you in—say—five minutes? Ten? Not that I think it will,” he added hastily, seeing Caramon’s eyes widen. “But I really should know, I mean, since you’re leaving me in charge.”

Bupu studied the slovenly warrior speculatively. “Me say—two minutes. It kill him in two minutes. You make bet’?” She looked at Tas.

Caramon glared grimly at both of them, then heaved another sigh. Tas was only being logical, after all.

“I’m not sure what to expect,” Caramon muttered. “I—I remember last time, we... we met this thing... a wraith. It—Raist...” Caramon fell silent. “I don’t know what you should do,” he said after a moment. Shoulders slumping, he turned away and began to walk slowly toward the Forest. “The best you can, I guess.”

“I got nice snake here, me say he last two minutes,” Bupu said to Tas, rummaging around in her bag. “What stakes you put Up?

“Shhhh,” Tas said softly, watching Caramon walk away. Then, shaking his head, he scooted over to sit beside Crysania, who lay on the ground, her sightless eyes staring up at the sky. Gently, Tas drew the cleric’s white hood over her head, shading her from the sun’s rays. He had tried unsuccessfully to shut those staring eyes, but it was as if her flesh had turned to marble.

Raistlin seemed to walk beside Caramon every step of the way into the Forest. The warrior could almost hear the soft whisper of his brother’s red robes—they had been red then! He could hear his brother’s voice—always gentle, always soft, but with that faint hiss of sarcasm that grated so on their friends. But it had never bothered Caramon. He had understood—or anyway thought he had.

The trees in the Forest suddenly shifted at Caramon’s approach, just as they had shifted at the kender’s approach.

Just as they shifted when we approached... how many years ago, Caramon thought. Seven? Has it only been seven years? No, he realized sadly. It’s been a lifetime, a lifetime for both of us.

As Caramon came to the edge of the wood, the mist flowed out along the ground, chilling his ankles with a cold that seared through flesh and bit into bone. The trees stared at him, their branches writhing in agony. He remembered the tortured woods of Silvanesti, and that brought more memories of his brother. Caramon stood still a moment, looking into the Forest. He could see the dark and shadowy shapes waiting for him. And there was no Raistlin to keep them at bay. Not this time.

“I was never afraid of anything until I entered the Forest of Wayreth,” Caramon said to himself softly. “I only went in last time because you were with me, my brother. Your courage alone kept me going. How can I go in there now without you? It’s magic. I don’t understand magic! I can’t fight it! What hope is there?” Caramon put his hands over his eyes to blot out the hideous sight. “I can’t go in there,” he said wretchedly. “It’s too much to ask of me!”

Pulling his sword from its sheath, he held it out. His hand shook so he nearly dropped the weapon. “Hah!” he said bitterly. “See? I couldn’t fight a child. This is too much to ask. No hope. There is no hope...”

“It is easy to have hope in the spring, warrior, when the weather is warm and the vallenwoods are green. It is easy to have hope in the summer, when the vallenwoods glitter with gold. It is easy to have hope in the fall when the vallenwoods are as red as living blood. But in the winter, when the air is sharp and bitter and the skies are gray, does the vallenwood die, warrior?”

“Who spoke?” Caramon cried, staring around wildly, clutching his sword in his trembling hand.

“What does the vallenwood do in the winter, warrior, when all is dark and even the ground is frozen? It digs deep, warrior. It sends its roots down, down, into the soil, down to the warm heart of the world. There, deep within, the vallenwood finds nourishment to help it survive the darkness and the cold, so that it may bloom again in the spring.”

“So?” Caramon asked suspiciously, backing up a step and looking around.

“So you stand in the darkest winter of your life, warrior. And so you must dig deep to find the warmth and the strength that will help you survive the bitter cold and the terrible darkness. No longer do you have the bloom of spring or the vigor of summer. You must find the strength you need in your heart, in your soul. Then, like the vallenwoods, you will grow once more.”

“Your words are pretty—” Caramon began, scowling, distrusting this talk of spring and trees. But he could not finish, his breath caught in his throat.

The Forest was changing before his eyes.

The twisting, writhing trees straightened as he watched, lifting their limbs to the skies, growing, growing, growing. He bent his head back so far he nearly lost his balance, but still he couldn’t see their tops. They were vallenwood trees! Just like those in Solace before the coming of the dragons. As he watched in awe, he saw dead limbs burst into life—green buds sprouted, burst open, blossomed into green glistening leaves that turned summer gold—seasons changing as he drew a shivering breath.

The noxious fog vanished, replaced by a sweet fragrance drifting from beautiful flowers that twined among the roots of the vallenwoods. The darkness in the forest vanished, the sun shed its bright light upon the swaying trees. And as the sunlight touched the trees’ leaves, the calls of birds filled the perfumed air.

Caramon’s eyes filled with tears. The beauty of the song pierced his heart. There was hope! Inside the Forest, he would find all the answers! He’d find the help he sought.

“Caramon!” Tasslehoff was jumping up and down with excitement. “Caramon, that’s wonderful! How did you do it? Hear the birds’? Let’s go! Quickly.”

“Crysania—” Caramon said, starting to turn back. “We’ll have to make a litter. You’ll have to help—” But before he could finish, he stopped, staring in astonishment at two white-robed figures, who glided out of the golden woods. Their white hoods were pulled low over their heads, he could not see their faces. Both bowed before him solemnly, then walked across the glade to where Crysania lay in her deathlike sleep. Lifting her still body with ease, they bore her gently back to where Caramon stood. Coming to the edge of the Forest, they stopped, turning their hooded heads, looking at him expectantly.

“I think they’re waiting for you to go in first, Caramon,” Tas said cheerfully. “You go on ahead, I’ll get Bupu.”

The gully dwarf remained standing in the center of the glade, regarding the Forest with deep suspicion, which Caramon, looking at the white-robed figures, suddenly shared.

“Who are you?” he asked.

They did not answer. They simply stood, waiting.

“Who cares who they are!” Tas said, impatiently grabbing hold of Bupu and dragging her along, her sack bumping against her heels.

Caramon scowled. “You go first.” He gestured at the white-robed figures. They said nothing, nor did they move.

“Why are you waiting for me to enter that Forest?” Caramon stepped back a pace. “Go ahead”—he gestured—“take her to the Tower. You can help her. You don’t need me—”

The figures did not speak, but one raised his hand, pointing.

“C’mon, Caramon,” Tas urged. “Look, it’s like he was inviting us!”

They will not bother us, brother... We have been invited! Raistlin’s words, spoken seven years ago.

“Mages invited us. I don’t trust ’em.” Caramon softly repeated the answer he had made then.

Suddenly, the air was filled with laughter—strange, eerie, whispering laughter. Bupu threw her arms around Caramon’s leg, clinging to him in terror. Even Tasslehoff seemed a bit disconcerted. And then came a voice, as Caramon had heard it seven years before.

Does that include me, dear brother?

11

The hideous apparition came closer and closer to her. Crysania was possessed by a fear such as she had never known, a fear she could never have believed existed. As she shrank back before it, Crysania, for the first time in her life, contemplated death—her own death. It was not the peaceful transition to a blessed realm she had always believed existed. It was savage pain and howling darkness, eternal days and nights spent envying the living.

She tried to cry out for help, but her voice failed. There was no help anyway. The drunken warrior lay in a pool of his own blood. Her healing arts had saved him, but he would sleep long hours. The kender could not help her. Nothing could help her against this... On and on the dark figure walked, nearer and nearer he came. Run! her mind screamed. Her limbs would not obey. It was all she could do to creep backward, and then her body seemed to move of its own volition, not through any direction of hers. She could not even look away from him. The orange flickering lights that were his eyes held her fast.

He raised a hand, a spectral hand. She could see through it, see through him, in fact, to the night-shadowed trees behind. The silver moon was in the sky, but it was not its bright light that gleamed off the antique armor of a long-dead Solamnic Knight. The creature shone with an unwholesome light of his own, glowing with the energy of his foul decay. His hand lifted higher and higher, and Crysania knew that when his hand reached a level even with her heart, she would die.

Through lips numb with fear, Crysania called out a name, “Paladine,” she prayed. The fear did not leave her, she still could not wrench her soul away from the terrible gaze of those fiery eyes. But her hand went to her throat. Grasping hold of the medallion, she ripped it from her neck. Feeling her strength draining, her consciousness ebbing, Crysania raised her hand. The platinum medallion caught Solinari’s light and flared blue-white. The hideous apparition spoke—“Die!”

Crysania felt herself falling. Her body hit the ground, but the ground did not catch her. She was falling through it, or away from it. Falling... falling... closing her eyes... sleeping... dreaming...

She was in a grove of oak trees. White hands clutched at her feet, gaping mouths sought to drink her blood. The darkness was endless, the trees mocked her, their creaking branches laughing horribly.

“Crysania,” said a soft, whispering voice.

What was that, speaking her name from the shadows of the oaks? She could see it, standing in a clearing, robed in black.

“Crysania,” the voice repeated.

“Raistlin!” She sobbed in thankfulness. Stumbling out of the terrifying grove of oak trees, fleeing the bone-white hands that sought to drag her down to join their endless torment, Crysania felt thin arms hold her. She felt the strange burning touch of slender fingers.

“Rest easy, Revered Daughter,” the voice said softly. Trembling in his arms, Crysania closed her eyes. “Your trials are over. You have come through the Grove safely. There was nothing to fear, lady. You had my charm.”

“Yes,” Crysania murmured. Her hand touched her forehead where his lips had pressed against her skin. Then, realizing what she had been through, and realizing, too, that she had allowed him to see her give way to weakness, Crysania pushed the mage’s arms away. Standing back from him, she regarded him coldly.

“Why do you surround yourself with such foul things?” she demanded. “Why do you feel the need for such... such guardians!” Her voice quavered in spite of herself.

Raistlin looked at her mildly, his golden eyes shining in the light of his staff. “What kind of guardians do you surround yourself with, Revered Daughter?” he asked. “What torment would I endure if I set foot upon the Temple’s sacred grounds?”

Crysania opened her mouth for a scathing reply, but the words died on her lips. Indeed, the Temple was consecrated ground. Sacred to Paladine, if any who worshipped the Queen of Darkness entered its precincts, they would feel Paladine’s wrath. Crysania saw Raistlin smile, his thin lips twitch. She felt her skin flush. How was he capable of doing this to her’? Never had any man been able to humiliate her so! Never had any man cast her mind in such turmoil!

Ever since the evening she had met Raistlin at the home of Astinus, Crysania had not been able to banish him from her thoughts. She had looked forward to visiting the Tower this night, looked forward to it and dreaded it at the same time. She had told Elistan all about her talk with Raistlin, all—that is—except the “charm” he had given her. Somehow, she could not bring herself to tell Elistan that Raistlin had touched her, had—No, she wouldn’t mention it.

Elistan had been upset enough as it was. He knew Raistlin, he had known the young man of old—the mage having been among the companions who rescued the cleric from Verminaard’s prison at Pax Tharkas. Elistan had never liked or trusted Raistlin, but then no one had, not really. The cleric had not been surprised to hear that the young mage had donned the Black Robes. He was not surprised to hear about Crysania’s warning from Paladine. He was surprised at Crysania’s reaction to meeting Raistlin, however. He was surprised—and alarmed—at hearing Crysania had been invited to visit Raistlin in the Tower—a place where now beat the heart of evil in Krynn. Elistan would have forbidden Crysania to go,. but freedom of will was a teaching of the gods.

He told Crysania his thoughts and she listened respectfully. But she had gone to the Tower, drawn by a lure she could not begin to understand—although she told Elistan it was to “save the world.”

“The world is getting on quite well,” Elistan replied gravely. But Crysania did not listen.

“Come inside,” Raistlin said. “Some wine will help banish the evil memories of what you have endured.” He regarded her intently. “You are very brave, Revered Daughter,” he said and she heard no sarcasm in his voice. “Few there are with the strength to survive the terror of the Grove.”

He turned away from her then, and Crysania was glad he did. She felt herself blushing at his praise.

“Keep near me,” he warned as he walked ahead of her, his black robes rustling softly around his ankles. “Keep within the light of my staff.”

Crysania did as she was bidden, noticing as she walked near him how the staff’s light made her white robes shine as coldly as the light of the silver moon, a striking contrast to the strange warmth it shed over Raistlin’s soft velvety black robes. He led her through the dread Gates. She stared at them in curiosity, remembering the gruesome story of the evil mage who had cast himself down upon them, cursing them with his dying breath. Things whispered and jabbered around her. More than once, she turned at the sound, feeling cold fingers upon her neck or the touch of a chill hand upon hers. More than once, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she looked, there was never anything there. A foul mist rose up from the ground, rank with the smell of decay making her bones ache. She began to shake uncontrollably and when, suddenly, she glanced behind her and saw two disembodied, staring eyes—she took a hurried step forward and slipped her hand around Raistlin’s thin arm.

He regarded her with curiosity and a gentle amusement that made her blush again.

“There is no need to be afraid,” he said simply. “I am master here. I will not let you come to harm.”

“I-I’m not afraid,” she said, though she knew he could feel her body quivering. “I... was just... unsure of my steps, that was all.”

“I beg your pardon, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said, and now she could not be certain if she heard sarcasm in his voice or not. He came to a halt. “It was impolite of me to allow you to walk this unfamiliar ground without offering you my assistance. Do you find the walking easier now?”

“Yes, much,” she said, flushing deeply beneath that strange gaze.

He said nothing, merely smiled. She lowered her eyes, unable to face him, and they resumed walking. Crysania berated herself for her fear all the way to the Tower, but she did not remove her hand from the mage’s arm. Neither of them spoke again until they reached the door to the Tower itself. It was a plain wooden door with runes carved on the outside of its surface. Raistlin said no word, made no motion that Crysania could see, but—at their approach—the door slowly opened. Light streamed out from inside, and Crysania felt so cheered by its bright and welcoming warmth, that—for an instant—she did not see another figure standing silhouetted within it. When she did, she stopped and drew back in alarm.

Raistlin touched her hand with his thin, burning fingers.

“That is only my apprentice, Revered Daughter,” he said. “Dalamar is flesh and blood, he walks among the living—at least for the moment.”

Crysania did not understand that last remark, nor did she pay it much attention, hearing the underlying laughter in Raistlin’s voice. She was too startled by the fact that live people lived here. How silly, she scolded herself. What kind of monster have I pictured this man? He is a man, nothing more. He is human, he is flesh and blood. The thought relieved her, made her relax. Stepping through the doorway, she felt almost herself. She extended her hand to the young apprentice as she would have given it to a new acolyte.

“My apprentice, Dalamar,” Raistlin said, gesturing toward him. “Lady Crysania, Revered Daughter of Paladine.”

“Lady Crysania,” said the apprentice with becoming gravity, accepting her hand and bringing it to’ his lips, bowing slightly. Then he lifted his head, and the black hood that shadowed his face fell back.

“An elf!” Crysania gasped. Her hand remained in his. “But, that’s not possible,” she began in confusion. “Not serving evil—”

“I am a dark elf, Revered Daughter,” the apprentice said, and she heard a bitterness in his voice. “At least, that is what my people call me.”

Crysania murmured in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She faltered and fell silent, not knowing where to look. She could almost feel Raistlin laughing at her. Once again, he had caught her off-balance. Angrily, she snatched her hand away from the apprentice’s cool grip and withdrew her other hand from Raistlin’s arm.

“The Revered Daughter has had a fatiguing journey, Dalamar,” Raistlin said. “Please show her to my study and pour her a glass of wine. With your permission, Lady Crysania”—the mage bowed—“there are a few matters that demand my attention. Dalamar, anything the lady requires, you will provide at once.”

“Certainly, Shalafi,” Dalamar answered respectfully.

Crysania said nothing as Raistlin left, suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of relief and a numbing exhaustion. Thus must the warrior feel, battling for his life against a skilled opponent, she observed silently as she followed the apprentice up a narrow, winding staircase.

Raistlin’s study was nothing like she had expected.

What had I expected, she asked herself. Certainly not this pleasant room filled with strange and fascinating books. The furniture was attractive and comfortable, a fire burned on the hearth, filling the room with warmth that was welcome after the chill of the walk to the Tower. The wine that Dalamar poured was delicious. The warmth of the fire seemed to seep into her blood as she drank a small sip.

Dalamar brought forward a small, ornately carved table and set it at her right hand. Upon this, he placed a bowl of fruit and a loaf of fragrant, still-warm bread.

“What is this fruit!” Crysania asked, picking up a piece and examining it in wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Indeed not, Revered Daughter,” Dalamar answered, smiling. Unlike Raistlin, Crysania noticed, the young apprentice’s smile was reflected in his eyes. “Shalafi has it brought to him from the Isle of Mithas.”

“Mithas?” Crysania repeated in astonishment. “But that’s on the other side of the world! The minotaurs live there. They allow none to enter their kingdom! Who brings it?”

She had a sudden, terrifying vision of the servant who might have been summoned to bring such delicacies to such a master. Hastily, she returned the fruit to the bowl.

“Try it, Lady Crysania,” Dalamar said without a trace of amusement in his voice. “You will find it quite delicious. The Shalafi’s health is delicate. There are so few things he can tolerate. He lives on little else but this fruit, bread, and wine.”

Crysania’s fear ebbed. “Yes,” she murmured, her eyes going to the door involuntarily. “He is dreadfully frail, isn’t he. And that terrible cough...” Her voice was soft with pity.

“Cough? Oh, yes,” Dalamar said smoothly, “his... cough.” He did not continue and, if Crysania thought this odd, she soon forgot it in her contemplation of the room.

The apprentice stood a moment, waiting to see if she required anything else. When Crysania did not speak, he bowed. “If you need nothing more, lady, I will retire. I have my own studies to pursue.”

“Of course. I will be fine here,” Crysania said, coming out of her thoughts with a start. “He is your teacher, then,” she said in sudden realization. Now it was her turn to look at Dalamar intently. “Is he a good one! Do you learn from him?”

“He is the most gifted of any in our Order, Lady Crysania,” Dalamar said softly. “He is brilliant, skilled, controlled. Only one has lived who was as powerful—the great Fistandantilus. And my Shalafi is young, only twenty-eight. If he lives, he may well—”

“If he lives?” Crysania repeated, then felt irritated that she had unintentionally let a note of concern creep into her voice. It is right to feel concern, she told herself. After all, he is one of the gods’ creatures. All life is sacred.

“The Art is fraught with danger, my lady,” Dalamar was saying. “And now, if you will excuse me...”

“Certainly,” Crysania murmured.

Bowing again, Dalamar padded quietly from the room, shutting the door behind him. Toying with her wine glass, Crysania stared into the dancing flames, lost in thought. She did not hear the door open—if indeed it did. She felt fingers touching her hair. Shivering, she looked around, only to see Raistlin sitting in a high-backed wooden chair behind his desk.

“Can I send for anything else? Is everything to your liking?” he asked politely.

“Y-yes,” Crysania stammered, setting her wine glass down so that he would not see her hand shake. “Everything is fine. More than fine, actually. Your apprentice—Dalamar? He is quite charming.”

“Isn’t he,” said Raistlin dryly. He placed the tips of the five fingers of each hand together and rested them upon the table. “What marvelous hands you have,” Crysania said, without thinking. “How slender and supple the fingers are, and so delicate.” Suddenly realizing what she had been saying, she flushed and stammered. “B-but I-I suppose that is requisite to your Art—”

“Yes,” Raistlin said, smiling, and this time Crysania thought she saw actual pleasure in his smile. He held his hands to the light cast by the flames. “When I was just a child, I could amaze and delight my brother with the tricks these hands could—even then—perform.” Taking a golden coin from one of the secret pockets of his robes, Raistlin placed the coin upon the knuckles of his hand. Effortlessly, he made it dance and spin and whirl across his hand. It glistened in and out of his fingers. Flipping into the air, it vanished, only to reappear in his other hand. Crysania gasped in delight. Raistlin glanced up at her, and she saw the smile of pleasure twist into one of bitter pain. “Yes,” he said, “it was my one skill, my one talent. It kept the other children amused. Sometimes it kept them from hurting me.”

“Hurting you?” Crysania asked hesitantly, stung by the pain in his voice.

He did not answer at once, his eyes on the golden coin he still held in his hand. Then he drew a deep breath. “I can picture your childhood,” he murmured. “You come from a wealthy family, so they tell me. You must have been beloved, sheltered, protected, given anything you wanted. You were admired, sought after, liked.”

Crysania could not reply. She felt suddenly overwhelmed with guilt.

“How different was my childhood.” Again, that smile of bitter pain. “My nickname was the Sly One. I was sickly and weak. And too smart. They were such fools! Their ambitions so petty—like my brother, who never thought deeper than his food dish! Or my sister, who saw the only way to attain her goals was with her sword. Yes, I was weak. Yes, they protected me. But some day, I vowed I wouldn’t need their protection! I would rise to greatness on my own, using my gift—my magic!”

His hand clenched, his golden-tinted skin turned pale. Suddenly he began to cough, the wrenching, wracking cough that twisted his frail body. Crysania rose to her feet, her heart aching with pain. But he motioned her to sit down. Drawing a cloth from a pocket, he wiped the blood from his lips.

“And this was the price I paid for my magic,” he said when he could speak again. His voice was little more than a whisper. “They shattered my body and gave me this accursed vision, so that all I look upon I see dying before my eyes. But it was worth it, worth it all! For I have what I sought—power. I don’t need them—any of them—anymore.”

“But this power is evil!” Crysania said, leaning forward in her chair and regarding Raistlin earnestly.

“Is it?” asked Raistlin suddenly. His voice was mild. “Is ambition evil? Is the quest for power, for control over others evil? If so, then I fear, Lady Crysania, that you may as well exchange those white robes for black.”

“How dare you?” Crysania cried, shocked. “I don’t—”

“Ah, but you do,” Raistlin said with a shrug. “You would not have worked so hard to rise to the position you have in the church without having your share of ambition, of the desire for power.” Now it was his turn to lean forward. “Haven’t you always said to yourself—there is something great I am destined to do? My life will be different from the lives of others. I am not content to sit and watch the world pass by. I want to shape it, control it, mold it!”

Held fast by Raistlin’s burning gaze, Crysania could not move or utter a word. How could he know? she asked herself, terrified. Can he read the secrets of my heart?

“Is that evil, Lady Crysania?” Raistlin repeated gently, insistently.

Slowly, Crysania shook her head. Slowly, she raised her hand to her throbbing temples. No, it wasn’t evil. Not the way he spoke of it, but something wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t think. She was too confused. All that kept running through her mind was: How alike we are, he and I!

He was silent, waiting for her to speak. She had to say something. Hurriedly, she took a gulp of wine to give herself time to collect her scattered thoughts.

“Perhaps I do have those desires,” she said, struggling to find the words, “but, if so, my ambition is not for myself. I use my skills and talents for others, to help others. I use it for the church—”

“The church!” Raistlin sneered.

Crysania’s confusion vanished, replaced by cold anger. “Yes,” she replied, feeling herself on safe and secure ground, surrounded by the bastion of her faith. “It was the power of good, the power of Paladine, that drove away the evil in the world. It is that power I seek. That power that—”

“Drove away the evil?” Raistlin interrupted.

Crysania blinked. Her thoughts had carried her forward. She hadn’t even been totally aware of what she was saying. “Why, yes—”

“But evil and suffering still remain in the world,” Raistlin persisted.

“Because of such as you!” Crysania cried passionately.

“Ah, no, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said. “Not through any act of mine. Look—” He motioned her near with one hand, while with the other he reached once again into the secret pockets of his robe.

Suddenly wary and suspicious, Crysania did not move, staring at the object he drew forth. It was a small, round piece of crystal, swirling with color, very like a child’s marble. Lifting a silver stand from where it stood on a corner of his desk, Raistlin placed the marble on top of it. The thing appeared ludicrous, much too small for the ornate stand. Then Crysania gasped. The marble was growing! Or perhaps she was shrinking! She couldn’t be certain. But the glass globe was now the right size and rested comfortably upon the silver stand.

“Look into it,” Raistlin said softly.

“No,” Crysania drew back, staring fearfully at the globe. “What is that?”

“A dragon orb,” Raistlin replied, his gaze holding her fast. “It is the only one left on Krynn. It obeys my commands. I will not allow you to come to harm. Look inside the orb, Lady Crysania—unless you fear the truth.”

“How do I know it will show me the truth?” Crysania demanded, her voice shaking. “How do I know it won’t show me just what you tell it to show me?”

“If you know the way the dragons orbs were made long ago,” Raistlin replied, “you know they were created by all three of the Robes—the White, the Black, and the Red. They are not tools of evil, they are not tools of good. They are everything and nothing. You wear the medallion of Paladine”—the sarcasm had returned—“and you are strong in your faith. Could I force you to see what you did not want to see?”

“What will I see?” Crysania whispered, curiosity and a strange fascination drawing her near the desk.

“Only what your eyes have seen, but refused to look at.”

Raistlin placed his thin fingers upon the glass, chanting words of command. Hesitantly, Crysania leaned over the desk and looked into the dragon orb. At first she saw nothing inside the glass globe but a faint swirling green color. Then she drew back. There were hands inside the orb! Hands that were reaching out...

“Do not fear,” murmured Raistlin. “The hands come for me.”

And, indeed, even as he spoke, Crysania saw the hands inside the orb reach out and touch Raistlin’s hands. The image vanished. Wild, vibrant colors whirled madly inside the orb for an instant, making Crysania dizzy with their light and their brilliance. Then they, too, were gone. She saw...

“Palanthas,” she said, startled. Floating on the mists of morning, she could see the entire city, gleaming like a pearl, spread out before her eyes. And then the city began to rush up at her, or perhaps she was falling down into it. Now she was hovering over New City, now she was over the Wall, now she was inside Old City. The Temple of Paladine rose before her, the beautiful, sacred grounds peaceful and serene in the morning sunlight. And then she was behind the Temple, looking over a high wall.

She caught her breath. “What is this?” she asked.

“Have you never seen it?” Raistlin replied. “This alley so near the sacred grounds?”

Crysania shook her head, “N-no,” she answered, her voice breaking. “And, yet, I must have. I have lived in Palanthas all my life. I know all of—”

“No, lady,” Raistlin said, his fingertips lightly caressing the dragon orb’s crystalline surface. “No, you know very little.”

Crysania could not answer. He spoke the truth, apparently, for she did not know this part of the city. Littered with refuse, the alley was dark and dismal. Morning’s sunlight did not find its way past the buildings that leaned over the street as if they had no more energy to stand upright. Crysania recognized the buildings now. She had seen them from the front. They were used to store everything from grain to casks of wine and ale. But how much different they looked from the front! And who were these people, these wretched people?

“They live there,” Raistlin answered her unspoken question.

“Where?” Crysania asked in horror. “There? Why?”

“They live where they can. Burrowing into the heart of the city like maggots, they feed off its decay. As for why?” Raistlin shrugged. “They have nowhere else to go.”

“But this is terrible! I’ll tell Elistan. We’ll help them, give them money—”

“Elistan knows,” Raistlin said softly.

“No, he can’t! That’s impossible!”

“You knew. If not about this, then you knew of other places in your fair city that are not so fair.”

“I didn’t—” Crysania began angrily, then stopped. Memories washed over her in waves—her mother averting her face as they rode in their carriage through certain parts of town, her father quickly drawing shut the curtains in the carriage windows or leaning out to tell the driver to take a different road.

The scene shimmered, the colors swirled, it faded and was replaced by another, and then another. Crysania watched in agony as the mage ripped the pearl-white facade from the city, showing her blackness and corruption beneath. Bars, brothels, gambling dens, the wharves, the docks... all spewed forth their refuse of misery and suffering before Crysania’s shocked vision. No longer could she avert her face, there were no curtains to pull shut. Raistlin dragged her inside, brought her close to the hopeless, the starving, the forlorn, the forgotten.

“No,” she pleaded, shaking her head and trying to back away from the desk. “Please show me no more.”

But Raistlin was pitiless. Once again the colors swirled, and they left Palanthas. The dragon orb carried them around the world, and everywhere Crysania looked, she saw more horrors. Gully dwarves, a race cast off from their dwarven kin, living in squalor in whatever part of Krynn they could find that no one else wanted. Humans eking out a wretched existence in lands where rain had ceased to fall. The Wilder elves, enslaved by their own people. Clerics, using their power to cheat and amass great wealth at the expense of those who trusted them. It was too much. With a wild cry, Crysania covered her face with her hands. The room swayed beneath her feet. Staggering, she nearly fell. And then Raistlin’s arms were around her. She felt that strange, burning warmth from his body and the soft touch of the black velvet. There was a smell of spices, rose petals, and other, more mysterious odors. She could hear his shallow breathing rattle in his lungs.

Gently, Raistlin led Crysania back to her chair. She sat down, quickly drawing away from his touch. His nearness was both repelling and attracting at the same time, adding to her feelings of loss and confusion. She wished desperately that Elistan were here. He would know, he would understand. For there had to be an explanation! Such terrible suffering, such evil should not be allowed. Feeling empty and hollow, she stared into the fire.

“We are not so very different.” Raistlin’s voice seemed to come from the flames. “I live in my Tower, devoting myself to my studies. You live in your Tower, devoting yourself to your faith. And the world turns around us.”

“And that is true evil,” Crysania said to the flames. “To sit and do nothing.”

“Now you understand,” Raistlin said. “No longer am I content to sit and watch. I have studied long years for one reason, with one aim. And now that is within my grasp. I will make a difference, Crysania. I will change the world. That is my plan.”

Crysania looked up swiftly. Her faith had been shaken, but its core was strong. “Your plan! It is the plan Paladine warned me of in my dream. This plan to change the world will cause the world’s destruction!” Her hand clenched in her lap. “You must not go through with it! Paladine—”

Raistlin made an impatient gesture with his hand. His golden eyes flashed and, for a moment, Crysania shrank back, catching a glimpse of the smoldering fires within the man.

“Paladine will not stop me,” Raistlin said, “for I seek to depose his greatest enemy.”

Crysania stared at the mage, not understanding. What enemy could that be? What enemy could Paladine have upon this world. Then Raistlin’s meaning became clear. Crysania felt the blood drain from her face, cold fear made her shudder convulsively. Unable to speak, she shook her head. The enormity of his ambition and his desires was too fearful, too impossible to even contemplate.

“Listen,” he said, softly. “I will make it clear...”

And he told her his plans. She sat for what seemed like hours before the fire, held by the gaze of his strange, golden eyes, mesmerized by the sound of his soft, whispering voice, hearing him tell her of the wonders of his magic and of the magic now long lost, the wonders discovered by Fistandantilus.

Raistlin’s voice fell silent. Crysania sat for long moments, lost and wandering in a realm far from any she had ever known. The fire burned low in the gray hour before dawn. The room became lighter. Crysania shivered in the suddenly chill chamber.

Raistlin coughed, and Crysania looked up at him, startled. He was pale with exhaustion, his eyes seemed feverish, his hands shook. Crysania rose to her feet.

“I am sorry,” she said, her voice low. “I have kept you awake all night, and you are not well. I must go.”

Raistlin rose with her. “Do not worry about my health, Revered Daughter,” he said with a twisted smile. “The fire that burns within me is fuel enough to warm this shattered body. Dalamar will accompany you back through Shoikan Grove, if you like.”

“Yes, thank you,” Crysania murmured. She had forgotten that she must go back through that evil place. Taking a deep breath, she held her hand out to Raistlin. “Thank you for meeting with me,” she began formally. “I hope—”

Raistlin took her hand in his, the touch of his smooth flesh burned. Crysania looked into his eyes. She saw herself reflected there, a colorless woman dressed in white, her face framed by her dark, black hair.

“You cannot do this,” Crysania whispered. “It is wrong, you must be stopped.” She held onto his hand very tightly.

“Prove to me that it is wrong,” Raistlin answered, drawing her near. “Show me that this is evil. Convince me that the ways of good are the means of saving the world.”

“Will you listen?” Crysania asked wistfully. “You are surrounded by darkness. How can I reach you?”

“The darkness parted, didn’t it,” Raistlin said. “The darkness parted, and you came in.”

“Yes...” Crysania was suddenly aware of the touch of his hand, the warmth of his body. Flushing uncomfortably, she stepped back. Removing her hand from his grasp, she absently rubbed it, as if it hurt.

“Farewell, Raistlin Majere,” she said, without meeting his eyes.

“Farewell, Revered Daughter of Paladine,” he said.

The door opened and Dalamar stood within it, though Crysania had not heard Raistlin summon the young apprentice. Drawing her white hood up over her hair, Crysania turned from Raistlin and walked through the door. Moving down the gray, stone hallway, she could feel his golden eyes burning through her robes. When she arrived at the narrow winding staircase leading down, his voice reached her.

“Perhaps Paladine did not send you to stop me, Lady Crysania. Perhaps he sent you to help.”

Crysania paused and looked back. Raistlin was gone, the gray hall was bleak and empty. Dalamar stood beside her in silence, waiting.

Slowly, gathering the folds of her white robes in her hand so that she did not trip, Crysania descended the stairs.

And kept on descending... down... down... into unending sleep.

12

The Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth had been, for centuries, the last outpost of magic upon the continent of Ansalon. Here the mages had been driven, when the Kingpriest ordered them from the other Towers. Here they had come, leaving the Tower in Istar, now under the waters of the Blood Sea, leaving the accursed and blackened Tower in Palanthas.

The Tower in Wayreth was an imposing structure, an unnerving sight. The outer walls formed an equilateral triangle. A small tower stood at each angle of the perfect geometric shape. In the center stood the two main towers, slanted slightly, twisting just a little, enough to make the viewer blink and say to himself—aren’t those crooked?

The walls were built of black stone. Polished to a high gloss, it shone brilliantly in the sunlight and, in the night, reflected the light of two moons and mirrored the darkness of the third. Runes were carved upon the surface of the stone, runes of power and strength, shielding and warding; runes that bound the stones to each other; runes that bound the stones to the ground. The tops of the walls were smooth. There were no battlements for soldiers to man. There was no need.

Far from any centers of civilization, the Tower at Wayreth was surrounded by its magic wood. None could enter who did not belong, none came to it without invitation. And so the mages protected their last bastion of strength, guarding it well from the outside world.

Yet, the Tower was not lifeless. Ambitious apprentice magic-users came from all over the world to take the rigorous—and sometimes fatal—Test. Wizards of high standing arrived daily, continuing their studies, meeting, discussing, conducting dangerous and delicate experiments. To these, the Tower was open day and night. They could come and go as they chose—Black Robes, Red Robes, White Robes.

Though far apart in philosophies—in their ways of viewing and of living with the world—all the Robes met in peace in the Tower. Arguments were tolerated only as they served to advance the Art. Fighting of any sort was prohibited—the penalty was swift, terrible death.

The Art. It was the one thing that united them all. It was their first loyalty—no matter who they were, whom they served, what color robes they wore. The young magic-users who faced death calmly when they agreed to take the Test understood this. The ancient wizards who came here to breathe their last and be entombed within the familiar walls understood this. The Art—Magic. It was parent, lover, spouse, child. It was soil, fire, air, water. It was life. It was death. It was beyond death.

Par-Salian thought of all this as he stood within his chambers in the northernmost of the two tall towers, watching Caramon and his small retinue advance toward the gates.

As Caramon remembered the past, so, too, did Par-Salian. Some wondered if it was with regret.

No, he said silently, watching Caramon come up the path, his battlesword clanking against his flabby thighs. I do not regret the past. I was given a terrible choice and I made it.

Who questions the gods? They demanded a sword. I found one. And—like all swords—it was two-edged.

Caramon and his group had arrived at the outer gate. There were no guards. A tiny silver bell rang in Par-Salian’s quarters.

The old mage raised his hand. The gates swung open.

It was twilight when they entered the outer gates of the Tower of High Sorcery. Tas glanced around, startled. It had been morning only moments ago. Or at least it seemed like it had been morning! Looking up, he could see red rays streaking across the sky, gleaming eerily off the polished stone walls of the Tower.

Tas shook his head. “How does anyone tell time around here?” he asked himself. He stood in a vast courtyard bounded by the outer walls and the inner two towers. The courtyard was stark and barren. Paved with gray flagstone, it looked cold and unlovely. No flowers grew, no trees broke the unrelieved monotony of the gray stone. And it was empty, Tas noticed in disappointment. There was absolutely no one around, no one in sight.

Or was there? Tas caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, a flutter of white. Turning quickly, however, he was amazed to see it was gone! No one was there. And then, he saw, out of the corner of the other eye, a face and a hand and a red robed sleeve. He looked at it directly—and it was gone! Suddenly, Tas had the impression he was surrounded by people, coming and going, talking, or just sitting and staring, even sleeping! Yet—the courtyard was still silent, still empty.

“These must be mages taking the Test!” Tas said in awe. “Raistlin told me they traveled all over, but I never imagined anything like this! I wonder if they can see me? Do you suppose I could touch one, Caramon, if I—Caramon?”

Tas blinked. Caramon was gone! Bupu was gone! The white-robed figures and Lady Crysania were gone. He was alone!

Not for long. There was a flash of yellow light, a most horrible smell, and a black-robed mage stood towering before him. The mage extended a hand, a woman’s hand.

“You have been summoned.”

Tas gulped. Slowly, he held out his hand. The woman’s fingers closed over his wrist. He shivered at their cold touch.

“Perhaps I’m going to be magicked!” he said to himself hopefully.

The courtyard, the black stone walls, the red streaks of sunlight, the gray flagstone, all began to dissolve around Tas, running down the edges of his vision like a rain-soaked painting. Thoroughly delighted, the kender felt the woman’s black robes wrap around him. She tucked them up around his chin...

When Tasslehoff came to his senses, he was lying on a very hard, very cold, stone floor. Next to him, Bupu snored blissfully. Caramon was sitting up, shaking his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs.

“Ouch.” Tas rubbed the back of his neck. “Funny kind of accommodations, Caramon,” he grumbled, getting to his feet.

“You’d think they could at least magic up beds. And if they want a fellow to take a nap, why don’t they just say so instead of sending—oh—”

Hearing Tas’s voice break off in a strange sort of gurgle, Caramon glanced up quickly.

They were not alone.

“I know this place,” Caramon whispered.

They were in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. It was so wide that its perimeter was lost in shadow, so high that its ceiling was obscured in shadow. No pillars supported it, no lights lit it. Yet light there was, though none could name its source. It was a pale light, white—not yellow. Cold and cheerless, it gave no warmth.

The last time Caramon had been in this chamber, the light shone upon one old man, dressed in white robes, sitting by himself in a great stone chair. This time, the light shone upon the same old man, but he was no longer alone. A half-circle of stone chairs sat around him—twenty-one to be exact. The white-robed old man sat in the center. To his left were three indistinct figures, whether male or female, human or some other race, it was difficult to tell. Their hoods were pulled low over their faces. They were dressed in red robes. To their left sat six figures, clothed all in black. One chair among them was empty. On the old man’s right sat four more red-robed figures, and—to their right, six dressed all in white. Lady Crysania lay on the floor before them, her body on a white pallet, covered with white linen.

Of all the Conclave, only the old man’s face was visible.

“Good evening,” Tasslehoff said, bowing and backing up and bowing and backing up until he bumped into Caramon. “Who are these people?” the kender whispered loudly. “And what are they doing in our bedroom?”

“The old man in the center is Par-Salian,” Caramon said softly. “And we’re not in a bedroom. This is the central hall, the Hall of Mages or some such thing. You better wake up the gully dwarf.”

“Bupu!” Tas kicked the snoring dwarf with his foot.

“Gulphphunger spawn,” she snarled, rolling over, her eyes tightly closed. “Go way. Me sleep.”

“Bupu!” Tas was desperate; the old man’s eyes seemed to go right through him. “Hey, wake up. Dinner.”

“Dinner!” Opening her eyes, Bupu jumped to her feet. Glancing around eagerly, she caught sight of the twenty robed figures, sitting silently, their hooded faces invisible.

Bupu let out a scream like a tortured rabbit. With a convulsive leap, she threw herself at Caramon and wrapped her arms around his ankle in a deathlike grip. Aware of the glittering eyes watching him, Caramon tried to shake her loose, but it was impossible. She clung to him like a leech, shivering, peering at the mages in terror. Finally, Caramon gave up.

The old man’s face creased in what might have been a smile.

Tas saw Caramon look down self-consciously at his smelly clothes. He saw the big man finger his unshaven jowls and run a hand through his tangled hair. Embarrassed, he flushed uncomfortably. Then his expression hardened. When he spoke, it was with simple dignity.

“Par-Salian,” Caramon said, the words booming out too loudly in the vast, shadowy hall, “do you remember me?”

“I remember you, warrior,” said the mage. His voice was soft, yet it carried in the chamber. A dying whisper would have carried in that chamber.

He said nothing more. None of the other mages spoke. Caramon shifted uncomfortably. Finally he gestured at Lady Crysania. “I have brought her here, hoping you could help her. Can you? Will she be all right?”

“Whether she will be all right or not is not in our hands,” Par-Salian answered. “It is beyond our skill to care for her. In order to protect her from the spell the death knight cast upon her—a spell that surely would have meant her death—Paladine heard her last prayer and sent her soul to dwell in his peaceful realms.”

Caramon’s head bowed. “It’s my fault,” he said huskily. “I—I failed her. I might have been able—”

“To protect her?” Par-Salian shook his head. “No, warrior, you could not have protected her from the Knight of the Black Rose. You would have lost your own life trying. Is that not true, kender?”

Tas, suddenly finding the gaze of the old man’s blue eyes upon him felt tingling sparks shoot through his body. “Y-Yes,” he stammered. “I-I saw him—it.” Tasslehoff shuddered.

“This from one who knows no fear,” Par-Salian said mildly. “No, warrior, do not blame yourself. And do not give up hope for her. Though we ourselves cannot restore her soul to her body, we know of those who can. But, first, tell me why Lady Crysania sought us out. For we know she was searching for the Forest of Wayreth.”

“I’m not sure,” Caramon mumbled.

“She came because of Raistlin,” Tas chimed in helpfully. But his voice sounded shrill and discordant in the hall. The name rang out eerily. Par-Salian frowned, Caramon turned to glare at him. The mages’ hooded heads shifted slightly, as if they were glancing at each other, their robes rustled softly. Tas gulped and fell silent.

“Raistlin,” the name hissed softly from Par-Salian’s lips. He stared at Caramon intently. “What does a cleric of good have to do with your brother? Why did she undertake this perilous journey for his sake?”

Caramon shook his head, unwilling or unable to talk.

“You know of his evil?” Par-Salian pursued sternly.

Caramon stubbornly refused to answer, his gaze was fixed on the stone floor.

“I know—” Tas began, but Par-Salian made a slight movement with his hand and the kender hushed.

“You know that now we believe he intends to conquer the world?” Par-Salian continued, his relentless words hitting Caramon like darts. Tas could see the big man flinch. “Along with your half-sister, Kitiara—or the Dark Lady, as she is known among her troops—Raistlin has begun to amass armies. He has dragons, flying citadels. And in addition we know—”

A sneering voice rang through the hall. “You know nothing, Great One. You are a fool!”

The words fell like drops of water into a still pond, causing ripples of movement to spread among the mages. Startled, Tas turned, searching for the source of the strange voice, and saw, behind him, a figure emerging from the shadows. Its black robes rustled as it walked past them to face Par-Salian. At that moment, the figure removed its hood.

Tas felt Caramon stiffen. “What is it?” the kender whispered, unable to see.

“A dark elf!” Caramon muttered.

“Really?” Tas said, his eyes brightening. “You know, in all the years I’ve lived on Krynn, I’ve never seen a dark elf.” The kender started forward only to be caught by the collar of his tunic.

Tas squawked in irritation, as Caramon dragged him back, but neither Par-Salian nor the black-robed figure appeared to notice the interruption.

“I think you should explain yourself, Dalamar,” Par-Salian said quietly. “Why am I a fool?”

“Conquer the world!” Dalamar sneered. “He does not plan to conquer the world! The world means nothing to him. He could have the world tomorrow, tonight, if he wanted it!”

“Then what does he want?” This question came from a red-robed mage seated near Par-Salian.

Tas, peering out around Caramon’s arm, saw the delicate, cruel features of the dark elf relax in a smile—a smile that made the kender shiver.

“He wants to become a god,” Dalamar answered softly. “He will challenge the Queen of Darkness herself. That is his plan.”

The mages said nothing, they did not move, but their silence seemed to stir among them like shifting currents of air as they stared at Dalamar with glittering, unblinking eyes.

Then Par-Salian sighed. “I think you overestimate him.”

There was a ripping, rending sound, the sound of cloth being torn apart. Tas saw the dark elf’s arms jerk, tearing open the fabric of his robes.

“Is this overestimating him?” Dalamar cried.

The mages leaned forward, a gasp whispered through the vast hall like a chill wind. Tas struggled to see, but Caramon’s hand held him fast. Irritably, Tas glanced up at Caramon’s face. Wasn’t he curious? But Caramon appeared totally unmoved.

“You see the mark of his hand upon me,” Dalamar hissed. “Even now, the pain is almost more than I can bear.” The young elf paused, then added through clenched teeth. “He said to give you his regards, Par-Salian!”

The great mage’s head bent. The hand rising to support it shook as with a palsy. He seemed old, feeble, weary. For a moment, the mage sat with his eyes covered, then he raised his head and looked intently at Dalamar.

“So—our worst fears are realized.” Par-Salian’s eyes narrowed questioningly. “He knows, then, that we sent you—”

“To spy on him?” Dalamar laughed, bitterly. “Yes, he knows!” The dark elf spit the words. “He’s known all along. He’s been using me—using all of us—to further his own ends.”

“I find this all very difficult to believe,” stated the red-robed mage in a mild voice. “We all admit that young Raistlin is certainly powerful, but I find this talk of challenging a goddess quite ridiculous... quite ridiculous indeed.”

There were murmured assents from both halves of the semicircle.

“Oh, do you?” Dalamar asked, and there was a lethal softness in his voice. “Then, let me tell you fools that you have no idea of the meaning of the word power. Not as it relates to him! You cannot begin to fathom the depths of his power or to soar the heights! I can! I have seen”—for a moment Dalamar paused, his voice lost its anger and was filled with wonder—“I have seen such things as none of you have dared imagine! I have walked the realms of dreams with my eyes open! I have seen beauty to make the heart burst with pain. I have descended into nightmares—I have witnessed horrors”—he shuddered—“horrors so nameless and terrible that I begged to be struck dead rather than look upon them!” Dalamar glanced around the semi-circle, gathering them all together with his flashing, dark-eyed gaze. “And all these wonders he summoned, he created, he brought to life with his magic.”

There was no sound, no one moved.

“You are wise to be afraid, Great One,” Dalamar’s voice sank to a whisper. “But no matter how great your fear, you do not fear him enough. Oh, yes, he lacks power to cross that dread threshold. But that power he goes to find. Even as we speak, he is preparing himself for the long journey. Upon my return tomorrow, he will leave.”

Par-Salian raised his head. “Your return?” he asked, shocked. “But he knows you for what you are—a spy, sent by us, the Conclave, his fellows.” The great mage’s glance went to the chair that stood empty amidst the Black Robes, then he rose to his feet. “No, young Dalamar. You are very courageous, but I cannot allow you to return to what would undoubtedly he tortured death at his hands.”

“You cannot stop me,” Dalamar said, and there was no emotion in his voice. “I said before—I would give my soul to study with such as he. And now, though it costs me my life, I will stay with him. He expects me back. He leaves me in charge of the Tower of High Sorcery in his absence.”

“He leaves you to guard?” the red-robed mage said dubiously. “You, who have betrayed him?”

“He knows me,” Dalamar said bitterly. “He knows he has ensnared me. He has stung my body and sucked my soul dry, yet I will return to the web. Nor will I be the first.” Dalamar motioned down at the still, white form lying on the pallet before him. Then, half-turning, the dark elf glanced at Caramon. “Will I, brother?” he said with a sneer.

At last, Caramon seemed driven to action. Angrily shaking Bupu loose from his foot, the warrior took a step forward, both the kender and the gully dwarf crowding close behind him.

“Who is this?” Caramon demanded, scowling at the dark elf. “What’s going on? Who are you talking about?”

Before Par-Salian could answer, Dalamar turned to face the big warrior.

“I am called Dalamar,” the dark elf said coldly. “And I speak of your twin brother, Raistlin. He is my master. I am his apprentice. I am, in addition, a spy, sent by this august company you see before you to report on the doings of your brother.”

Caramon did not answer. He may not have even heard. His eyes—wide with horror—were fixed on the dark elf’s chest. Following Caramon’s gaze, Tas saw five burned and bloody holes in Dalamar’s flesh. The kender swallowed, feeling suddenly queasy.

“Yes, your brother’s hand did this,” Dalamar remarked, guessing Caramon’s thoughts. Smiling grimly, the dark elf gripped the torn edges of his black robes with his hand and pulled them together, hiding the wounds. “It is no matter,” he muttered, “it was no more than I deserved.”

Caramon turned away, his face so pale Tas slipped his hand in the big man’s hand, fearing he might collapse. Dalamar regarded Caramon with scorn.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Didn’t you believe him capable of this’?” The dark elf shook his head in disbelief, his eyes swept the assemblage before him. “No, you are like the rest of them. Fools... all of you, fools!”

The mages murmured together, some voices angry, some fearful, most questioning. Finally, Par-Salian raised his hand for silence.

“Tell us, Dalamar, what he plans. Unless, of course, he has forbidden you to speak of it.” There was a note of irony in the mage’s voice that the dark elf did not miss.

“No,” Dalamar smiled grimly. “I know his plans. Enough of them, that is. He even asked that I be certain and report them to you accurately.”

There were muttered words and snorts of derision at this.

But Par-Salian only looked more concerned, if that were possible. “Continue,” he said, almost without voice.

Dalamar drew a breath.

“He journeys back in time, to the days just prior to the Cataclysm, when the great Fistandantilus was at the height of his power. It is my Shalafi’s intention to meet this great mage, to study with him, and to recover those works of Fistandantilus we know were lost during the Cataclysm. For my Shalafi believes, from what he has read in the spellbooks he took from the Great Library at Palanthas, that Fistandantilus learned how to cross the threshold that exists between god and men. Thus, the great wizard was able to prolong his life after the Cataclysm to fight the Dwarven Wars. Thus, he was able to survive the terrible explosion that devastated the lands of Dergoth. Thus, was he able to live until he found a new receptacle for his soul.”

“I don’t understand any of this! Tell me what’s going on!” Caramon demanded, striding forward angrily. “Or I’ll tear this place down around your miserable heads! Who is this Fistandantilus? What does he have to do with my brother?”

“Shhh,” Tas said, glancing apprehensively at the mages.

“We understand, kenderken,” Par-Salian said, smiling at Tas gently. “We understand his anger and his sorrow. And he is right—we owe him an explanation.” The old mage sighed. “Perhaps what I did was wrong. And yet—did I have a choice? Where would we be today if I had not made the decision I made?”

Tas saw Par-Salian turn to look at the mages who sat on either side of him, and suddenly the kender realized Par-Salian’s answer was for them as much as for Caramon. Many had cast back their hoods and Tas could see their faces now. Anger marked the faces of those wearing the black robes, sadness and fear were reflected in the pale faces of those wearing white. Of the red robes, one man in particular caught Tas’s attention, mainly because his face was smooth, impassive, yet the eyes were dark and stirring. It was the mage who had doubted Raistlin’s power. It seemed to Tas that it was to this man in particular that Par-Salian directed his words.

“Over seven years ago, Paladine appeared to me.” Par-Salian’s eyes stared into the shadows. “The great god warned me that a time of terror was going to engulf the world. The Queen of Darkness had awakened the evil dragons and was planning to wage war upon the people in an effort to conquer them. ‘One among your Order you will choose to help fight this evil,’ Paladine told me. ‘Choose well, for this person shall be as a sword to cleave the darkness. You may tell him nothing of what the future holds, for by his decisions, and the decisions of others, will your world stand or fall forever into eternal night.’”

Par-Salian was interrupted by angry voices, coming particularly from those wearing the black robes. Par-Salian glanced at them, his eyes flashing. Within that moment, Tas saw revealed the power and authority that lay within the feeble old mage.

“Yes, perhaps I should have brought the matter before the Conclave,” Par-Salian said, his voice sharp. “But I believed then—as I believe now—that it was my decision alone. I knew well the hours that the Conclave would spend bickering, I knew well none of you would agree! I made my decision. Do any of you challenge my right to do so?”

Tas held his breath, feeling Par-Salian’s anger roll around the hall like thunder. The Black Robes sank back into their stone seats, muttering. Par-Salian was silent for a moment, then his eyes went back to Caramon, and their stern glance softened.

“I chose Raistlin,” he said.

Caramon scowled. “Why?” he demanded.

“I had my reasons,” Par-Salian said gently. “Some of them I cannot explain to you, not even now. But I can tell you this—he was born with the gift. And that is most important. The magic dwells deep within your brother. Did you know that, from the first day Raistlin attended school, his own master held him in fear and awe. How does one teach a pupil who knows more than the teacher? And combined with the gift of magic is intelligence. Raistlin’s mind is never at rest. It seeks knowledge, demands answers. And he is courageous—perhaps more courageous than you are, warrior. He fights pain every day of his life. He has faced death more than once and defeated it. He fears nothing—neither the darkness nor the light. And his soul...” Par-Salian paused. “His soul burns with ambition, the desire for power, the desire for more knowledge. I knew that nothing, not even the fear of death itself, would stop him from attaining his goals. And I knew that the goals he sought to attain might well benefit the world, even if he, himself, should choose to turn his back upon it.”

Par-Salian paused. When he spoke, it was with sorrow. “But first he had to take the Test.”

“You should have foreseen the outcome,” the red-robed mage said, speaking in the same mild tone. “We all knew he was waiting, biding his time...”

“I had no choice!” Par-Salian snapped, his blue eyes flashing.

“Our time was running out. The world’s time was running out. The young man had to take the Test and assimilate what he had learned. I could delay no longer.”

Caramon stared from one to the other. “You knew Raist was in some kind of danger when you brought him here?”

“There is always danger,” Par-Salian answered. “The Test is designed to weed out those who might be harmful to themselves, to the Order, to the innocents in the world.” He put his hand to his head, rubbing his brows. “Remember, too, that the Test is designed to teach as well. We hoped to teach your brother compassion to temper his selfish ambition, we hoped to teach him mercy, pity. And, it was, perhaps, in my eagerness to teach that I made a mistake. I forgot Fistandantilus.”

“Fistandantilus?” Caramon said in confusion. “What do you mean—forgot him? From what you’ve said, that old mage is dead.”

“Dead? No.” Par-Salian’s face darkened. “The blast that killed thousands in the Dwarven Wars and laid waste a land that is still devastated and barren did not kill Fistandantilus. His magic was powerful enough to defeat death itself. He moved to another plane of existence, a plane far from here, yet not far enough. Constantly he watched, biding his time, searching for a body to accept his soul. And he found that body—your brother’s.”

Caramon listened in tense silence, his face deathly white.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tas saw Bupu start edging backward. He grabbed her hand and held onto her tightly, keeping the terrified gully dwarf from turning and fleeing headlong out of the hall.

“Who knows what deal the two made during the Test? None of us, probably.” Par-Salian smiled slightly. “I know this. Raistlin did superbly, yet his frail health was failing him. Perhaps he could have survived the final test—the confrontation with the dark elf—if Fistandantilus had not aided him. Perhaps not.”

“Aided him? He saved his life?”

Par-Salian shrugged. “We know only this, warrior—it was not any of us who left your brother with that gold-tinted skin. The dark elf cast a fireball at him, and Raistlin survived. Impossible, of course—”

“Not for Fistandantilus,” interrupted the red-robed mage.

“No,” Par-Salian agreed sadly, “not for Fistandantilus. I wondered at the time, but I was not able to investigate. Events in the world were rushing to a climax. Your brother was himself when he came out of the Test. More frail, of course, but that was only to be expected. And I was right”—Par-Salian cast a swift, triumphant glance around the semi-circle—“he was strong in his magic! Who else could have gained power over a dragon orb without years of study?”

“Of course,” the red-robed mage said, “he had help from one who’d had years of study.”

Par-Salian frowned and did not answer.

“Let me get this straight,” Caramon said, glowering at the white-robed mage. “This Fistandantilus... took over Raistlin’s soul? He’s the one that made Raistlin take the Black Robes.”

“Your brother made his own choice,” Par-Salian spoke sharply. “As did we all.”

“I don’t believe it!” Caramon shouted. “Raistlin didn’t make this decision. You’re lying—all of you! You tortured my brother, and then one of your old wizards claimed what was left of his body!” Caramon’s words boomed through the chamber and sent the shadows dancing in alarm.

Tas saw Par-Salian regard the warrior grimly, and the kender cringed, waiting for the spell that would sizzle Caramon like a spitted chicken. It never came. The only sound was Caramon’s ragged breathing.

“I’m going to get him back,” Caramon said finally, tears gleaming in his eyes. “If he can go back in time to meet this old wizard, so can I. You can send me back. And when I find Fistandantilus, I’ll kill him. Then Raist will be...” He choked back a sob, fighting for control. “He’ll be Raist again. And he’ll forget all this nonsense about challenging th—the Queen of Darkness and... becoming a god.”

The semi-circle broke into chaos. Voices raised, clamboring in anger. “Impossible! He’ll change history! You’ve gone too far, Par-Salian—”

The white-robed mage rose to his feet and, turning, stared at every mage in the semi-circle, his eyes going to each individually. Tas could sense the silent communication, swift and searing as lightning.

Caramon wiped his hand across his eyes, staring at the mages defiantly. Slowly, they all sank back into their seats. But Tas saw hands clench, he saw faces that were unconvinced, faces filled with anger. The red-robed mage stared at Par-Salian speculatively, one eyebrow raised. Then he, too, sat back. Par-Salian cast a final, quick glance around the Conclave before he turned to face Caramon.

“We will consider your offer,” Par-Salian said. “It might work. Certainly, it is not something he would expect—” Dalamar began to laugh.

13

“Expects’?” Dalamar laughed until he could scarcely breathe. “He planned all of this! Do you think this great idiot”—he waved at Caramon—“could have found his way here by himself? When creatures of darkness pursued Tanis Half-Elven and Lady Crysania—pursued but never caught them—who do you think sent them? Even the encounter with the death knight, an encounter plotted by his sister, an encounter that could have wrecked his plans—my Shalafi has turned to his own advantage. For, undoubtedly you fools will send this woman, Lady Crysania, back in time to the only ones who can heal her—the Kingpriest and his followers. You will send her back in time to meet Raistlin! Not only that, you’ll even provide her with this man—his brother—as bodyguard. Just what the Shalafi wants.”

Tas saw Par-Salian’s clawlike fingers clench over the cold stone arms of his chair, the old man’s blue eyes gleamed dangerously.

“We have suffered enough of your insults, Dalamar,” Par-Salian said. “I begin to think your loyalty to your Shalafi is too great. If that is true, your usefulness to this Conclave is ended.”

Ignoring the threat, Dalamar smiled bitterly. “My Shalafi—” he repeated softly, then sighed. A shudder convulsed his slender body, he gripped the torn robes in his hand and bowed his head. “I am caught in the middle, as he intended,” the dark elf whispered. “I don’t know who I serve anymore, if anyone.” He raised his dark eyes, and their haunted look made Tas’s heart ache. “But I know this—if any of you came and tried to enter the Tower while he was gone, I would kill you. That much loyalty I owe him. Yet, I am just as frightened of him as you are. I’ll help you, if I can.”

Par-Salian’s hands relaxed, though he still continued to regard Dalamar sternly. “I fail to understand why Raistlin told you of his plans? Surely he must know we will move to prevent him from succeeding in his terrifying ambitions.”

“Because—like me—he has you where he wants you,” Dalamar said. Suddenly he staggered, his face pale with pain and exhaustion. Par-Salian made a motion, and a chair materialized out of the shadows. The dark elf slumped into it. “You must go along with his plans. You must send this man back into time”—he gestured at Caramon—“along with the woman. It is the only way he can succeed—”

“And it is the only way we can stop him,” Par-Salian said, his voice low. “But why Lady Crysania? What possible interest could he have in one so good, so pure—”

“So powerful,” Dalamar said with a grim smile. “From what he has been able to gather from the writings of Fistandantilus that still survive, he will need a cleric to go with him to face the dread Queen. And only a cleric of good has power enough to defy the Queen and open the Dark Door. Oh, Lady Crysania was not the Shalafi’s first choice. He had vague plans to use the dying Elistan—but I won’t relate that. As it turned out, however, Lady Crysania fell into his hands—one might say literally. She is good, strong in her faith, powerful—”

“And drawn to evil as a moth is drawn to the flame,” Par-Salian murmured, looking at Crysania with deep pity.

Tas, watching Caramon, wondered if the big man was even absorbing half of this. He had a vague, dull-witted look about him, as if he wasn’t quite certain where—or who—he was. Tas shook his head dubiously. They’re going to send him back in time? the kender thought.

“Raistlin has other reasons for wanting both this woman and his brother back in time with him, of that you may be certain,” the red-robed mage said to Par-Salian. “He has not revealed his game, not by any means. He has told us—through our agent—just enough to leave us confused. I say we thwart his plans!”

Par-Salian did not reply. But, lifting his head, he stared at Caramon for long moments and in his eyes was a sadness that pierced Tas’s heart. Then, shaking his head, he lowered his gaze, looking fixedly at the hem of his robes. Bupu whimpered, and Tas patted her absently. Why that strange look at Caramon? the kender wondered uneasily. Surely they wouldn’t send him off to certain death? Yet, wasn’t that what they’d be doing if they sent him back the way he was now—sick, depressed, confused? Tas shifted from one foot to the other, then yawned. No one was paying any attention to him. All this talk was boring. He was hungry, too. If they were going to send Caramon back in time, he wished they’d just do it.

Suddenly, he felt one part of his mind (the part that was listening to Par-Salian) tug at the other part. Hurriedly, Tas brought both parts together to listen to what was being said.

Dalamar was talking. “She spent the night in his study. I do not know what was discussed, but I know that when she left in the morning, she appeared distraught and shaken. His last words to her were these, ‘Has it occurred to you that Paladine did not send you to stop me but to help me?’”

“And what answer did she make?”

“She did not answer him,” Dalamar replied. “She walked back through the Tower and then through the Grove like one who can neither see nor hear.”

“What I do not understand is why Lady Crysania was traveling here to seek our help in sending her back’? Surely she must have known we would refuse such a request!” the red-robed mage stated.

“I can answer that!” Tasslehoff said, speaking before he thought.

Now Par-Salian was paying attention to him, now all the mages in the semi-circle were paying attention to him. Every head turned in his direction. Tas had talked to spirits in Darken Wood, he had spoken at the Council of White Stone but, for a moment, he was awed at this silent, solemn audience. Especially when it occurred to him what he had to say.

“Please, Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” Par-Salian spoke with great courtesy, “tell us what you know.” The mage smiled. “Then, perhaps, we can bring this meeting to a close and you can have your dinner.”

Tas blushed, wondering if Par-Salian could, perhaps, see through his head and read his thoughts printed on his brain like he read words printed on a sheet of parchment.

“Oh! Yes, dinner would be great. But, now, um—about Lady Crysania.” Tas paused to collect his thoughts, then launched into his tale. “Well, I’m not certain about this, mind you. I just know from what little I was able to pick up here and there. To begin at the beginning, I met Lady Crysania when I was in Palanthas visiting my friend, Tanis Half-Elven. You know him? And Laurana, the Golden General? I fought with them in the War of the Lance. I helped save Laurana from the Queen of Darkness.” The kender spoke with pride. “Have you ever heard that story? I was in the Temple at Neraka—”

Par-Salian’s eyebrows raised ever so slightly, and Tas stuttered.

“Uh, w-well, I’ll tell that later. Anyway, I met Lady Crysania at Tanis’s home and I heard their plans to travel to Solace to see Caramon. As it happened, I-I sort of... well, found a letter Lady Crysania had written to Elistan. I think it must have fallen out of her pocket.”

The kender paused for breath. Par-Salian’s lips twitched, but he refrained from smiling.

“I read it,” Tas continued, now enjoying the attention of his audience, “just to see if it was important. After all, she might have thrown it away. In the letter, she said she was more—uh, how did it go—‘firmly convinced than ever, after my talk with Tanis, that there was good in Raistlin and that he could be turned from his evil path. I must convince the mages of this—’ Anyhow, I saw that the letter was important, so I took it to her. She was very grateful to get it back,” Tas said solemnly. “She hadn’t realized she’d lost it.”

Par-Salian put his fingers on his lips to control them.

“I said I could tell her lots of stories about Raistlin, if she wanted to hear them. She said she’d like that a lot, so I told her all the stories I could think of. She was particularly interested in the ones I told her about Bupu—

“‘If only I could find the gully dwarf!’ she said to me one night. ‘I’m certain I could convince Par-Salian that there is hope, that he may be reclaimed!’”

At this, one of the Black Robes snorted loudly. Par-Salian glanced sharply in that direction, the wizards hushed. But Tas saw many of them—particularly the Black Robes—fold their arms across their chests in anger. He could see their eyes glittering from the shadows of their hoods.

“Uh, I’m s-sure I didn’t mean to offend,” Tas stuttered. “I know I always thought Raistlin looked much better in black—with that golden skin of his and all. I certainly don’t believe everyone has to be good, of course. Fizban—he’s really Paladine—we’re great personal friends, Paladine and I—Anyway, Fizban said that there had to be a balance in the world, that we were fighting to restore the balance. So that means that there has to be Black Robes as well as White, doesn’t it?”

“We know what you mean, kenderken,” Par-Salian said gently. “Our brethren take no offense at your words. Their anger is directed elsewhere. Not everyone in the world is as wise as the great Fizban the Fabulous.”

Tas sighed. “I miss him, sometimes. But, where was I? Oh, yes, Bupu. That’s when I had my idea. Maybe, if Bupu told her story, the mages would believe her, I said to Lady Crysania. She agreed and I offered to go and find Bupu. I hadn’t been to Xak Tsaroth since Goldmoon killed the black dragon and it was just a short hop from where we were and Tanis said it would be fine with him. He seemed quite pleased to see me off, actually.

“The Highpulp let me take Bupu, after a—uh—small bit of discussion and some interesting items that I had in my pouch. I—took Bupu to Solace, but Tanis had already gone and so had Lady Crysania. Caramon was—” Tas stopped, hearing Caramon clear his throat behind him. “Caramon was—wasn’t feeling too good, but Tika—that’s Caramon’s wife and a great friend of mine—anyway, Tika said we had to go after Lady Crysania, because the Forest of Wayreth was a terrible place and—No offense meant, I’m certain, but did you ever stop to think that your Forest is really nasty? I mean, it is not friendly”—Tas glared at the mages sternly—“and I don’t know why you let it wander around loose! I think it’s irresponsible!”

Par-Salian’s shoulders quivered.

“Well, that’s all I know,” Tas said. “And, there’s Bupu, and she can—” Tas stopped, looking around. “Where’d she go?”

“Here,” Caramon said grimly, dragging the gully dwarf out from behind his back where she had been cowering in abject terror. Seeing the mages staring at her, the gully dwarf gave a shriek and collapsed onto the floor, a quivering bundle of ragged clothes.

“I think you had better tell us her story,” Par-Salian said to Tas. “If you can, that is.”

“Yes,” Tas replied, suddenly subdued. “I know what it was Lady Crysania wanted me to tell. It happened back during the war, when we were in Xak Tsaroth. The only ones who knew anything about that city were gully dwarves. But most wouldn’t help us. Raistlin cast a charm spell on one of them—Bupu. Charmed wasn’t exactly the word for what it did to her. She fell in love with him.” Tas paused, sighing, then continued in a remorseful tone. “Some of us thought it was funny, I guess. But Raistlin didn’t. He was really kind to her, and he even saved her life, once, when draconians attacked us. Well, after we left Xak Tsaroth, Bupu came with us. She couldn’t bear to leave Raistlin.”

Tas’s voice dropped. “One night, I woke up. I heard Bupu crying. I started to go to her, but I saw Raistlin had heard her, too. She was homesick. She wanted to go back to her people, but she couldn’t leave him. I don’t know what he said, but I saw him lay his hand on her head. And it seemed that I could see a light shining all around Bupu. And, then, he sent her home. She had to travel through a land filled with terrible creatures but, somehow, I knew she would be safe. And she was,” Tas finished solemnly.

There was a moment’s silence, then it seemed that all the mages began to talk at once. Those of the Black Robes shook their heads. Dalamar sneered.

“The kender was dreaming,” he said scornfully.

“Who believes kender anyway?” said one.

Those of the Red Robes and the White Robes appeared thoughtful and perplexed.

“If this is true,” said one, “perhaps we have misjudged him. Perhaps we should take this chance, however slim.”

Finally Par-Salian raised a hand for silence.

“I admit I find this difficult to believe,” he said at last. “I mean no disparagement to you, Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” he added gently, smiling at the indignant kender. “But all know your race has a most lamentable tendency to, uh, exaggerate. It is obvious to me that Raistlin simply charmed this—this creature”—Par-Salian spoke with disgust—“to use her and—”

“Me no creature!”

Bupu lifted her tear-stained, mud-streaked face from the floor, her hair frizzed up like an angry cat’s. Glaring at Par-Salian, she stood up and started forward, tripped over the bag she carried, and sprawled flat on the floor. Undaunted, the gully dwarf picked herself up and faced Par-Salian.

“Me know nothing ’bout big, powerful wizards.” Bupu waved a grubby hand. “Me know nothing ’bout no charm spell. Me know magic is in this”—she scrabbled around in the bag, then drew forth the dead rat and waved it in Par-Salian’s direction—“and me know that man you talk ’bout here is nice man. Him nice to me.” Clutching the dead rat to her chest, Bupu stared tearfully at Par-Salian. “The others—the big man, the kender—they laugh at Bupu. They look at me like me some sort of bug.”

Bupu rubbed her eyes. There was a lump in Tas’s throat, and he felt lower than a bug himself.

Bupu continued, speaking softly. “Me know how me look.” Her filthy hands tried in vain to smooth her dress, leaving streaks of dirt down it. “Me know me not pretty, like lady lying there.” The gully dwarf snuffled, but then she wiped her hand across her nose and—raising her head—looked at Par-Salian defiantly. “But him not call me ‘creature!’ Him call me ‘little one.’ Little one,” she repeated.

For a moment, she was quiet, remembering. Then she heaved a gusty sigh. “I-I want to stay with him. But him tell me, ‘no,’ Him say he must walk roads that be dark. Him tell me, he want me to be safe. Him lay his hand on my head”—Bupu bowed her head, as if in memory—“and I feel warm inside. Then him tell me, ‘Farewell, Bupu.’ Him call me ‘little one.’”

Looking up, Bupu glanced around at the semi-circle. “Him never laugh at me,” she said, choking. “Never!” She began to cry.

The only sounds in the room, for a moment, were the gully dwarf’s sobs. Caramon put his hands over his face, overcome. Tas drew a shuddering breath and fished around for a handkerchief. After a few moments, Par-Salian rose from his stone chair and came to stand in front of the gully dwarf, who was regarding him with suspicion and hiccuping at the same time.

The great mage extended his hand. “Forgive me, Bupu,” he said gravely, “if I offended you. I must confess that I spoke those cruel words on purpose, hoping to make you angry enough to tell your story. For, only then, could we be certain of the truth.” Par-Salian laid his hand on Bupu’s head, his face was drawn and tired, but he appeared exultant. “Maybe we did not fail, maybe he did learn some compassion,” he murmured. Gently he stroked the gully dwarf’s rough hair. “No, Raistlin would never laugh at you, little one. He knew, he remembered. There were too many who had laughed at him.”

Tas couldn’t see through his tears, and he heard Caramon weeping quietly beside him. The kender blew his nose on his handkerchief, then went up to retrieve Bupu, who was blubbering into the hem of Par-Salian’s white robe.

“So this is the reason Lady Crysania made this journey?” Par-Salian asked Tas as the kender came near. The mage glanced at the still, white, cold form lying beneath the linen, her eyes staring sightlessly into the shadowy darkness. “She believes that she can rekindle the spark of goodness that we tried to light and failed?”

“Yes,” Tas answered, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the gaze of the mage’s penetrating blue eyes.

“And why does she want to attempt this?” Par-Salian persisted.

Tas dragged Bupu to her feet and handed her his handkerchief, trying to ignore the fact that she stared at it in wonder, obviously having no idea what she was supposed to do with it. She blew her nose on the hem of her dress.

“Uh, well, Tika said—” Tas stopped, flushing.

“What did Tika say?” Par-Salian asked softly.

“Tika said”—Tas swallowed—“Tika said she was doing it... because she l-loved him—Raistlin.”

Par-Salian nodded. His gaze went to Caramon. “What about you, twin?” he asked suddenly. Caramon’s head lifted, he stared at Par-Salian with haunted eyes.

“Do you love him still? You have said you would go back to destroy Fistandantilus. The danger you face will be great. Do you love your brother enough to undertake this perilous journey? To risk your life for him, as this lady has done? Remember, before you answer, you do not go back on a quest to save the world. You go back on a quest to save a soul, nothing more. Nothing less.”

Caramon’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. His face was lighted by joy, however, a happiness that sprang from deep within him. He could only nod his head.

Par-Salian turned to face the assembled Conclave.

“I have made my decision,” he began.

One of the Black Robes rose and cast her hood back. Tas saw that it was the woman who had brought him here. Anger burned in her eyes. She made a swift, slashing motion with her hand.

“We challenge this decision, Par-Salian,” she said in a low voice. “And you know that means you cannot cast the spell.”

“The Master of the Tower may cast the spell alone, Ladonna,” Par-Salian replied grimly. “That power is given to all the Masters. Thus did Raistlin discover the secret when he became Master of the Tower in Palanthas. I do not need the help of either Red or Black.”

There was a murmur from the Red Robes, as well; many looking at the Black Robes and nodding in agreement with them. Ladonna smiled.

“Indeed, Great One,” she said, “I know this. You do not need us for the casting of the spell, but you need us nonetheless. You need our cooperation, Par-Salian, our silent cooperation—else the shadows of our magic will rise and blot out the light of the silver moon. And you will fail.”

Par-Salian’s face grew cold and gray. “What of the life of this woman?” he demanded, gesturing at Crysania.

“What is the life of a cleric of Paladine to us?” Ladonna sneered. “Our concerns are far greater and not to be discussed among outsiders. Send these away”—she motioned at Caramon—“and we will meet privately.”

“I believe that is wise, Par-Salian,” said the red-robed mage mildly. “Our guests are tired and hungry, and they would find our family disagreements most boring.”

“Very well,” Par-Salian said abruptly. But Tas could see the white-robed mage’s anger as he turned to face them. “You will be summoned.”

“Wait!” Caramon shouted, “I demand to be present! I—”

The big man stopped, nearly strangling himself. The Hall was gone, the mages were gone, the stone chairs were gone. Caramon was yelling at a hat stand.

Dizzily, Tas looked around. He and Caramon and Bupu were in a cozy room that might have come straight from the Inn of the Last Home. A fire burned in the grate, comfortable beds stood at one end. A table laden with food was near the fire, the smells of fresh-baked bread and roasted meat made his mouth water. Tas sighed in delight.

“I think this is the most wonderful place in the whole world,” he said.

14

The old, white-robed mage sat in a study that was much like Raistlin’s in the Tower of Palanthas, except that the books which lined Par-Salian’s shelves were bound in white leather. The silver runes traced upon their spines and covers glinted in the light of a crackling fire. To anyone entering, the room seemed hot and stuffy. But Par-Salian was feeling the chill of age enter his bones. To him, the room was quite comfortable.

He sat at his desk, his eyes staring into the flames. He started slightly at a soft knock upon his door, then, sighing, he called softly, “Enter.”

A young, white-robed mage opened the door, bowing to the black-robed mage who walked past him—as was proper to one of her standing. She accepted the homage without comment. Casting her hood aside, she swept past him into Par-Salian’s chamber and stopped, just inside the doorway. The white-robed mage gently shut the door behind her, leaving the two heads of their Orders alone together.

Ladonna cast a quick, penetrating glance about the room. Much of it was lost in shadow, the fire casting the only light. Even the drapes had been closed, blotting out the moons’ eerie glow. Raising her hand, Ladonna murmured a few, soft words. Several items in the room began to gleam with a weird, reddish light indicating that they had magical properties—a staff leaning up against the wall, a crystal prism on Par-Salian’s desk, a branched candelabra, a gigantic hourglass, and several rings on the old man’s fingers among others. These did not seem to alarm Ladonna, she simply looked at each and nodded. Then, satisfied, she sat down in a chair near the desk. Par-Salian watched her with a slight smile on his lined face.

“There are no Creatures from Beyond lurking in the corners, Ladonna, I assure you,” the old mage said dryly. “Had I wanted to banish you from this plane, I could have done so long ago, my dear.”

“When we were young?” Ladonna cast aside her hood. Iron-gray hair, woven into an intricate braid coiled about her head, framed a face whose beauty seemed enhanced by the lines of age that appeared to have been drawn by a masterful artist, so well did they highlight her intelligence and dark wisdom. “That would have been a contest indeed, Great One.”

“Drop the title, Ladonna,” Par-Salian said. “We have known each other too long for that.”

“Known each other long and well, Par-Salian,” Ladonna said with a smile. “Quite well,” she murmured softly, her eyes going to the fire.

“Would you go back to our youth, Ladonna?” Par-Salian asked.

She did not answer for a moment, then she looked up at him and shrugged. “To trade power and wisdom and skill for what? Hot blood? Not likely, my dear. What about you?”

“I would have answered the same twenty years ago,” Par-Salian said, rubbing his temples. “But now... I wonder.”

“I did not come to relive old times, no matter how pleasant,” Ladonna said, clearing her throat, her voice suddenly stern and cold. “I have come to oppose this madness.” She leaned forward, her dark eyes flashing. “You are not serious, I hope, Par-Salian? Even you cannot be soft-hearted or soft-headed enough to send that stupid human back in time to try and stop Fistandantilus? Think of the danger! He could change history! We could all cease to exist!”

“Bah! Ladonna, you think!” Par-Salian snapped. “Time is a great flowing river, vaster and wider than any river we know. Throw a pebble into the rushing water—does the water suddenly stop? Does it begin to flow backward? Does it turn in its course and flow another direction? Of course not! The pebble creates a few ripples on the surface, perhaps, but then it sinks. The river flows onward, as it has ever done.”

“What are you saying?” Ladonna asked, regarding Par-Salian warily.

“That Caramon and Crysania are pebbles, my dear. They will no more affect the flow of time than two rocks thrown into the Thon-Tsalarian would affect its course. They are pebbles—” he repeated.

“We underestimate Raistlin, Dalamar says,” Ladonna interrupted. “He must be fairly certain of his success, or he would not take this risk. He is no fool, Par-Salian.”

“He is certain of acquiring the magic. In that we cannot stop him. But that magic will be meaningless to him without the cleric. He needs Crysania.” The white-robed mage sighed. “And that is why we must send her back in time.”

“I fail to see—”

“She must die, Ladonna!” Par-Salian snarled. “Must I conjure a vision for you? She must be sent back to a time when all clerics passed from this land. Raistlin said that we would have to send her back. We would have no choice. As he himself said—this is the one way we can thwart his plans! It is his greatest hope—and his greatest fear. He needs to take her with him to the Gate, but he needs her to come willingly! Thus he plans to shake her faith, disillusion her enough so that she will work with him.” Par-Salian waved his hand irritably. “We are wasting time. He leaves in the morning. We must act at once.”

“Then keep her here!” Ladonna said scornfully. “That seems simple enough.”

Par-Salian shook his head. “He would simply return for her. And—by then he will have the magic. He will have the power to do what he chooses.”

“Kill her.”

“That has been tried and failed. Besides, could even you, with your arts, kill her while she is under Paladine’s protection!”

“Perhaps the god will prevent her going, then?”

“No. The augury I cast was neutral. Paladine has left the matter in our hands. Crysania is nothing but a vegetable here, nor will ever be anything more, since none alive today have the power to restore her. Perhaps Paladine intends her to die in a place and time where her death will have meaning so that she may fulfill her life’s cycle.”

“So you will send her to her death,” Ladonna murmured, looking at Par-Salian in amazement. “Your white robes will be stained red with blood, my old friend.”

Par-Salian slammed his hands upon the table, his face contorted in agony. “I don’t enjoy this, damn it! But what can I do? Can’t you see the position I’m in? Who sits now as the Head of the Black Robes?”

“I do,” Ladonna replied.

“Who sits as the Head if he returns victorious?”

Ladonna frowned and did not answer.

“Precisely. My days are numbered, Ladonna. I know that. Oh”—he gestured—“my powers are still great. Perhaps they have never been greater. But every morning when I awake, I feel the fear. Will today be the day it fails? Every time I have trouble recalling a spell, I shiver. Someday, I know, I will not be able to remember the correct words.” He closed his eyes. “I am tired, Ladonna, very tired. I want to do nothing more than stay in this room, near this warm fire, and record in these books the knowledge I have acquired through the years. Yet I dare not step down now, for I know who would take my place.”

The old mage sighed. “I will choose my successor, Ladonna,” he said softly. “I will not have my position wrested from my hands. My stake in this is greater than any of yours.”

“Perhaps not,” Ladonna said, staring at the flames. “If he returns victorious, there will no longer be a Conclave. We shall all be his servants.” Her hand clenched. “I still oppose this, Par-Salian! The danger is too great! Let her remain here, let Raistlin learn what he can from Fistandantilus. We can deal with him when he returns! He is powerful, of course, but it will take him years to master the arts that Fistandantilus knew when he died! We can use that time to arm ourselves against him! We can—”

There was rustling in the shadows of the room. Ladonna started and turned, her hand darting immediately to a hidden pocket in her robe.

“Hold, Ladonna,” said a mild voice. “You need not waste your energies on a shield spell. I am no Creature from Beyond, as Par-Salian has already stated.” The figure stepped into the light of the fire, its red robes gleaming softly.

Ladonna settled back with a sigh, but there was a glint of anger in her eyes that would have made an apprentice start back in alarm. “No, Justarius,” she said coolly, “you are no Creature from Beyond. So you managed to hide yourself from me? How clever you have become, Red Robe.” Twisting around in her chair, she regarded Par-Salian with scorn. “You are getting old, my friend, if you required help to deal with me!”

“Oh, I’m sure Par-Salian is just as surprised to see me here as you are, Ladonna,” Justarius stated. Wrapping his red robes around him, he walked slowly forward to sit down in another chair before Par-Salian’s desk. He limped as he walked, his left foot dragging the ground. Raistlin was not the only mage ever injured in the Test.

Justarius smiled. “Though the Great One has become quite adept at hiding his feelings,” he added.

“I was aware of you,” Par-Salian said softly. “You know me better than that, my friend.”

Justarius shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. I was interested in hearing what you had to say to Ladonna—”

“I would have said the same to you.”

“Probably less, for I would not have argued as she has. I agree with you, I have from the beginning. But that is because we know the truth, you and I.”

“What truth?” Ladonna repeated. Her gaze went from Justarius to Par-Salian, her eyes dilating with anger.

“You will have to show her,” Justarius said, still in the same mild voice. “She will not be convinced otherwise. Prove to her how great the danger is.”

“You will show me nothing!” Ladonna said, her voice shaking. “I would believe nothing you two devised—”

“Then let her do it herself,” Justarius suggested, shrugging.

Par-Salian frowned, then—scowling—he shoved the crystal prism upon the desk toward her. He pointed. “The staff in the corner belonged to Fistandantilus—the greatest, most powerful wizard who has ever lived. Cast a Spell of Seeing, Ladonna. Look at the staff.”

Ladonna touched the prism hesitantly, her glance moving suspiciously once more from Par-Salian to Justarius, then back.

“Go ahead!” Par-Salian snapped. “I have not tampered with it.” His gray eyebrows came together. “You know I cannot lie to you, Ladonna.”

“Though you may lie to others,” Justarius said softly.

Par-Salian cast the red-robed mage an angry look but did not reply.

Ladonna picked up the crystal with sudden resolution. Holding it in her hand, she raised it to her eyes, chanting words that sounded harsh and sharp. A rainbow of light beamed from the prism to the plain wooden staff that leaned up against the wall in a dark corner of the study. The rainbow expanded as it welled out from the crystal to encompass the entire staff. Then it wavered and coalesced, forming into the shimmering image of the owner of the staff.

Ladonna stared at the image for long moments, then slowly lowered the prism from her eye. The moment she withdrew her concentration from it, the image vanished, the rainbow light winked out. Her face was pale.

“Well, Ladonna,” Par-Salian asked quietly, after a moment. “Do we go ahead?”

“Let me see the Time Travel spell,” she said, her voice taut.

Par-Salian made an impatient gesture. “You know that is not possible, Ladonna! Only the Masters of the Tower may know this spell—”

“I am within my rights to see the description, at least,” Ladonna returned coldly. “Hide the components and the words from my sight, if you will. But I demand to see the expected results.” Her expression hardened. “Forgive me if I do not trust you, old friend, as I might once have done. But your robes seem to be turning as gray as your hair.”

Justarius smiled, as if this amused him.

Par-Salian sat for a moment, irresolute.

“Tomorrow morning, friend,” Justarius murmured.

Angrily, Par-Salian rose to his feet. Reaching beneath his robes, he drew forth a silver key that he wore around his neck on a silver chain—the key that only the Master of a Tower of High Sorcery may use. Once there were five, now only two remained. As Par-Salian took the key from around his neck and inserted it into an ornately carved wooden chest standing near his desk, all three mages present were wondering silently if Raistlin was—even now—doing the same thing with the key he possessed, perhaps even drawing out the same spellbook, bound in silver. Perhaps even turning slowly and reverently through the same pages, casting his gaze upon the spells known only to the Masters of the Towers.

Par-Salian opened the book, first muttering the prescribed words that only the Masters know. If he had not, the book would have vanished from beneath his hand. Arriving at the correct page, he lifted the prism from where Ladonna had set it, then held it above the page, repeating the same harsh, sharp words Ladonna had used.

The rainbow light streamed down from the prism, brightening the page. At a command from Par-Salian, the light from the prism beamed out to strike a bare wall opposite them.

“Look,” Par-Salian said, his anger still apparent in his voice. “There, upon the wall. Read the description of the spell.”

Ladonna and Justarius turned to face the wall where they could read the words as the prism presented them. Neither Ladonna nor Justarius could read the components needed or the words required. Those appeared as gibberish, either through Par-Salian’s art or the conditions imposed by the spell itself. But the description of the spell was clear.

The ability to travel back in time is available to elves, humans, and ogres, since these were the races created by the gods at the beginning of time and so travel within its flow. The spell may not be used by dwarves, gnomes, or kender, since the creation of these races was an accident, unforeseen by the gods. (Refer to the Gray Stone of Gargath, see Appendix G.) The introduction of any of these races into a previous time span could have serious repercussions on the present, although what these might be is unknown. (A note in Par-Salian’s wavering handwriting had the word, ‘draconian’ inked in among the forbidden races.)

There are dangers, however, that the spellcaster needs to be fully aware of before proceeding. If the spellcaster dies while back in time, this will affect nothing in the future, for it will be as if the spellcaster died this day in the present. His or her death will affect neither the past nor the present nor the future, except as it would have normally affected those. Therefore, we do not waste power on any type of protection spell.

The spellcaster will not be able to change or affect what has occurred previously in any way. That is an obvious precaution. Thus this spell is really useful only for study. That was the purpose for which it was designed. (Another note, this time in a handwriting much older than Par-Salian’s adds on the margin—“It is not possible to prevent the Cataclysm. So we have learned to our great sorrow and at a great cost. May his soul rest with Paladine.”)

“So that’s what happened to him,” Justarius said with a low whistle of surprise. “That was a well-kept secret.”

“They were fools to even try it,” Par-Salian said, “but they were desperate.”

“As are we,” Ladonna added bitterly. “Well, is there more?”

“Yes, the next page,” Par-Salian replied.

If the spellcaster is not going himself but is sending back another (please note racial precaution on previous page), he or she should equip the one traveling with a device that can be activated at will and so return the traveler to his own time. Descriptions of such devices and their making will be found following—

“And so forth,” Par-Salian said. The rainbow light disappeared, swallowed in the mage’s hand as Par-Salian wrapped his fingers around it. “The rest is devoted to the technical details of making such a device. I have an ancient one. I will give it to Caramon.”

His emphasis on the man’s name was unconscious, but everyone in the room noticed it. Ladonna smiled wryly, her hands softly caressing her black robes. Justarius shook his head. Par-Salian himself, realizing the implications, sank down in his chair, his face lined with sorrow.

“So Caramon will use it alone,” Justarius said. “I understand why we send Crysania, Par-Salian. She must go back, never to return. But Caramon?”

“Caramon is my redemption,” Par-Salian said without looking up. The old mage stared at his hands that lay, trembling, on the open spellbook. “He is going on a journey to save a soul, as I told him. But it will not be his brother’s.” Par-Salian looked up, his eyes filled with pain. His gaze went first to Justarius, then to Ladonna. Both met that gaze with complete understanding.

“The truth could destroy him,” Justarius said.

“There is very little left to destroy, if you ask me,” Ladonna remarked coldly. She rose to her feet. Justarius rose with her, staggering a little until he obtained his balance on his crippled leg. “As long as you get rid of the woman, I care little what you do about the man, Par-Salian. If you believe it will wash the blood from your robes, then help him, by all means.” She smiled grimly. “In a way, I find this quite funny. Maybe—as we get older—we aren’t so different after all, are we, my dear?”

“The differences are there, Ladonna,” Par-Salian said, smiling wearily. “It is the crisp, clear outlines that begin to fade and blur in our sight. Does this mean the Black Robes will go along with my decision?”

“It seems we have no choice,” Ladonna said without emotion. “If you fail—”

“Enjoy my downfall,” Par-Salian said wryly.

“I will,” the woman answered softly, “the more so as it will probably be the last thing I enjoy in this life. Farewell, Par-Salian.”

“Farewell, Ladonna,” he said.

“A wise woman,” Justarius remarked as the door shut behind her.

“A rival worthy of you, my friend.” Par-Salian returned to his seat behind the desk. “I will enjoy watching you two do battle for my position.”

“I sincerely hope you have the opportunity to do so,” Justarius said, his hand on the door. “When will you cast the spell?”

“Early morning,” Par-Salian said, speaking heavily. “It takes days of preparation. I have already spent long hours working on it.”

“What about assistance?”

“No one, not even an apprentice. I will be exhausted at the end. See to the disbanding of the Conclave, will you, my friend?”

“Certainly. And the kender and the gully dwarf?”

“Return the gully dwarf to her home with whatever small treasures you think she would like. As for the kender”—Par-Salian smiled—“you may send him wherever he would like to go—barring the moons, of course. As for treasure, I’m certain he will have acquired a sufficient amount before he leaves. Do a surreptitious check on his pouches, but, if it’s nothing important, let him keep what he finds.”

Justarius nodded. “And Dalamar?”

Par-Salian’s face grew grim. “The dark elf has undoubtedly left already. He would not want to keep his Shalafi waiting.” Par-Salian’s fingers drummed on the desk, his brow furrowed in frustration. “It is a strange charm Raistlin possesses! You never met him, did you? No. I felt it myself and I cannot understand...”

“Perhaps I can,” Justarius said. “We’ve all been laughed at one time in our lives. We’ve all been jealous of a sibling. We have felt pain and suffered, just as he has suffered. And we’ve all longed—just once—for the power to crush our enemies! We pity him. We hate him. We fear him—all because there is a little of him in each of us, though we admit it to ourselves only in the darkest part of the night.”

“If we admit it to ourselves at all. That wretched cleric! Why did she have to get involved!” Par-Salian clasped his head in his shaking hands.

“Farewell, my friend,” Justarius said gently. “I will wait for you outside the laboratory should you need help when it is all over.”

“Thank you,” Par-Salian whispered without raising his head.

Justarius limped from the study. Shutting the door too hastily, he caught the hem of his red robe and was forced to open it again to free himself. Before he closed the door again, he heard the sound of weeping.

15

Tasslehoff Burrfoot was bored.

And, as everyone knows, there is nothing more dangerous on Krynn than a bored kender.

Tas and Bupu and Caramon had finished their meal—a very dull one. Caramon, lost in his thoughts, never said a word but sat wrapped in bleak silence while absent-mindedly devouring nearly everything in sight. Bupu did not even sit. Grabbing a bowl, she scooped out the contents with her hands, shoveling it into her mouth with a rapidity learned long ago at gully dwarf dining tables. Putting that one down, she started on another and polished off a dish of gravy, the butter, the sugar and cream, and finally half a dish of milk potatoes before Tas realized what she was doing. He just barely saved a salt cellar.

“Well,” said Tas brightly. Pushing back his empty plate, he tried to ignore the sight of Bupu grabbing it and licking it clean. “I’m feeling much better. How about you, Caramon? Let’s go explore!”

“Explore!” Caramon gave him such a horrified look that Tas was momentarily taken aback. “Are you mad? I wouldn’t set foot outside that door for all the wealth in Krynn!”

“Really?” Tas asked eagerly. “Why not? Oh, tell me, Caramon! What’s out there?”

“I don’t know.” The big man shuddered. “But it’s bound to be awful.”

“I didn’t see any guards—”

“No, and there’s a damn good reason for that,” Caramon snarled. “Guards aren’t needed around here. I can see that look in your eye, Tasslehoff, and you just forget about it right now! Even if you could get out”—Caramon gave the door to the room a haunted look—“which I doubt, you’d probably walk into the arms of a lich or worse!”

Tas’s eyes opened wide. He managed, however, to squelch an exclamation of delight. Looking down at his shoes, he muttered, “Yeah, I guess you’re right, Caramon. I’d forgotten where we were.”

“I guess you did,” Caramon said severely. Rubbing his aching shoulders, the big man groaned. “I’m dead tired. I’ve got to get some sleep. You and what’s—er—name there turn in, too. All right?”

“Sure, Caramon,” Tasslehoff said.

Bupu, belching contently, had already wrapped herself up in a rug before the fire, using the remainder of the bowl of milk potatoes for a pillow.

Caramon eyed the kender suspiciously. Tas assumed the most innocent look a kender could possibly assume, the result of which was that Caramon shook his finger at him sternly.

“Promise me you won’t leave this room, Tasslehoff Burrfoot. Promise just like you’d promise... say, Tanis, if he were here.”

“I promise,” Tas said solemnly, “just like I’d promise Tanis—if he were here.”

“Good.” Caramon sighed and collapsed onto a bed that creaked in protest, the mattress sagging clear to the floor beneath the big man’s weight. “I guess someone’ll wake us up when they decide what they’re going to do.”

“Will you really go back in time, Caramon?” Tas asked wistfully, sitting down on his own bed and pretending to unlace his boots.

“Yeah, sure. ’S no big thing,” Caramon murmured sleepily.

“Now get some sleep and... thanks, Tas. You’ve been... you’ve been... a big help... “His words trailed off into a snore.

Tas held perfectly still, waiting until Caramon’s breathing became even and regular. That didn’t take long because the big man was emotionally and physically exhausted. Looking at Caramon’s pale, careworn, and tear-streaked face, the kender felt a moment’s twinge of conscience. But kender are accustomed to dealing with twinges of conscience—just as humans are accustomed to dealing with mosquito bites.

“He’ll never know I’ve been gone,” Tas said to himself as he sneaked across the floor past Caramon’s bed. “And I really didn’t promise him I wouldn’t go anywhere. I promised Tanis. And Tanis isn’t here, so the promise doesn’t count. Besides, I’m certain he would have wanted to explore, if he hadn’t been so tired.”

By the time Tas crept past Bupu’s grubby little body, he had firmly convinced himself that Caramon had ordered him to look around before going to bed. He tried the door handle with misgivings, remembering Caramon’s warning. But it opened easily. We are guests then, not prisoners. Unless there was a lich standing guard outside. Tas poked his head around the door-frame. He looked up the hall, then down the hall. Nothing. Not a lich in sight. Sighing a bit in disappointment, Tas slipped out the door, then shut it softly behind him.

The hallway ran to his left and to his right, vanishing around shadowy corners at either end. It was barren, cold, and empty. Other doors branched off from the hallway, all of them dark, all of them closed. There were no decorations of any kind, no tapestries hung on the walls, no carpets covered the stone floor. There weren’t even any lights, no torches, no candles. Apparently the mages were supposed to provide their own if they did any wandering about after dark.

A window at one end did allow the light of Solinari, the silver moon, to filter through its glass panes, but that was all. The rest of the hallway was completely dark. Too late Tas thought of sneaking back into the room for a candle. No. If Caramon woke up, he might not remember he had told the kender to go exploring.

“I’ll just pop into one of these other rooms and borrow a candle,” Tas said to himself. “Besides, that’s a good way to meet people.”

Gliding down the hall quieter than the moonbeams that danced on the floor, Tas reached the next door. “I won’t knock, in case they’re asleep,” he reasoned and carefully turned the doorknob. “Ah, locked!” he said, feeling immensely cheered.

This would give him something to do for a few minutes at least. Pulling out his lockpicking tools, he held them up to the moonlight to select the proper size wire for this particular lock.

“I hope it’s not magically locked,” he muttered, the sudden thought making him grow cold. Magicians did that sometimes, he knew—a habit kender consider highly unethical. But maybe in the Tower of High Sorcery, surrounded by mages, they wouldn’t figure it would be worthwhile. “I mean, anyone could just come along and blow the door down,” Tas reasoned.

Sure enough, the lock opened easily. His heart beating with excitement, Tas shoved the door open quietly and peered inside. The room was lit only by the faint glow of a dying fire. He listened. He couldn’t hear anyone in it, no sounds of snoring or breathing, so he walked in, padding softly. His sharp eyes found the bed. It was empty. No one home.

“Then they won’t mind if I borrow their candle,” the kender said to himself happily. Finding a candlestick, he lit the wick with a glowing coal. Then he gave himself up to the delights of examining the occupant’s belongings, noticing as he did so that whoever resided in this room was not a very tidy person.

About two hours and many rooms later, Tas was wearily returning to his own room, his pouches bulging with the most fascinating items—all of which he was fully determined to return to their owners in the morning. He had picked most of them up off the tops of tables where they had obviously been carelessly tossed. He found more than a few on the floor (he was certain the owners had lost them) and had even rescued several from the pockets of robes that were probably destined to be laundered, in which case these items would certainly have been misplaced.

Looking down the hall, he received a severe shock, however, when he saw light streaming out from under their door!

“Caramon!” He gulped, but at that moment a hundred possible excuses for being out of the room entered his brain. Or perhaps Caramon might not even have missed him yet. Maybe he was into the dwarf spirits. Considering this possibility, Tas tiptoed up to the closed door of their room and pressed his ear against it, listening.

He heard voices. One he recognized immediately—Bupu’s. The other... he frowned. It seemed familiar... where had he heard it?

“Yes, I am going to send you back to the Highpulp, if that is where you want to go? But first you must tell where the Highpulp is.”

The voice sound faintly exasperated. Apparently, this had been going on for some time. Tas put his eye to the keyhole. He could see Bupu, her hair clotted with milk potatoes, glaring suspiciously at a red-robed figure. Now Tas remembered where he’d heard the voice—that was the man at the Conclave, who kept questioning Par-Salian!

“Highbulp!” Bupu repeated indignantly. “Not Highpulp! And Highbulp is home. You send me home.”

“Yes, of course. Now where is home?”

“Where Highbulp is.”

“And where is the Highpul—bulp?” the red-robed mage asked in hopeless tones.

“Home,” Bupu stated succinctly. “I tell you that before. You got ears under that hood? Maybe you deaf.” The gully dwarf disappeared from Tas’s sight for a moment, diving into her bag. When she reappeared, she held another dead lizard, a leather thong wrapped around its tail. “Me cure. You stick tail in ear and—”

“Thank you,” said the mage hastily, “but my hearing is quite perfect, I assure you. Uh, what do you call your home? What is the name?”

“The Pitt. Two Ts. Some fancy name, huh?” Bupu said proudly. “That Highbulp’s idea. Him ate book once. Learned lots. All right here.” She patted her stomach.

Tas clapped his hand over his mouth to keep from giggling. The red-robed mage was experiencing similar problems as well. Tas saw the man’s shoulders shake beneath his red robes, and it took him a while to respond. When he did, his voice had a faint quiver.

“What... what do humans call the name of your—the—uh—Pitt?”

Tas saw Bupu scowl. “Dumb name. Sound like someone spit up. Skroth.”

“Skroth,” the red-robed mage repeated, mystified. “Skroth,” he muttered. Then he snapped his fingers. “I remember. The kender said it in the Conclave. Xak Tsaroth?”

“Me say that once already. You sure you not want lizard cure for ears? You put tail—”

Heaving a sigh of relief, the red-robed mage held his hand out over Bupu’s head. Sprinkling what looked like dust down over her (Bupu sneezed violently), Tas heard the mage chant strange words.

“Me go home now?” Bupu asked hopefully.

The mage did not answer, he kept chanting.

“Him not nice,” she muttered to herself, sneezing again as the dust slowly coated her hair and body. “None of them nice. Not like my pretty man.” She wiped her nose, snuffling. “Him not laugh... him call me ‘little one.’”

The dust on the gully dwarf began to glow a faint yellow. Tas gasped softly. The glow grew brighter and brighter, changing color, turning yellow-green, then green, then green-blue, then blue and suddenly—

“Bupu!” Tas whispered.

The gully dwarf was gone!

“And I’m next!” Tas realized in horror. Sure enough, the red-robed mage was limping across the room to the bed where the thoughtful kender had made up a dummy of himself so that Caramon wouldn’t be worried in case he woke up.

“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” the red-robed mage called softly. He had passed beyond Tas’s sight. The kender stood frozen, waiting for the mage to discover he was missing. Not that he was afraid of getting caught. He was used to getting caught and was fairly certain he could talk his way out of it. But he was afraid of being sent home! They didn’t really expect Caramon to go anywhere without him, did they?

“Caramon needs me!” Tas whispered to himself in agony. “They don’t know what bad shape he’s in. Why, what would happen if he didn’t have me along to drag him out of bars?”

“Tasslehoff,” the red-robed mage’s voice repeated. He must be nearing the bed.

Hurriedly, Tas’s hand dove into his pouch. Pulling out a fistful of junk, he hoped against hope he’d found something useful. Opening his small hand, he held it up to the candlelight. He had come up with a ring, a grape, and a lump of moustache wax. The wax and the grape were obviously out. He tossed them to the floor.

“Caramon!” Tas heard the red-robed mage say sternly. He could hear Caramon grunt and groan and pictured the mage shaking him. “Caramon, wake up. Where’s the kender?”

Trying to ignore what was happening in the room, Tas concentrated on examining the ring. It was probably magical. He’d picked it up in the third room to the left. Or was it the fourth? And magical rings usually worked just by being worn. Tas was an expert on the subject. He’d accidentally put on a magical ring once that had teleported him right into the heart of an evil wizard’s palace. There was every possibility this might do the same. He had no idea what it did.

Maybe there was some sort of clue on the ring?

Tas turned it over, nearly dropping it in his haste. Thank the gods Caramon was so hard to wake up!

It was a plain ring, carved out of ivory, with two small pink stones. There were some runes traced on the inside. Tas recalled his magical Glasses of Seeing with a pang, but they were lost in Neraka, unless some draconian was wearing them.

“Wha... wha...” Caramon was babbling. “Kender? I told him... don’t go out there... liches...”

“Damn!” The red-robed mage was heading for the door.

Please, Fizban! the kender whispered, if you remember me at all, which I don’t suppose you do, although you might—I was the one who kept finding your hat. Please, Fizban! Don’t let them send Caramon off without me. Make this a Ring of Invisibility. Or at least a Ring of Something that will keep them from catching me!

Closing his eyes tightly so he wouldn’t see anything Horrible he might accidentally conjure up, Tas thrust the ring over his thumb. (At the last moment he opened his eyes, so that he wouldn’t miss seeing anything Horrible he might conjure up.)

At first, nothing happened. He could hear the red-robed mage’s halting footsteps coming nearer and nearer the door.

Then—something was happening, although not quite what Tas expected. The hall was growing! There was a rushing sound in the kender’s ears as the walls swooped past him and the ceiling soared away from him. Open-mouthed, he watched as the door grew larger and larger, until it was an immense size.

What have I done? Tas wondered in alarm. Have I made the Tower grow? Do you suppose anyone’ll notice? If they do, will they be very upset?

The huge door opened with a gust of wind that nearly flattened the kender. An enormous red-robed figure filled the doorway.

A giant! Tas gasped. I’ve not only made the Tower grow! I’ve made the mages grow, too! Oh, dear. I guess they’ll notice that! At least they will the first time they try to put on their shoes! And I’m sure they’ll be upset. I would be if I was twenty feet tall and none of my clothes fit.

But the red-robed mage didn’t seem at all perturbed about suddenly shooting up in height, much to Tas’s astonishment. He just peered up and down the hall, yelling, “Tasslehoff Burrfoot!”

He even looked right at where Tas was standing—and didn’t see him!

“Oh, thank you, Fizban!” the kender squeaked. Then he coughed. His voice certainly did sound funny. Experimentally, he said, “Fizban?” again. Again, he squeaked.

At that moment, the red-robed mage glanced down.

“Ah, ha! And whose room have you escaped from, my little friend’?” the mage said.

As Tasslehoff watched in awe, a giant hand reached down—it was reaching down for him! The fingers got nearer and nearer. Tas was so startled he couldn’t run or do anything except wait for that gigantic hand to grab him. Then it would be all over! They’d send him home instantly, if they didn’t inflict a worse punishment on him for enlarging their Tower when he wasn’t at all certain that they wanted it enlarged. The hand hovered over him and then picked him up by his tail.

“My tail!” Tas thought wildly, squirming in midair as the hand lifted him off the floor. “I haven’t got a tail! But I must! The hand’s got hold of me by something!”

Twisting his head around, Tas saw that indeed, he did have a tail! Not only a tail, but four pink feet! Four! And instead of bright blue leggings, he was wearing white fur!

“Now, then,” boomed a stern voice right in one of his ears, “answer me, little rodent! Whose familiar are you?”

16

Familliar! Tasslehoff clutched at the word. Familiar... Talks with Raistlin came back to his fevered mind.

“Some magi have animals that are bound to do their bidding,” Raistlin had told him once. “These animals, or familiars as they are called, can act as an extension of a mage’s own senses. They can go places he cannot, see things he is unable to see, hear conversations he has not been invited to share.”

At the time, Tasslehoff had thought it a wonderful idea, although he recalled Raistlin had not been impressed. He seemed to consider it a weakness, to be so heavily dependent upon another living being.

“Well, answer me?” the red-robed mage demanded, shaking Tasslehoff by the tail. Blood rushed to the kender’s head, making him dizzy, plus being held by the tail was quite painful, to say nothing of the indignity! All he could do, for a moment, was to give thanks that Flint couldn’t see him.

I suppose, he thought bleakly, that familiars can talk. I hope they speak Common, not something strange—like Mouse, for example.

“I’m—I—uh—belong to”—what was a good name for a mage?—“Fa—Faikus,” Tas squeaked, remembering hearing Raistlin use this name in connection with a fellow student long ago.

“Ah,” the red-robed mage said with a frown, “I might have known. Were you out upon some errand for your master or simply roaming around loose?”

Fortunately for Tas, the mage changed his hold upon the kender, releasing his tail to grasp him firmly in his hand. The kender’s front paws rested quivering on the red-robed mage’s thumb, his now beady, bright-red eyes stared into the mage’s cool, dark ones.

What shall I answer? Tas wondered frantically. Neither choice sounded very good.

“It—it’s my n-night off,” Tas said in what he hoped was an indignant tone of squeak.

“Humpf!” The mage sniffed. “You’ve been around that lazy Faikus too long, that’s for certain. I’ll have a talk with that young man in the morning. As for you, no, you needn’t start squirming! Have you forgotten that Sudora’s familiar prowls the halls at night? You could have been Marigold’s desert! Come along with me. After I’m finished with this evening’s business, I’ll return you to your master.”

Tas, who had just been ready to sink his sharp little teeth into the mage’s thumb, suddenly thought better of the idea. “Finished with this evening’s business!” Of course, that had to be Caramon! This was better than being invisible! He would just go along for the ride!

The kender hung his head in what he imagined was a mousy expression of meekness and contrition. It seemed to satisfy the red-robed mage, for he smiled in a preoccupied manner and began to search the pocket of his robes for something.

“What is it, Justarius?” There was Caramon, looking befuddled and still half asleep, He peered vaguely up and down the hallway. “You find Tas?”

“The kender? No.” The mage smiled again, this time rather ruefully. “It may be a while before we find him, I’m afraid—kender being very adept at hiding.”

“You won’t hurt him?” Caramon asked anxiously, so anxiously Tas felt sorry for the big man and longed to reassure him.

“No, of course not,” Justarius replied soothingly, still searching through his robes. “Though,” he added as an afterthought, “he might inadvertently hurt himself. There are objects lying around here it wouldn’t be advisable to play with. Well, now, are you ready?”

“I really don’t want to go until Tas is back and I know he’s all right,” Caramon said stubbornly.

“I’m afraid you haven’t any choice,” the mage said, and Tas heard the man’s voice grow cool. “Your brother travels in the morning. You must be prepared to go then as well. It takes hours for Par-Salian to memorize and cast this complex spell. Already he has started. I have stayed too long searching for the kender, in fact. We are late. Come along.”

“Wait... my things...” Caramon said pathetically. “My sword...”

“You need not worry about any of that,” Justarius answered. Apparently finding what he had been searching for, he drew a silken bag out of the pocket of his robes. “You may not go back in time with any weapon or any device from this time period. Part of the spell will see to it that you are suitably dressed for the period you journey within.”

Caramon looked down at his body, bewildered. “Y-you mean, I’ll have to change clothes? I won’t have a sword? What—”

And you’re sending this man back in time by himself! Tas thought indignantly. He’ll last five minutes. Five minutes, if that long! No, by all the gods, I’m—

Just exactly what the kender was going to do was lost as he suddenly found himself popped headfirst into the silken bag!

Everything went inky black. He tumbled down to the bottom of the bag, feet over tail, landing on his head. From somewhere inside of him came a horrifying fear of being on his back in a vulnerable position. Frantically, he fought to right himself, scrabbling wildly at the slick sides of the bag with his clawed feet. Finally he was right side up, and the terrible feeling subsided. So that’s what it’s like to be panic-stricken, Tas thought with a sigh. I don’t think much of it, that’s certain. And I’m very glad kender don’t get that way, as a general rule. Now what?

Forcing himself to calm down and his little heart to stop racing, Tas crouched in the bottom of the silken bag and tried to think what to do next. He appeared to have lost track of what was going on in his wild scrambling, for—by listening—he could hear two pairs of footsteps walking down a stone hall; Caramon’s heavy, booted feet and the mage’s shuffling tread.

He also experienced a slight swaying motion, and he could hear the soft sounds of cloth rubbing against cloth. It suddenly occurred to him that the red-robed mage had undoubtedly suspended the sack he was in from his belt!

“What am I supposed to do back there? How’m I supposed to get back here afterwards—”

That was Caramon’s voice, muffled a bit by the cloth bag but still fairly clear.

“All that will be explained to you.” The mage’s voice sounded overly patient. “I wonder—Are you having doubts, second thoughts perhaps. If so, you should tell us now—”

“No,” Caramon’s voice sounded firm, firmer than it had in a long time. “No, I’m not having doubts. I’ll go. I’ll take Lady Crysania back. It’s my fault she’s hurt, no matter what that old man says. I’ll see that she gets the help she needs and I’ll take care of this Fistandantilus for you.”

“M-m-m-m.”

Tas heard that “m-m-m-m,” though he doubted Caramon could. The big man was rambling on about what he would do to Fistandantilus when he caught up with him. But Tas felt chilled, as he had when Par-Salian gave Caramon that strange, sad look in the Hall. The kender, forgetting where he was, squeaked in frustration.

“Shhhh,” Justarius murmured absently, patting the bag with his hand. “This is only for a short while, then you’ll be back in your cage, eating corn.”

“Huh?” Caramon said. Tas could almost see the big man’s startled look. The kender gnashed his small teeth. The word “cage” called up a dreadful picture in his mind and a truly alarming thought occurred to him—what if I can’t get back to being myself?

“Oh, not you!” the mage said hastily. “I was talking to my little furry friend here. He’s getting restless. If we weren’t late, I’d take him back right now.” Tas froze. “There, he seems to have settled down. Now, what were you saying’?”

Tas didn’t pay any more attention. Miserably, he clung to the bag with his small feet as it swayed back and forth, bumping gently against the mage’s thigh as he limped along. Surely the spell could be reversed by simply taking off the ring?

Tas’s fingers itched to try it and see. The last magic ring he’d put on he hadn’t been able to get off! What if this was the same? Was he doomed to a life of white fur and pink feet forever? At the thought, Tas wrapped one foot around the ring that was still stuck to a toe (or whatever) and almost pulled it off, just to make sure.

But the thought of suddenly bursting out of a silk bag, a full-grown kender, and landing at the mage’s feet came to his mind. He forced his quivering little paw to stop. No. At least this way he was being taken to wherever Caramon was being taken. If nothing else, maybe he could go back with him in mouse shape. There might be worse things...

How was he going to get out of the bag!

The kender’s heart sank to his hind feet. Of course, getting out was easy if he turned back into himself. Only then they’d catch him and send him home! But if he stayed a mouse, he’d end up eating corn with Faikus! The kender groaned and hunkered down, his nose between his paws. This was by far the worst predicament he’d ever been in in his entire life, even counting the time the two wizards caught him running off with their woolly mammoth. To top it off, he was beginning to feel queasy, what with the swaying motion of the bag, being cooped up, the funny smell inside the bag, and the bumping around and all.

“The whole mistake lay in saying a prayer to Fizban,” the kender told himself gloomily. “He may be Paladine in reality, but I bet somewhere that wacky old mage is getting a real chuckle out of this.”

Thinking about Fizban and how much he missed the crazy old mage wasn’t making Tas feel any better, so he put the thought out of his mind and tried once more to concentrate on his surroundings, hoping to figure a way out. He stared into the silky darkness and suddenly—

“You idiot!” he told himself excitedly. “You lamebrained doorknob of a kender, as Flint would say! Or lamebrained mouse, because I’m not a kender anymore! I’m a mouse... and I have teeth!”

Hurriedly Tas took an experimental nibble. At first he couldn’t get a grip on the slick fabric and he despaired once more.

“Try the seam, fool,” he scolded himself severely, and sank his teeth into the thread that held the fabric together. It gave way almost instantly as his sharp little teeth sheared right through. Tas quickly nibbled away several more stitches and soon he could see something red—the mage’s red robes! He caught a whiff of fresh air (what had that man been keeping in here!) and was so elated he quickly started to chew through some more.

Then he stopped. If he enlarged the hole anymore, he’d fall out. And he wasn’t ready to, at least not yet. Not until they got to wherever it was they were going. Apparently that wasn’t far off. It occurred to Tas that they had been climbing a series of stairs for some time now. He could hear Caramon wheezing from the unaccustomed exercise and even the red-robed mage appeared a bit winded.

“Why can’t you just magic us up to this laboratory place?” Caramon grumbled, panting.

“No!” Justarius answered softly, his voice tinged with awe. “I can feel the very air tingle and crackle with the power Par-Salian extends to perform this spell. I would have no minor spell of mine disturb the forces that are at work here this night!”

Tas shivered at this beneath his fur, and he thought Caramon might have done the same, for he heard the big man clear his throat nervously and then continue to climb in silence. Suddenly, they came to a halt.

“Are we here?” Caramon asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Yes,” came the whispered answer. Tas strained to hear. “I will take you up these last few stairs, then—when we come to the door at the top—I will open it very softly and allow you to enter. Speak no word! Say nothing that might disturb Par-Salian in his concentration. This spell takes days of preparation—”

“You mean he knew days ago he was going to be doing this?” Caramon interrupted harshly.

“Hush!” Justarius ordered, and his voice was tinged with anger. “Of course, he knew this was a possibility. He had to be prepared. It was well he did so, for we had no idea your brother intended to move this fast!” Tas heard the man draw a deep breath. When he spoke again, it was in calmer tones. “Now, I repeat, when we climb these last few stairs—speak no word! Is that understood?”

“Yes.” Caramon sounded subdued.

“Do exactly as Par-Salian commands you to do. Ask no questions! Just obey. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Caramon sounded more subdued still. Tas heard a small tremor in the big man’s reply.

He’s scared, Tas realized. Poor Caramon. Why are they doing this to him? I don’t understand. There’s more going on here than meets the eye. Well, that makes it final. I don’t care if I do break Par-Salian’s concentration. I’ll just have to risk it. Somehow, someway—I’m going to go with Caramon! He needs me. Besides—the kender sighed—to travel back in time! How wonderful...

“Very well.” Justarius hesitated, and Tas could feel his body grow tense and rigid. “I will say my farewells here, Caramon. May the gods go with you. What you are doing is dangerous... for us all. You cannot begin to comprehend the danger.” This last was spoken so softly only Tas heard it, and the kender’s ears twitched in alarm. Then the red-robed mage sighed.

“I wish I could say I thought your brother was worth it.”

“He is,” Caramon said firmly. “You will see.”

“I pray Gilean you are right... Now, are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Tas heard a rustling sound, as if the hooded mage nodded his head. Then they began to move again, climbing the stairs slowly. The kender peered out of the hole in the bottom of the sack, watching the shadowy steps slide by underneath him. He would have seconds only, he knew.

The stairs came to an end. He could see a broad stone landing beneath him. This is it! he told himself with a gulp. He could hear the rustling sound again and feel the mage’s body move. A door creaked. Quickly, Tas’s sharp teeth sliced through the remaining threads that held the seam together. He heard Caramon’s slow steps, entering the door. He heard the door starting to close...

The seam gave way. Tas fell out of the sack. He had a passing moment to wonder if mice always landed on their feet—like cats. (He had once dropped a cat off the roof of his house to see if that old saying was true. It is.) And then he hit the stone floor running. The door was shut, the red-robed mage had turned away. Without stopping to look around, the kender darted swiftly and silently across the floor. Flattening his small body, he wriggled through the crack between the door and the floor and dove beneath a bookcase that was standing near the wall.

Tas paused to catch his breath and listen.

What if Justarius discovered him missing? Would he come back and look for him?

Stop this, Tas told himself sternly. He won’t know where I fell out. And he probably wouldn’t come back here, anyway. Might disturb the spell.

After a few moments, the kender’s tiny heart slowed down its pace so that he could hear over the blood pounding in his ears. Unfortunately, his ears told him very little. He could hear a soft murmuring, as if someone were rehearsing lines for a street play. He could hear Caramon try to catch his breath from the long climb and still keep his breathing muffled so as not to disturb the mage. The big man’s leather boots creaked as he shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

But that was all.

“I have to see!” Tas said to himself. “Otherwise I won’t know what’s going on.”

Creeping out from underneath the bookcase, the kender truly began to experience this tiny, unique world he had tumbled into. It was a world of crumbs, a world of dust balls and thread, of pins and ash, of dried rose petals and damp tea leaves. The insignificant was suddenly a world in itself. Furniture soared above him, like trees in a forest, and served about the same purpose—it provided cover. A candle flame was the sun, Caramon a monstrous giant.

Tas circled the man’s huge feet warily. Catching a glimpse of movement out of one corner of his eye, he saw a slippered foot beneath a white robe. Par-Salian. Swiftly, Tas made a dart for the opposite end of the room, which was, fortunately, lit only by candles.

Then Tas skidded to a stop. He had been in a mage’s laboratory once before this, when he’d been wearing that cursed teleporting ring. The strange and wonderful sights he’d seen there remained with him, and now he halted just before he stepped inside a circle drawn on the stone floor with silver powder. Within the center of the circle that glistened in the candlelight lay Lady Crysania, her sightless eyes still staring up at nothing, her face as white as the linen that shrouded her.

This was where the magic would be performed!

The fur rising on the back of his neck, Tas hastily scrambled back, out of the way, cowering beneath an overturned chamber pot. On the outside of the circle stood Par-Salian, his white robes glowing with an eerie light. In his hands, he held an object encrusted with jewels that sparkled and flashed as he turned it. It looked like a sceptre Tas had seen a Nordmaar king holding once, yet this device looked far more fascinating. It was faceted and jointed in the most unique fashion. Parts of it moved, Tas saw, while—more amazing still—other parts moved without moving! Even as he watched, Par-Salian deftly manipulated the object, folding and bending and twisting, until it was no bigger than an egg. Muttering strange words over it, the archmage dropped it into the pocket of his robe.

Then, though Tas could have sworn Par-Salian never took a step, he was suddenly standing inside the silver circle, next to Crysania’s inert figure. The mage bent over her, and Tas saw him place something in the folds of her robes. Then Par-Salian began to chant the language of magic, moving his gnarled hands above her in ever-widening circles. Glancing quickly at Caramon, Tas saw him standing near the circle, a strange expression on his face. It was the expression of one who is somewhere unfamiliar, yet who feels completely at home.

Of course, Tas thought wistfully, he grew up with magic. Maybe this is just like being back with his brother again.

Par-Salian rose to his feet, and the kender was shocked at the change that had come over the man. His face had aged years, it was gray in color, and he staggered as he stood. He made a beckoning motion to Caramon and the man came forward, walking slowly, stepping carefully over the silver powder. His face fixed in a dreamlike trance, he stood silently beside the still form of Crysania.

Par-Salian removed the device from his pocket and held it out to Caramon. The big man placed his hand on it and, for a moment, the two stood holding it together. Tas saw Caramon’s lips move, though he heard no sound. It was as if the warrior were reading to himself, memorizing some magically communicated information. Then Caramon ceased to speak. Par-Salian raised his hands and, with the motion, lifted himself from the floor and floated backward out of the circle into the shadowy darkness of the laboratory.

Tas could no longer see him, but he could hear his voice. The chanting grew louder and louder and suddenly a wall of silver light sprang from the circle traced upon the floor. It was so bright it made Tas’s red mouse eyes burn, but the kender could not look away. Par-Salian cried out now with such a loud voice that the very stones of the chamber themselves began to answer in a chorus of voices that rose from the depths of the ground.

Tas’s gaze was fixed upon that shimmering curtain of power. Within it, he could see Caramon standing near Crysania, still holding the device in his hand. Then Tas gasped a tiny gasp that made no more sound in the chamber than a mouse’s breath. He could still see the laboratory itself through that shimmering curtain, but now it seemed to wink on and off, as if fighting for its own existence. And—when it winked out—the kender caught a glimpse of somewhere else! Forests, cities, lakes, and oceans blurred in his vision, coming and going, people seen for an instant than vanishing, replaced by others.

Caramon’s body began to pulse with the same regularity as the strange visions as he stood within the column of light. Crysania, too, was there and then she wasn’t.

Tears streaked down past Tas’s quivering nose, sliding down his whiskers. “Caramon’s going on the greatest adventure of all time!” the kender thought bleakly. “And he’s leaving me behind!”

For one wild moment, Tas fought with himself. Everything inside of him that was logical and conscientious and Tanis-like told him—Tasslehoff, don’t be a fool. This is Big Magic. You’re likely to really Mess Things Up! Tas heard that voice, but it was being drowned out by all the chanting and the stones singing and, soon, it vanished altogether...

Par-Salian never heard the small squeak. Lost in his casting of the spell, he caught only the barest glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. Too late, he saw the mouse streak out of its hiding place, heading straight for the silvery wall of light! Horrified, Par-Salian ceased his chant, the voices of the stones rang hollow and died. In the silence he could now hear the tiny voice, “Don’t leave me, Caramon! Don’t leave me! You know what trouble you’ll get into without me!”

The mouse ran through the silver powder, scattering a sparkling trail behind it, and burst into the lighted circle. Par-Salian heard a small, tinging sound and saw a ring roll round and round on the stone floor. He saw a third figure materialize in the circle, and he gasped in horror. Then the pulsing figures were gone. The light of the circle was sucked into a great vortex, the laboratory was plunged into darkness.

Weak and exhausted, Par-Salian collapsed onto the floor. His last thought, before he lost consciousness, was a terrible one.

He had sent a kender back in time.