Time of the Twins

1

Denubis walked with slow steps through the wide, airy halls of the light-filled Temple of the Gods in Istar. His thoughts were abstracted, his gaze on the marble floor’s intricate patterns. One might have supposed, seeing him walk thus aimlessly and preoccupied, the cleric was insensible of the fact that he was walking in the heart of the universe. But Denubis was not insensible of this fact, nor was it one he was likely to forget. Lest he should, the Kingpriest reminded him of it daily in his morning call to prayers.

“We are the heart of the universe,” the Kingpriest would say in the voice whose music was so beautiful one occasionally forgot to listen to the words. “Istar, city beloved of the gods, is the center of the universe and we—being at the heart of the city—are therefore the heart of the universe. As the blood flows from the heart, bringing nourishment to even the smallest toe, so our faith and our teachings flow from this great temple to the smallest, most insignificant among us. Remember this as you go about your daily duties, for you who work here are favored of the gods. As one touch upon the tiniest strand of the silken web will send tremors through the entire web, so your least action could spread tremors throughout Krynn.”

Denubis shivered. He wished the Kingpriest would not use that particular metaphor. Denubis detested spiders. He hated all insects, in fact; something he never admitted and, indeed, felt guilty about. Was he not commanded to love all creatures, except, of course, those created by the Queen of Darkness? That included ogres, goblins, trolls, and other evil races, but Denubis was not certain about spiders. He kept meaning to ask, but he knew this would entail an hour-long philosophical argument among the Revered Sons, and he simply didn’t think it was worth it. Secretly, he would continue to hate spiders.

Denubis slapped himself gently on his balding head. How had his mind wandered to spiders? I’m getting old, he thought with a sigh. I’ll soon be like poor Arabacus, doing nothing all day but sitting in the garden and sleeping until someone wakens me for dinner. At this, Denubis sighed again, but it was nearer a sigh of envy than one of pity. Poor Arabacus, indeed! At least he is spared—

“Denubis...”

Denubis paused. Glancing this way and that around the large corridor, he saw no one. The cleric shuddered. Had he heard that soft voice, or just imagined it?

“Denubis,” came the voice again.

This time the cleric looked more closely into the shadows formed by the huge marble columns supporting the gilded ceiling. A darker shadow, a patch of blackness within the darkness was now discernible. Denubis checked an exclamation of irritation. Supressing the second shudder that swept over his body, he halted in his course and moved slowly over to the figure that stood in the shadows, knowing that the figure would never move out of the shadows to meet him. It was not that light was harmful to the one who awaited Denubis, as light is harmful to some of the creatures of darkness. In fact, Denubis wondered if anything on the face of this world could be harmful to this man. No, it was simply that he preferred shadows. Theatrics, Denubis thought sarcastically.

“You called me, Dark One?” Denubis asked in a voice he tried hard to make sound pleasant.

He saw the face in the shadows smile, and Denubis knew at once that all of his thoughts were well-known to this man.

“Damn it!” Denubis cursed (a habit frowned upon by the Kingpriest but one which Denubis, a simple man, had never been able to overcome). “Why does the Kingpriest keep him around the court? Why not send him away, as the others were banished?”

He said this to himself, of course, because—deep within his soul—Denubis knew the answer. This one was too dangerous, too powerful. This one was not like the others. The Kingpriest kept him as a man keeps a ferocious dog to protect his house; he knows the dog will attack when ordered, but he must constantly make certain that the dog’s leash is secure. If the leash ever broke, the animal would go for his throat.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Denubis,” said the man in his soft voice, “especially when I see you absorbed in such weighty thought. But an event of great importance is happening, even as we speak. Take a squadron of the Temple guards and go to the marketplace. There, at the crossroads, you will find a Revered Daughter of Paladine. She is near death. And there, also, you will find the man who assaulted her.”

Denubis’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed in sudden suspicion.

“How do you know this?” he demanded.

The figure within the shadows stirred, the dark line formed by the thin lips widened—the figure’s approximation of a laugh.

“Denubis,” the figure chided, “you have known me many years. Do you ask the wind how it blows? Do you question the stars to find out why they shine? I know, Denubis. Let that be enough for you.”

“But—” Denubis put his hand to his head in confusion. This would entail explanations, reports to the proper authorities. One did not simply conjure up a squadron of Temple guards!

“Hurry, Denubis,” the man said gently. “She will not live long...”

Denubis swallowed. A Revered Daughter of Paladine, assaulted! Dying—in the marketplace! Probably surrounded by gaping crowds. The scandal! The Kingpriest would be highly displeased—

The cleric opened his mouth, then shut it again. He looked for a moment at the figure in the shadows, then, finding no help there, Denubis whirled about and, in a flurry of robes, ran back down the corridor the way he had come, his leather sandals slapping on the marble floor.

Reaching the central headquarters of the Captain of the Guard, Denubis managed to gasp out his request to the lieutenant on duty. As he had foreseen, this caused all sorts of commotion. Waiting for the Captain himself to appear, Denubis collapsed in a chair and tried to catch his breath.

The identity of the creator of spiders might be open to question, Denubis thought sourly, but there was no doubt in his mind at all about the creator of that creature of darkness who, no doubt, was standing back there in the shadows laughing at him.

“Tasslehoff!”

The kender opened his eyes. For a moment, he had no idea where he was or even who he was. He had heard a voice speaking a name that sounded vaguely familiar. Confused, the kender looked around. He was lying on top of a big man, who was flat on his back in the middle of a street. The big man was regarding him with utter astonishment, perhaps because Tas was perched upon his broad stomach.

“Tas?” the big man repeated, and this time his face grew puzzled. “Are you supposed to be here?”

“I-I’m really not sure,” the kender said, wondering who “Tas” was. Then it all came back to him—hearing Par-Salian chanting, ripping the ring off his thumb, the blinding light, the singing stones, the mage’s horrified shriek...

“Of course, I’m supposed to be here,” Tas snapped irritably, blocking out the memory of Par-Salian’s fearful yell. “You don’t think they’d let you come back here by yourself, do you?” The kender was practically nose to nose with the big man.

Caramon’s puzzled look darkened to a frown. “I’m not sure,” he muttered, “but I don’t think you—”

“Well, I’m here.” Tas rolled off Caramon’s rotund body to land on the cobblestones beneath them. “Wherever ‘here’ is,” he muttered beneath his breath. “Let me help you up,” he said to Caramon, extending his small hand, hoping this action would take Caramon’s mind off him. Tas didn’t know whether or not he could be sent back, but he didn’t intend to find out.

Caramon struggled to sit up, looking for all the world like an overturned turtle, Tas thought with a giggle. And it was then the kender noticed that Caramon was dressed much differently than he had been when they left the Tower. He had been wearing his own armor (as much of it that fit), a loose-fitting tunic made of fine cloth, sewn together with Tika’s loving care.

But, now, he was wearing coarse cloth, slovenly stitched together. A crude leather vest hung from his shoulders. The vest might have had buttons once, but, if so, they were gone now. Buttons weren’t needed anyway, Tas thought, for there was no way the vest would have stretched to fit over Caramon’s sagging gut. Baggy leather breeches and patched leather boots with a big hole over one toe completed the unsavory picture.

“Whew!” Caramon muttered, sniffing. “What’s that horrible smell?”

“You,” Tas said, holding his nose and waving his hand as though this might dissipate the odor. Caramon reeked of dwarf spirits! The kender regarded him closely. Caramon had been sober when they’d left, and he certainly looked sober now. His eyes, if confused, were clear and he was standing, straight, without weaving.

The big man looked down and, for the first time, saw himself.

“What? How?” he asked, bewildered.

“You’d think,” Tas said sternly, regarding Caramon’s clothes in disgust, “that the mages could afford something better than this! I mean, I know this spell must be hard on clothes, but surely—”

A sudden thought occurred to him. Fearfully, Tas looked down at his clothes, then breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing had happened to him. Even his pouches were with him, all perfectly intact. A nagging voice inside him mentioned that this was probably because he wasn’t supposed to have come along, but the kender conveniently ignored it.

“Well, let’s have a look around,” Tas said cheerfully, suiting his action to his words. He’d already been able to guess where they were by the odor—in a alley. The kender wrinkled his nose. He’d thought Caramon smelled bad! Filled with garbage and refuse of every kind, the alley was dark, overshadowed by a huge stone building. But it was daylight, Tas could tell, glancing down at the end of the alley where he could see what appeared to a busy street, thronged with people who were coming and going.

“I think that’s a market,” Tas said with interest, starting to walk nearer the end of the alley to investigate. “What city did you say they sent us to?”

“Istar,” he heard Caramon mumble from behind him. Then, “Tas!”

Hearing a frightened tone in Caramon’s voice, the kender turned around hurriedly, his hand going immediately to the little knife he carried in his belt. Caramon was kneeling by something lying the alley.

“What is it?” Tas called, running back.

“Lady Crysania,” Caramon said, lifting a dark cloak.

“Caramon!” Tas drew a horrified breath. “What did they do to her? Did their magic go wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Caramon said softly, “but we’ve got to get help.” He carefully covered the woman’s bruised and bloody face with the cloak.

“I’ll go,” Tas offered, “you stay here with her. This doesn’t look like a really good part of town, if you take my meaning.”

“Yeah,” Caramon said, sighing heavily.

“It’ll be all right,” Tas said, patting the big man on his shoulder reassuringly. Caramon nodded but said nothing. With a final pat, Tas turned and ran back down the alley toward the street. Reaching the end, he darted out onto the sidewalk.

“Hel—” he began, but just then a hand closed over his arm in a grip of iron, hoisting him clear up off the sidewalk.

“Here, now,” said a stern voice, “where are you going?”

Tas twisted around to see a bearded man, his face partially covered by the shining visor of his helm, staring at him with dark, cold eyes.

Townguard, the kender realized quickly, having had a great deal of experience with this type of official personage.

“Why, I was coming to look for you,” Tas said, trying to wriggle free and assume an innocent air at the same time.

“That’s a likely story from a kender!” The guard snorted, getting an even firmer grasp on Tas. “It’d be a history-making event in Krynn, if it was true, that’s for certain.”

“But it is true,” Tas said, glaring at the man indignantly. “A friend of ours is hurt, down there.”

He saw the guard glance over at a man he had not noticed before—a cleric, dressed in white robes. Tas brightened. “Oh? A cleric? How—”

The guard clapped his hand over the kender’s mouth.

“What do you think, Denubis? That’s Beggar’s Alley down there. Probably a knifing, nothing more than thieves falling out.”

The cleric was a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a rather melancholy, serious face. Tas saw him look around the marketplace and shake his head. “The Dark One said the cross-roads, and this is it—or near enough. We should investigate.”

“Very well.” The guardsman shrugged. Detailing two of his men, he watched them advance cautiously down the filthy alleyway. He kept his hand over the kender’s mouth, and Tas, slowly being smothered, made a pathetic, squeaking sound.

The cleric, gazing anxiously after the guards, glanced around.

“Let him breathe, Captain,” he said.

“We’ll have to listen to him chatter,” the captain grumbled irritably, but he removed his hand from Tas’s mouth.

“He’ll be quiet, won’t you?” the cleric asked, looking at Tas with eyes that were kind in a preoccupied fashion. “He realizes how serious this is, don’t you?”

Not quite certain whether the cleric was addressing him or the captain or both, Tas thought it best simply to nod in agreement. Satisfied, the cleric turned back to watch the guards. Tas twisted enough in the captain’s grasp so that he, too, was able to see. He saw Caramon stand up, gesturing at the dark, shapeless bundle lying beside him. One of the guards knelt down and drew aside the cloak.

“Captain!” he shouted as the other guard immediately grabbed hold of Caramon. Startled and angry at the rough treatment, the big man jerked out of the guard’s grasp. The guard shouted, his companion rose to his feet. There was a flash of steel.

“Damn!” swore the captain. “Here, watch this little bastard, Denubis!” He thrust Tasslehoff in the cleric’s direction.

“Shouldn’t I go?” Denubis protested, catching hold of Tas as the kender stumbled into him.

“No!” The captain was already running down the alley, his own shortsword drawn. Tas heard him mutter something about “big brute... dangerous.”

“Caramon isn’t dangerous,” Tas protested, looking up at the cleric called Denubis in concern. “They won’t hurt him, will they? What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid we’ll find out soon enough,” Denubis said in a stern voice, but holding Tas in such a gentle grip that the kender could easily have broken free. At first Tas considered escape—there was no better place in the world to hide than in a large city market. But the thought was a reflexive one, just like Caramon’s breaking away from the guard. Tas couldn’t leave his friend.

“They won’t hurt him, if he comes peacefully.” Denubis sighed. “Though if he’s done—” The cleric shivered and for a moment paused. “Well, if he’s done that, he might find an easier death here.”

“Done what?” Tas was growing more and more confused. Caramon, too, appeared confused, for Tas saw him raise his hands in a protestation of innocence.

But even as he argued, one of the guards came up behind the big man and struck him in the back of his knees with the shaft of his spear. Caramon’s legs buckled. As he staggered, the guard in front of him knocked the big man to the ground with an almost nonchalant blow to the chest.

Caramon hadn’t even hit the pavement before the point of the spear was at his throat. He lifted his hands feebly in a gesture of surrender. Quickly, the guards rolled him over onto his stomach and, grasping his hands, tied them behind his back with rapid expertise.

“Make them stop!” Tas cried, straining forward. “They can’t do that—”

The cleric caught him. “No, little friend, it would be best for you to stay with me. Please,” Denubis said, gently gripping Tas by the shoulders. “You cannot help him, and trying will only make things worse for you.”

The guards dragged Caramon to his feet and began to search him thoroughly, even reaching their hands down into his leather breeches. They found a dagger at his belt—this they handed to their captain—and a flagon of some sort. Opening the top, they sniffed and then tossed it away in disgust.

One of the guards motioned to the dark bundle on the pavement. The captain knelt down and lifted the cloak. Tas saw him shake his head. Then the captain, with the other guard’s help, carefully lifted the bundle and turned to walk out of the alley. He said something to Caramon as he passed. Tas heard the filthy word with riveting shock, as did Caramon, apparently, for the big man’s face went deathly white.

Glancing up at Denubis, Tas saw the cleric’s lips tighten, the fingers on Tas’s shoulder trembled.

Then Tas understood.

“No,” he whispered softly in agony, “oh, no! They can’t think that! Caramon wouldn’t harm a mouse! He didn’t hurt Lady Crysania! He was only trying to help her! That’s why we came here. Well, one reason anyway. Please!” Tas whirled around to face Denubis, clasping his hands together. “Please, you’ve got to believe me! Caramon’s a soldier. He’s killed things—sure. But only nasty things like draconians and goblins. Please, please believe me!”

But Denubis only looked at him sternly.

“No! How could you think that? I hate this place! I want to go back home!” Tas cried miserably, seeing Caramon’s stricken, confused expression. Bursting into tears, the kender buried his face in his hands and sobbed bitterly.

Then Tas felt a hand touch him, hesitate, then pat him gently.

“There, there, now,” Denubis said. “You’ll have a chance to tell your story. Your friend will, too. And, if you’re innocent, no harm will come to you.” But Tas heard the cleric sigh. “Your friend had been drinking, hadn’t he?”

“No!” Tas snuffled, looking up at Denubis pleadingly. “Not a drop, I swear...”

The kender’s voice died, however, at the sight of Caramon as the guards led him out of the alley into the street where Tas and the cleric stood. Caramon’s face was covered with muck and filth from the alley, blood dribbled from a cut on his lip. His eyes were wild and blood-shot, the expression on his face vacant and filled with fear. The legacy of past drinking bouts was marked plainly in his puffy, red cheeks and shaking limbs. A crowd, which had begun to form at the sight of the guards, began to jeer.

Tas hung his head. What was Par-Salian doing? he wondered in confusion, Had something gone wrong? Were they even in Istar? Were they lost somewhere? Or maybe this was some terrible nightmare...

“Who—What happened?” Denubis asked the captain. “Was the Dark One right?”

“Right? Of course, he was right. Have you ever known him to be wrong?” the captain snapped. “As for who—I don’t know who she is, but she’s a member of your order. Wears the medallion of Paladine around her neck. She’s hurt pretty bad, too. I thought she was dead, in fact, but there’s a faint lifebeat in her neck.”

“Do you think she was... she was...” Denubis faltered.

“I don’t know,” the captain said grimly. “But she’s been beaten up. She’s had some kind of fit, I guess. Her eyes are wide open, but she doesn’t seem to see or hear anything.”

“We must convey her to the Temple at once,” Denubis said briskly, though Tas heard a tremor in the man’s voice. The guards were dispersing the crowd, holding their spears in front of them and pushing back the curious.

“Everything’s in hand. Move along, move along. Market’s about to close for the day. You best finish your shopping while there’s still time.”

“I didn’t hurt her!” Caramon said bleakly. He was shivering in terror. “I didn’t hurt her,” he repeated, tears streaking down his face.

“Yeah!” the captain said bitterly. “Take these two to the prisons,” he ordered his guards.

Tas whimpered. One of the guards grabbed him roughly, but the kender—confused and stunned—caught hold of Denubis’s robes and refused to let go. The cleric, his hand resting on Lady Crysania’s lifeless form, turned around when he felt the kender’s clinging hands.

“Please,” Tas begged, “please, he’s telling the truth.”

Denubis’s stern face softened. “You are a loyal friend,” he said gently. “A rather unusual trait to find in a kender. I hope your faith in this man is justified.” Absently, the cleric stroked Tas’s topknot of hair, his expression sad. “But, you must realize that sometimes, when a man has been drinking, the liquor makes him do things—”

“Come along, you!” the guard snarled, jerking Tas backward. “Quit your little act. It won’t work.”

“Don’t let this upset you, Revered Son,” the captain said. “You know kender!”

“Yes,” Denubis replied, his eyes on Tas as the two guards led the kender and Caramon away through the rapidly thinning crowd in the marketplace. “I do know kender. And that’s a remarkable one.” Then, shaking his head, the cleric turned his attention back to Lady Crysania. “If you will continue holding her, Captain,” he said softly, “I will ask Paladine to convey us to the Temple with all speed.”

Tas, twisting around in the guard’s grip, saw the cleric and the Captain of the Guard standing alone in the marketplace. There was a shimmer of white light, and they were gone.

Tas blinked and, forgetting to look where he was going, stumbled over his feet. He tumbled to the cobblestone pavement, skinning his knees and his hands painfully. A firm grip on his collar jerked him upright, and a firm hand gave him a shove in the back.

“Come along. None of your tricks.”

Tas moved forward, too miserable and upset to even look around at his surroundings. His gaze went to Caramon, and the kender felt his heart ache. Overwhelmed by shame and fear, Caramon plodded down the street blindly, his steps unsteady.

“I didn’t hurt her!” Tas heard him mumble. “There must be some sort of mistake...”

2

The beautiful elven voices rose higher and higher, their sweet notes spiraling up the octaves as though they would carry their prayers to the heavens simply by ascending the scales. The faces of the elven women, touched by the rays of the setting sun slanting through the tall crystal windows, were tinged a delicate pink, their eyes shone with fervent inspiration.

The listening pilgrims wept for the beauty, causing the choir’s white and blue robes—white robes for the Revered Daughters of Paladine, blue robes for the Daughters of Mishakal—to blur in their sight. Many would swear later that they had seen the elven women transported skyward, swathed in fluffy clouds.

When their song reached a crescendo of sweetness, a chorus of deep, male voices joined in, keeping the prayers that had been sweeping upward like freed birds tied to the ground—clipping the wings, so to speak, Denubis thought sourly. He supposed he was jaded. As a young man, he, too, had cleansed his soul with tears when he first heard the Evening Hymn. Then, years later, it had become routine. He could well remember the shock he had experienced when he first realized his thoughts had wandered to some pressing piece of church business during the singing. Now it was worse than routine. It had become an irritant, cloying and annoying. He had come to dread this time of day, in fact, and took advantage of every opportunity to escape.

Why? He blamed much of it on the elven women. Racial prejudice, he told himself morosely. Yet, he couldn’t help it. Every year a party of elven women, Revered Daughters and those in training, journeyed from the glorious lands of Silvanesti to spend a year in Istar, devoting themselves to the church. This meant they sang the Evening Hymn nightly and spent their days reminding all around them that the elves were the favored of the gods—created first of all the races, granted a lifespan of hundreds of years. Yet nobody but Denubis seemed to take offense at this.

Tonight, in particular, the singing was irritating to Denubis because he was worried about the young woman he had brought to the Temple that morning. He had, in fact, almost avoided coming this evening but had been captured at the last moment by Gerald, an elderly human cleric whose days on Krynn were numbered and who found his greatest comfort in attending Evening Prayers. Probably, Denubis reflected, because the old man was almost totally deaf. This being the case, it had been completely impossible to explain to Gerald that he—Denubis—had somewhere else to go. Finally Denubis gave up and gave the old cleric his arm in support. Now Gerald stood next to him, his face rapt, picturing in his mind, no doubt, the beautiful plane to which he, someday, would ascend.

Denubis was thinking about this and about the young woman, whom he had not seen or heard anything about since he had brought her to the Temple that morning, when he felt a gentle touch upon his arm. The cleric jumped and glanced about guiltily, wondering if his inattention had been observed and would be reported. At first he couldn’t figure out who had touched him, both of his neighbors apparently lost in their prayers. Then he felt the touch again and realized it came from behind. Glancing in back of him, he saw a hand had slipped unobtrusively through the curtain that separated the balcony on which the Revered Sons stood from the antechambers around the balcony.

The hand beckoned, and Denubis, puzzled, left his place in line and fumbled awkwardly with the curtain, trying to leave without calling undue attention to himself. The hand had withdrawn and Denubis couldn’t find the separation in the folds of the heavy velvet curtains. Finally, after he was certain every pilgrim in the place must have his eyes fixed on him in disgust, he found the opening and stumbled through it.

A young acolyte, his face smooth and placid, bowed to the flushed and perspiring cleric as if nothing were amiss.

“My apologies for interrupting your Evening Prayers, Revered Son, but the Kingpriest requests that you honor him with a few moments of your time, if it is convenient.” The acolyte spoke the prescribed words with such casual courtesy that it would not have seemed unusual to any observer if Denubis had replied, “No, not now. I have other matters I must attend to directly. Perhaps later?”

Denubis, however, said nothing of the sort. Paling visibly, he mumbled something about “being much honored,” his voice dying off at the end. The acolyte was accustomed to this, however, and—nodding acknowledgement—turned and led the way through the vast, airy, winding halls of the Temple to the quarters of the Kingpriest of Istar.

Hurrying behind the youth, Denubis had no need to wonder what this could be about. The young woman, of course. He had not been in the Kingpriest’s presence for well over two years, and it could not be coincidence that brought him this summons on the very day he had found a Revered Daughter lying near death in an alley.

Perhaps she has died, Denubis thought sadly. The Kingpriest is going to tell me in person. It would certainly be kind of the man. Out of character, perhaps, in one who had such weighty affairs as the fate of nations on his mind, but certainly kind.

He hoped she hadn’t died. Not just for her sake, but for the sake of the human and the kender. Denubis had been thinking a lot about them, too. Particularly the kender. Like others on Krynn, Denubis hadn’t much use for kender, who had no respect at all for rules or personal property—either their own or other people’s. But this kender seemed different. Most kender Denubis knew (or thought he knew) would have run off at the first sign of trouble. This one had stayed by his big friend with touching loyalty and had even spoken up in his friend’s defense.

Denubis shook his head sadly. If the girl died, they would face—No, he couldn’t think about it. Murmuring a sincere prayer to Paladine to protect everyone concerned (if they were worthy), Denubis wrenched his mind from its depressing thoughts and forced it to admire the splendors of the Kingpriest’s private residence in the Temple.

He had forgotten the beauty—the milky white walls, glowing with a soft light of their own that came—so legend had it—from the very stones themselves. So delicately shaped and carved were they, that they glistened like great white rose petals springing up from the polished white floor. Running through them were faint veins of light blue, softening the harshness of the stark white.

The wonders of the hallway gave way to the beauties of the antechamber. Here the walls flowed upward to support the dome overhead, like a mortal’s prayer ascended to the gods. Frescoes of the gods were painted in soft colors. They, too, seemed to glow with their own light—Paladine, the Platinum Dragon, God of Good; Gilean of the Book, God of Neutrality; even the Queen of Darkness was represented here—for the Kingpriest would offend no god overtly. She was portrayed as the five-headed dragon, but such a meek and inoffensive dragon Denubis wondered she didn’t roll over and lick Paladine’s foot.

He thought that only later, however, upon reflection. Right now, he was much too nervous to even look at the wonderful paintings. His gaze was fixed on the carefully wrought platinum doors that opened into the heart of the Temple itself.

The doors swung open, emitting a glorious light. His time of audience had come.

The Hall of Audience first gave those who came here a sense of their own meekness and humility. This was the heart of goodness. Here was represented the glory and power of the church. The doors opened onto a huge circular room with a floor of polished white granite. The floor continued upward to form the walls into the petals of a gigantic rose, soaring skyward to support a great dome. The dome itself was of frosted crystal that absorbed the glow of the sun and the moons. Their radiance filled every part of the room.

A great arching wave of seafoam blue swept up from the center of the floor into an alcove that stood opposite the door. Here stood a single throne. More brilliant than the light streaming down from the dome was the light and warmth that flowed from this throne.

Denubis entered the room with his head bowed and his hands folded before him as was proper. It was evening and the sun had now set. The Hall Denubis walked into was lit only by candles. Yet, as always, Denubis had the distinct impression he had stepped into an open-air courtyard bathed in sunlight.

Indeed, for a moment his eyes were dazzled by the brilliance. Keeping his gaze lowered, as was proper until he was given leave to raise it, he caught glimpses of the floor and objects and people present in the Hall. He saw the stairs as he ascended them. But the radiance welling from the front of the room was so splendid that he literally noticed nothing else.

“Raise your eyes, Revered Son of Paladine,” spoke a voice whose music brought tears to Denubis’s eyes when the lovely music of the elven women could move him no longer.

Denubis looked up, and his soul trembled in awe. It had been two years since he had been this near the Kingpriest, and time had dulled his memory. How different it was to observe him every morning from a distance—seeing him as one sees the sun appearing on the horizon, basking in its warmth, feeling cheered at its light. How different to be summoned into the presence of the sun, to stand before it and feel one’s soul burned by the purity and clarity of its brilliance.

This time, I’ll remember, thought Denubis sternly. But no one, returning from an audience with the Kingpriest, could ever recall exactly what he looked like. It seemed sacrilegious to attempt to do so, in fact—as though thinking of him in terms of mere flesh was a desecration. All anyone ever remembered was that they had been in the presence of someone incredibly beautiful.

The aura of light surrounded Denubis, and he was immediately rent by the most terrible guilt for his doubts and misgivings and questionings. In contrast to the Kingpriest, Denubis saw himself as the most wretched creature on Krynn. He fell to his knees, begging forgiveness, almost totally unaware of what he was doing, knowing only that it was the right thing to do.

And forgiveness was granted. The musical voice spoke, and Denubis was immediately filled with a sense of peace and sweet calm. Rising to his feet, he faced the Kingpriest in reverent humility and begged to know how he could serve him.

“You brought a young woman, a Revered Daughter of Paladine, to the Temple this morning,” said the voice, “and we understand you have been concerned about her—as is only natural and most proper. We thought it would give you comfort to know that she is well and fully recovered from her terrible ordeal. It may also ease your mind, Denubis, beloved son of Paladine, to know that she was not physically injured.”

Denubis offered his thanks to Paladine for the young woman’s recovery and was just preparing to stand aside and bask for a few moments in the glorious light when the full import of the Kingpriest’s words struck him.

“She—she was not assaulted?” Denubis managed to stammer.

“No, my son,” answered the voice, sounding a joyous anthem. “Paladine in his infinite wisdom had gathered her soul to himself, and I was able, after many long hours of prayer, to prevail upon him to return such a treasure to us, since it had been snatched untimely from its body. The young woman now finds rest in a life-giving sleep.”

“But the marks on her face?” Denubis protested, confused. “The blood—”

“There were no marks,” the Kingpriest said mildly, but with a hint of reproof that made Denubis feel unaccountably miserable. “I told you, she was not physically injured.”

“I-I am delighted I was mistaken,” Denubis answered sincerely. “All the more so because it means that young man who was arrested is innocent as he claimed and may now go free.”

“I am truly thankful, even as you are thankful, Revered Son, to know that a fellow creature in this world did not commit a crime as foul as was first feared. Yet who among us is truly innocent?”

The musical voice paused and seemed to be awaiting an answer. And answers were forthcoming. The cleric heard murmured voices all around him give the proper response, and Denubis became consciously aware for the first time that there were others present near the throne. Such was the influence of the Kingpriest that he had almost believed himself alone with the man.

Denubis mumbled the response to this question along with the rest and suddenly knew without being told that he was dismissed from the august presence. The light no longer beat upon him directly, it had turned from him to another. Feeling as if he had stepped from brilliant sun into the shade, he stumbled, half-blind, back down the stairs. Here, on the main floor, he was able to catch his breath, relax, and look around.

The Kingpriest sat at one end, surrounded by light. But, it seemed to Denubis that his eyes were becoming accustomed to the light, so to speak, for he could at last begin to recognize others with him. Here were the heads of the various orders—the Revered Sons and Revered Daughters. Known almost jokingly as “the hands and feet of the sun,” it was these who handled the mundane, day-to-day affairs of the church. It was these who ruled Krynn. But there were others here, besides high church officials. Denubis felt his gaze drawn to a corner of the Hall, the only corner, it seemed, that was in shadow.

There sat a figure robed in black, his darkness outshone by the Kingpriest’s light. But Denubis, shuddering, had the distinct impression that the darkness was only waiting, biding its time, knowing that—eventually—the sun must set.

The knowledge that the Dark One, as Fistandantilus was known around the court, was allowed within the Kingpriest’s Hall of Audience came as a shock to Denubis. The Kingpriest was trying to rid the world of evil, yet it was here—in his court! And then a comforting thought came to Denubis—perhaps, when the world was totally free of evil, when the last of the ogre races had been eliminated, then Fistandantilus himself would fall.

But even as he thought this and smiled at the thought, Denubis saw the cold glitter of the mage’s eyes turn their gaze toward him. Denubis shivered and looked away hurriedly. What a contrast there was between that man and the Kingpriest! When basking in the Kingpriest’s light, Denubis felt calm and peaceful. Whenever he happened to look into the eyes of Fistandantilus, he was reminded forcefully of the darkness within himself.

And, under the gaze of those eyes, he suddenly found himself wondering what the Kingpriest had meant by the curious statement, “who of us is truly innocent’?”

Feeling uncomfortable, Denubis walked into an antechamber where stood a gigantic banquet table.

The smell of the luscious, exotic foods, brought from all over Ansalon by worshipful pilgrims or purchased in the huge open-air markets of cities as far away as Xak Tsaroth, made Denubis remember that he had not eaten since morning. Taking a plate, he browsed among the wonderful food, selecting this and that until his plate was filled and he had only made it halfway down the table that literally groaned under its aromatic burden.

A servant brought round cups of fragrant, elven wine. Taking one of these and juggling the plate and his eating implements in one hand, the wine in the other, Denubis sank into a chair and began to eat heartily. He was just enjoying the heavenly combination of a mouthful of roast pheasant and the lingering taste of the elven wine when a shadow fell across his plate.

Denubis glanced up, choked, and bolted the remainder of the mouthful, dabbing at the wine dribbling down his chin in embarrassment.

“R-revered Son,” he stuttered, making a feeble attempt to rise in the gesture of respect that the Head of the Brethren deserved.

Quarath regarded him with sardonic amusement and waved a hand languidly. “Please, Revered Son, do not let me disturb you. I have no intention of interrupting your dinner. I merely wanted a word with you. Perhaps, when you are finished—”

“Quite... quite finished,” Denubis said hastily, handing his half-full plate and glass to a passing servant. “I don’t seem to be as hungry as I thought.” That, at least, was true. He had completely lost his appetite.

Quarath smiled a delicate smile. His thin elven face with its finely sculpted features seemed to be made of fragile porcelain, and he always smiled carefully, as if fearing his face would break.

“Very well, if the desserts do not tempt you?”

“N-no, not in the slightest. Sweets... bad for th-the digestion th-this late—”

“Then, come with me, Revered Son. It has been a long time since we talked.” Quarath took Denubis’s arm with casual familiarity—though it had been months since the cleric had last seen his superior.

First the Kingpriest, now Quarath. Denubis felt a cold lump in the pit of his stomach. As Quarath was leading him out of the Audience Hall, the Kingpriest’s musical voice rose. Denubis glanced backward, basking for one more moment in that wondrous light. Then, as he looked away with a sigh, his gaze came to rest upon the black-robed mage. Fistandantilus smiled and nodded. Shuddering, Denubis hurriedly accompanied Quarath out the door.

The two clerics walked through sumptuously decorated corridors until they came to a small chamber, Quarath’s own. It, too, was splendidly decorated inside, but Denubis was too nervous to notice any detail.

“Please, sit down, Denubis. I may call you that, since we are comfortably alone.”

Denubis didn’t know about the comfortably, but they were certainly alone. He sat on the edge of the seat Quarath offered him, accepted a small glass of cordial which he didn’t drink, and waited. Quarath talked of inconsequential nothings for a few moments, asking after Denubis’s work—he translated passages of the Disks of Mishakal into his native language, Solamnic—and other items in which he obviously wasn’t the least bit interested.

Then, after a pause, Quarath said casually, “I couldn’t help but hear you questioning the Kingpriest.”

Denubis set his cordial down on a table, his hand shaking so he barely avoided spilling it. “I... I was... simply concerned... about—about the young man... they arrested erroneously,” he stammered faintly.

Quarath nodded gravely. “Very right, too. Very proper. It is written that we should be concerned about our fellows in this world. It becomes you, Denubis, and I shall certainly note that in my yearly report.”

“Thank you, Revered Son,” Denubis murmured, not certain what else to say.

Quarath said nothing more but sat regarding the cleric opposite with his slanted, elven eyes.

Denubis mopped his face with the sleeve of his robe. It was unbelievably hot in this room. Elves had such thin blood.

“Was there something else?” Quarath asked mildly.

Denubis drew a deep breath. “My lord,” he said earnestly, “about that young man. Will he be released? And the kender?” He was suddenly inspired. “I thought perhaps I could be of some help, guide them back to the paths of good. Since the young man is innocent—”

“Who of us is truly innocent?” Quarath questioned, looking at the ceiling as if the gods themselves might write the answer there for him.

“I’m certain that is a very good question,” Denubis said meekly, “and one no doubt worthy of study and discussion, but this young man is, apparently innocent—at least as innocent as he’s likely to be of anything—” Denubis stopped, slightly confused.

Quarath smiled sadly. “Ah, there, you see?” he said, spreading his hands and turning his gaze upon the cleric. “The fur of the rabbit covers the tooth of the wolf, as the saying goes.”

Leaning back in his chair, Quarath once again regarded the ceiling. “The two are being sold in the slave markets tomorrow.”

Denubis half rose from his chair. “What? My lord—”

Quarath’s gaze instantly fixed itself upon the cleric, freezing the man where he stood.

“Questioning? Again?”

“But... he’s innocent!” was all Denubis could think of to say.

Quarath smiled again, this time wearily, indulgently.

“You are a good man, Denubis. A good man, a good cleric. A simple man, perhaps, but a good one. This was not a decision we made lightly. We questioned the man. His accounts of where he came from and what he was doing in Istar are confused, to say the least. If he was innocent of the girl’s injuries, he undoubtedly has other crimes that are tearing at his soul. That much is visible upon his face. He has no means of support, there was no money on him. He is a vagrant and likely to turn to thievery if left on his own. We are doing him a favor by providing him with a master who will care for him. In time, he can earn his freedom and, hopefully, his soul will have been cleansed of its burden of guilt. As for the kender—” Quarath waved a negligent hand.

“Does the Kingpriest know?” Denubis summoned up courage to ask.

Quarath sighed, and this time the cleric saw a faint wrinkle of irritation appear on the elf’s smooth brow. “The Kingpriest has many more pressing issues on his mind, Revered Son Denubis,” he said coldly. “He is so good that the pain of this one man’s suffering would upset him for days. He did not specifically say the man was to be freed, so we simply removed the burden of this decision from his thoughts.”

Seeing Denubis’s haggard face fill with doubt, Quarath sat forward, regarding his cleric with a frown. “Very well, Denubis, if you must know—there were some very strange circumstances regarding the young woman’s discovery. Not the least of which is that it was instituted, we understand, by the Dark One.”

Denubis swallowed and sank back into his seat. The room no longer seemed hot. He shivered. “That is true,” he said miserably, passing his hand over his face. “He met me—”

“I know!” Quarath snapped. “He told me. The young woman will stay here with us. She is a Revered Daughter. She wears the medallion of Paladine. She, also, is somewhat confused, but that is to be expected. We can keep an eye on her. But I’m certain you realize how impossible it is that we allow that young man to simply wander off. In the Elder Days, they would have tossed him in a dungeon and thought no more of it. We are more enlightened than that. We will provide a decent home for him and be able to watch over him at the same time.”

Quarath makes it sound like a charitable act, selling a man into slavery, Denubis thought in confusion. Perhaps it is. Perhaps I am wrong. As he says, I am a simple man. Dizzily, he rose from his chair. The rich food he had eaten sat in his stomach like a cobblestone. Mumbling an apology to his superior, he started toward the door. Quarath rose, too, a conciliatory smile on his face.

“Come visit with me again, Revered Son,” he said, standing by the door. “And do not fear to question us. That is how we learn.”

Denubis nodded numbly, then paused. “I—I have one more question, then,” he said hesitantly. “You mentioned the Dark One. What do you know of him? I mean, why is he here? He—he frightens me.”

Quarath’s face was grave, but he did not appear displeased at this question. Perhaps he was relieved that Denubis’s mind had turned to another subject. “Who knows anything of the ways of magic-users,” he answered, “except that their ways are not our ways, nor yet the ways of the gods. It was for that reason the Kingpriest felt compelled to rid Ansalon of them, as much as was possible. Now they are holed up in their one remaining Tower of High Sorcery in that cast-off Forest of Wayreth. Soon, even that will disappear as their numbers dwindle, since we have closed the schools. You heard about the cursing of the Tower at Palanthas?”

Denubis nodded silently.

“That terrible incident!” Quarath frowned. “It just goes to show you how the gods have cursed these wizards, driving that one poor soul to such madness that he impaled himself upon the gates, bringing down the wrath of the gods and sealing the Tower forever, we suppose. But, what were we discussing?”

“Fistandantilus,” Denubis murmured, sorry he had brought it up. Now he wanted only to get back to his room and take his stomach powder.

Quarath raised his feathery eyebrows. “All I know of him is that he was here when I came, some one hundred years ago. He is old—older even than many of my kindred, for there are few even of the eldest of my race who can remember a time when his name was not whispered. But he is human and therefore must use his magic arts to sustain his life. How, I dare not imagine.” Quarath looked at Denubis intently. “You understand now, of course, why the Kingpriest keeps him at court’?”

“He fears him?” Denubis asked innocently.

Quarath’s porcelain smile became fixed for a moment, then it was the smile of a parent explaining a simple matter to a dull child. “No, Revered Son,” he said patiently. “Fistandantilus is of great use to us. Who knows the world better? He has traveled its width and breadth. He knows the languages, the customs, the lore of every race on Krynn. His knowledge is vast. He is useful to the Kingpriest, and so we allow him to remain here, rather than banish him to Wayreth, as we have banished his fellows.”

Denubis nodded. “I understand,” he said, smiling weakly. “And... and now, I must go. Thank you for your hospitality, Revered Son, and for clearing up my doubts. I-I feel much better now.”

“I am glad to have been able to help,” Quarath said gently. “May the gods grant you restful sleep, my son.”

“And you as well,” Denubis murmured the reply, then left, hearing, with relief, the door shut behind him.

The cleric walked hurriedly past the Kingpriest’s audience chamber. Light welled from the door, the sound of the sweet, musical voice tugged at his heart as he went by, but he feared he might be sick and so resisted the temptation to return.

Longing for the peace of his quiet room, Denubis walked quickly through the Temple. He became lost once, taking a wrong turn in the crisscrossing corridors. But a kindly servant led him back the direction he needed to take to reach the part of the Temple where he lived.

This part was austere, compared to that where the Kingpriest and the court resided, although still filled with every conceivable luxury by Krynnish standards. But as Denubis walked the halls, he thought how homey and comforting the soft candlelight appeared. Other clerics passed him with smiles and whispered evening greetings. This was where he belonged. It was simple, like himself.

Heaving another sigh of relief, Denubis reached his own small room and opened the door (nothing was ever locked in the Temple—it showed a distrust of one’s fellows) and started to enter. Then he stopped. Out of the corner of his eye he had glimpsed movement, a dark shadow within darker shadows. He stared intently down the corridor. There was nothing there. It was empty.

I am getting old. My eyes are playing tricks, Denubis told himself, shaking his head wearily. Walking into the room, his white robes whispering around his ankles, he shut the door firmly, then reached for his stomach powder.

3

A key rattled in the lock of the cell door.

Tasslehoff sat bolt upright. Pale light crept into the cell through a tiny, barred window set high in the thick, stone wall. Dawn, he thought sleepily. The key rattled again, as if the jailer was having trouble opening the lock. Tas cast an uneasy glance at Caramon on the opposite side of the cell. The big man lay on the stone slab that was his bed without moving or giving any sign that he heard the racket.

A bad sign, Tas thought anxiously, knowing the well-trained warrior (when he wasn’t drunk) would once have awakened at the sound of footsteps outside the room. But Caramon had neither moved nor spoken since the guards brought them here yesterday. He had refused food and water (although Tas had assured him it was a cut above most prison food). He lay on the stone slab and stared up at the ceiling until nightfall. Then he had moved, a little at least—he had shut his eyes.

The key was rattling louder than ever, and added to its noise was the sound of the jailer swearing. Hurriedly Tas stood up and crossed the stone floor, plucking straw out of his hair and smoothing his clothes as he went. Spotting a battered stool in the corner, the kender dragged it over to the door, stood upon it, and peered through the barred window in the door down at the jailer on the other side.

“Good morning,” Tas said cheerfully. “Having some trouble?”

The jailer jumped three feet at the unexpected sound and nearly dropped his keys. He was small man, wizened and gray as the walls. Glaring up at the kender’s face through the bars, the jailer snarled and, inserting the key in the lock once more, poked and shook it vigorously. A man standing behind the jailer scowled. He was a large, well-built man, dressed in fine clothes and wrapped against the morning chill in a bear-skin cape. In his hand, he held a piece of slate, a bit of chalkrock dangling from it by a leather thong.

“Hurry up,” the man snarled at the jailer. “The market opens at midday and I’ve got to get this lot cleaned up and decent-looking by then.”

“Must be broken,” muttered the jailer.

“Oh, no, it’s not broken,” Tas said helpfully. “Actually, in fact, I think your key would fit just fine if my lockpick wasn’t in the way.”

The jailer slowly lowered the keys and raised his eyes to look balefully at the kender.

“It was the oddest accident,” Tas continued. “You see, I was rather bored last night—Caramon fell asleep early—and you had taken away all my things, so, when I just happened to discover that you’d missed a lockpick I keep in my sock, I decided to try it on this door, just to keep my hand in, so to speak, and to see what kind of jails you built back here. You do build a very nice jail, by the way,” Tas said solemnly. “One of the nicest I’ve ever been in—er, one of the nicest I’ve ever seen. By the way, my name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot.” The kender squeezed his hand through the bar in case either of them wanted to shake it. They didn’t. “And I’m from Solace. So’s my friend. We’re here on a sort of mission you might say and—Oh, yes, the lock. Well, you needn’t glare at me so, it wasn’t my fault. In fact, it was your stupid lock that broke my lockpick! One of my best, too. My father’s,” the kender said sadly. “He gave it to me on the day I came of age. I really think,” Tas added in a stern voice, “that you could at least apologize.”

At this, the jailer made a strange sound, sort of a snort and an explosion. Shaking his ring of keys at the kender, he snapped something incoherent about “rotting in that cell forever” and started walking off, but the man in the bear-skin cape grabbed hold of him.

“Not so fast. I need the one in here.”

“I know, I know,” the jailer whined in a thin voice, “but you’ll have to wait for the locksmith—”

“Impossible. My orders are to put ’im on the block today.”

“Well, then you come up with some way to get them outta there.” The jailer sneered. “Get the kender a new lockpick. Now, do you want the rest of the lot or not?”

He started to totter off, leaving the bear-skin man staring grimly at the door. “You know where my orders come from,” he said in ominous tones.

“My orders come from the same place,” the jailer said over his bony shoulder, “and if they don’t like it they can come pray the door open. If that don’t work, they can wait for the locksmith, same as everyone else.”

“Are you going to let us out?” Tas asked eagerly. “If you are, we might be able to help—” Then a sudden thought crossed his mind. “You’re not going to execute us, are you? Because, in that case, I think we’d just as soon wait for the locksmith...”

“Execute!” the bear-skin man growled. “Hasn’t been an execution in Istar in ten years. Church forbade it.”

“Aye, a quick, clean death was too good for a man,” cackled the jailer, who had turned around again. “Now, what do you mean about helping, you little beast?”

“Well,” Tas faltered, “if you’re not going to execute us, what are you going to do with us, then? I don’t suppose you’re letting us go? We are innocent, after all. I mean, we didn’t—”

“I’m not going to do anything with you,” the bear-skin man said sarcastically. “It’s your friend I want. And, no, they’re not letting him go.”

“Quick, clean death,” the old jailer muttered, grinning toothlessly. “Always a nice crowd gathered to watch, too. Made a man feel his going out meant something, which is just what Harry Snaggle said to me as they was marching him off to be hung. He hoped there would be a good crowd and there was. Brought a tear to his eye. ‘All these people,’ he says to me, ‘giving up their holiday just to come give me a sendoff.’ A gentleman to the end.”

“He’s going on the block!” the bear-skin man said loudly, ignoring the jailer.

“Quick, clean.” The jailer shook his head.

“Well,” Tas said dubiously, “I’m not sure what that means, but if you’re truly letting us out, perhaps Caramon can help.” The kender disappeared from the window, and they heard him yelling, “Caramon, wake up! They’re wanting to let us out and they can’t get the door open and I’m afraid it’s my fault, well, partly—”

“You realize you’ve got to take them both,” the jailer said cunningly.

“What?” The bear-skin man turned to glare at the jailer. “That was never mentioned—”

“They’re to be sold together. Those are my orders and since your orders and my orders come from the same place—”

“Is this in writing?” The man scowled.

“Of course.” The jailer was smug.

“I’ll lose money! Who’ll buy a kender?”

The jailer shrugged. It was none of his concern.

The bear-skin man opened his mouth again, then shut it as another face appeared framed in the cell door. It wasn’t the kender’s this time. It was the face of a human, a young man, around twenty-eight. The face might once have been handsome, but now the strong jawline was blurred with fat, the brown eyes were lackluster, the curly hair tangled and matted.

“How is Lady Crysania?” Caramon asked.

The bear-skin man blinked in confusion.

“Lady Crysania. They took her to the Temple,” Caramon repeated.

The jailer prodded the bear-skin man in the ribs. “You know—the woman he beat up.”

“I didn’t touch her,” Caramon said evenly. “Now, how is she?”

“That’s none of your concern,” the bear-skin man snapped, suddenly remembering what time it was. “Are you a lock-smith? The kender said something about you being able to open the door.”

“I’m not a locksmith,” Caramon said, “but maybe I can open it.” His eyes went to the jailer. “If you don’t mind it breaking?”

“Lock’s broken now!” the jailer said shrilly. “Can’t see as you could hurt it much worse unless you broke the door down.”

“That’s what I intend to do,” Caramon said coolly.

“Break the door down?” the jailer’s shrieked. “You’re daft! Why—”

“Wait.” The bear-skin man had caught a glimpse of Caramon’s shoulders and bull-like neck through the bars in the door. “Let’s see this. If he does, I’ll pay damages.”

“You bet you will!” the jailer jabbered. The bear-skin man glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and the jailer fell silent.

Caramon closed his eyes and drew several deep breaths, letting each out slowly. The bear-skin man and the jailer backed away from the door. Caramon disappeared from sight. They heard a grunt and then the sound of a tremendous blow hitting the solid wooden door. The door shuddered on its hinges, indeed, even the stone walls seemed to shake with the force of the blow. But the door held. The jailer, however, backed up another step, his mouth wide open.

There was another grunt from inside the cell, then another blow. The door exploded with such force that the only remaining, recognizable pieces were the twisted hinges and the lock—still fastened securely to the doorframe. The force of Caramon’s momentum sent him flying into the corridor. Muffled sounds of cheering could be heard from surrounding cells where other prisoners had their faces pressed to the bars.

“You’ll pay for this!” the jailer squeaked at the bear-skin man.

“It’s worth every penny,” the man said, helping Caramon to his feet and dusting him off, eyeing him critically at the same time. “Been eating a bit too well, huh? Enjoy your liquor, too, I’ll bet? Probably what got you in here. Well, never mind. That’s soon mended. Name’s—Caramon?”

The big man nodded morosely.

“And I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender, stepping out through the broken door and extending his hand again. “I go everywhere with him, absolutely everywhere. I promised Tika I would and—”

The bear-skin man was writing something down on his slate and only glanced at the kender absently. “Mmmmm, I see.”

“Well, now,” the kender continued, putting his hand into his pocket with a sigh, “if you’d take these chains off our feet, it would certainly be easier to walk.”

“Wouldn’t it,” the bear-skin man murmured, jotting down some figures on the slate. Adding them up, he smiled. “Go ahead,” he instructed the jailer. “Get any others you’ve got for me today.”

The old man shuffled off, first casting a vicious glance at Tas and Caramon.

“You two, sit over there by the wall until we’re ready to go,” the bear-skin man ordered.

Caramon crouched down on the floor, rubbing his shoulder. Tas sat next to him with a happy sigh. The world outside the jail cell looked brighter already. Just like he’d told Caramon—“Once we’re out, we’ll have a chance! We’ve got no chance at all, cooped up in here.”

“Oh, by the way,” Tas called after the retreating figure of the jailer, “would you please see that my lockpick’s returned to me? Sentimental value, you know.”

“A chance, huh?” Caramon said to Tas as the blacksmith prepared to bolt on the iron collar. It had taken a while to find one big enough, and Caramon was the last of the slaves to have this sign of his bondage fastened around his neck. The big man winced in pain as the smith soldered the bolt with a red-hot iron. There was a smell of burning flesh.

Tas tugged miserably at his collar and winced in sympathy for Caramon’s suffering. “I’m sorry,” he said, snuffling. “I didn’t know he meant ‘on the block’! I thought he said ‘down the block.’ Like, we’re going to take a walk ‘down the block.’ They talk kinda funny back here. Honestly, Caramon...”

“That’s all right,” Caramon said with a sigh. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it’s somebody’s fault,” Tas said reflectively, watching with interest as the smith slapped grease over Caramon’s burn, then inspected his work with a critical eye. More than one blacksmith in Istar had lost his job when a slave-owner turned up, demanding retribution for a runaway slave who had slipped his collar.

“What do you mean?” Caramon muttered dully, his face settling into its resigned, vacant look.

“Well,” Tas whispered, with a glance at the smith, “stop and think. Look how you were dressed when we got here. You looked just like a ruffian. Then there was that cleric and those guards turning up, just like they were expecting us. And Lady Crysania, looking like she did.”

“You’re right,” Caramon said, a gleam of life flickering in his dull eyes. The gleam became a flash, igniting a smoldering fire.

“Raistlin,” he murmured. “He knows I’m going to try and stop him. He’s done this!”

“I’m not so sure,” Tas said after some thought. “I mean, wouldn’t he be more likely to just burn you to a crisp or make you into a wall hanging or something like that?”

“No!” Caramon said, and Tas saw excitement in his eyes. “Don’t you see? He wants me back here... to do something. He wouldn’t murder us. That... that dark elf who works for him told us, remember?”

Tas looked dubious and started to say something, but just then the blacksmith pushed the warrior to his feet. The bear-skin man, who had been peering in at them impatiently from the doorway of the smith’s shop, motioned to two of his own personal slaves. Hurrying inside, they roughly grabbed hold of Caramon and Tas, shoving them into line with the other slaves. Two more slaves came up and began attaching the leg chains of all the slaves together until they were strung out in a line. Then—at a gesture from the bear-skin man—the wretched living chain of humans, half-elves, and two goblins shuffled forward.

They hadn’t taken more than three steps before they were all immediately tangled up by Tasslehoff, who had mistakenly started off in the wrong direction.

After much swearing and a few lashes with a willow stick (first looking to see if any clerics were about), the bear-skin man got the line moving. Tas hopped about trying to get into step. It was only after the kender was twice dragged to his knees, imperiling the entire line again, that Caramon finally wrapped his big arm around his waist, lifted him up—chain and all—and carried him.

“That was kind of fun,” Tas commented breathlessly. “Especially where I fell over. Did you see that man’s face? I—”

“What did you mean, back there?” Caramon interrupted. “What makes you think Raistlin’s not behind this?”

Tas’s face grew unusually serious and thoughtful. “Caramon,” he said after a moment, putting his arms around Caramon’s neck and speaking into his ear to be heard above the rattling of chains and the sounds of the city streets. “Raistlin must have been awfully busy, what with traveling back here and all. Why, it took Par-Salian days to cast that time-traveling spell and he’s a really powerful mage. So it must have taken a lot of Raistlin’s energy. How could he have possibly done that and done this to us at the same time?”

“Well,” Caramon said, frowning. “If he didn’t, who did?”

“What about—Fistandantilus?” Tas whispered dramatically. Caramon sucked in his breath, his face grew dark.

“He—he’s a really powerful wizard,” Tas reminded him, “and, well, you didn’t make any secret of the fact that you’ve come back here to—uh—well, do him in, so to speak. I mean, you even said that right in the Tower of High Sorcery. And we know Fistandantilus can hang around in the Tower. That’s where he met Raistlin, wasn’t it? What if he was standing there and heard you? I guess he’d be pretty mad.”

“Bah! If he’s that powerful, he would have just killed me on the spot!” Caramon scowled.

“No, he can’t,” Tas said firmly. “Look, I’ve got this all figured out. He can’t murder his own pupil’s brother. Especially if Raistlin’s brought you back here for a reason. Why, for all Fistandantilus knows, Raistlin may love you, deep down inside.”

Caramon’s face paled, and Tas immediately felt like biting off his tongue. “Anyway,” he went on hurriedly, “he can’t get rid of you right away. He’s got to make it look good.”

“So?”

“So—” Tas drew a deep breath. “Well, they don’t execute people around here, but they apparently have other ways of dealing with those no one wants hanging around. That cleric and the jailer both talked about executions being ‘easy’ death compared to what was going on now.”

The lash of a whip across Caramon’s back ended further conversation. Glaring furiously at the slave who had struck him—an ingratiating, sniveling fellow, who obviously enjoyed his work—Caramon lapsed into gloomy silence, thinking over what Tas had told him. It certainly made sense. He had seen how much power and concentration Par-Salian had exerted casting this difficult spell. Raistlin may be powerful, but not like that! Plus, he was still weak physically.

Caramon suddenly saw everything quite clearly. Tasslehoff’s right! We’re being set up. Fistandantilus will do away with me somehow and then explain my death to Raistlin as an accident. Somewhere, in the back of Caramon’s mind, he heard a gruff old dwarvish voice say, “I don’t know who’s the bigger ninny—you or that doorknob of a kender? If either of you make it out of this alive, I’ll be surprised!” Caramon smiled sadly at the thought of his old friend. But Flint wasn’t here, neither was Tanis or anyone else who could advise him. He and Tas were on their own and, if it hadn’t been for the kender’s impetuous leap into the spell, he might very well have been back here by himself, without anyone! That thought appalled him. Caramon shivered.

“All this means is that I’ve got to get to this Fistandantilus before he gets to me,” he said to himself softly.

The great spires of the Temple looked down on city streets kept scrupulously clean—all except the back alleys. The streets were thronged with people. Temple guards roamed about, keeping order, standing out from the crowd in their colorful mantles and plumed helms. Beautiful women cast admiring glances at the guards from the corners of their eyes as they strolled among the bazaars and shops, their fine gowns sweeping the pavement as they moved. There was one place in the city the women didn’t go near, however, though many cast curious glances toward it—the part of the square where the slave market stood.

The slave market was crowded, as usual. Auctions were held once a week—one reason the bear-skin man, who was the manager, had been so eager to get his weekly quotient of slaves from the prisons. Though the money from the sales of prisoners went into the public coffers, the manager got his cut, of course. This week looked particularly promising.

As he had told Tas, there were no longer executions in Istar or parts of Krynn that it controlled. Well, few. The Knights of Solamnia still insisted on punishing knights who betrayed their Order in the old barbaric fashion—slitting the knight’s throat with his own sword. But the Kingpriest was counseling with the Knights, and there was hope that soon even that heinous practice would be stopped.

Of course, the halting of executions in Istar had created another problem—what to do with the prisoners, who were increasing in number and becoming a drain on the public coffers. The church, therefore, conducted a study. It was discovered that most prisoners were indigent, homeless, and penniless. The crimes they had committed—thievery, burglary, prostitution, and the like—grew out of this.

“Isn’t it logical, therefore,” said the Kingpriest to his ministers on the day he made the official pronoucement, “that slavery is not only the answer to the problem of overcrowding in our prisons but is a most kind and beneficent way of dealing with these poor people, whose only crime is that they have been caught in a web of poverty from which they cannot escape?

“Of course it is. It is our duty, therefore, to help them. As slaves, they will be fed and clothed and housed. They will be given everything they lacked that forced them to turn to a life of crime. We will see to it that they are well-treated, of course, and provide that after a certain period of servitude—if they have done well—they may purchase their own freedom. They will then return to us as productive members of society.”

The idea was put into effect at once and had been practiced for about ten years now. There had been problems. But these had never reached the attention of the Kingpriest—they had not been serious enough to demand his concern. Under-ministers had dealt efficiently with them, and now the system ran quite smoothly. The church had a steady income from the money received for the prison slaves (to keep them separate from slaves sold by private concerns), and slavery even appeared to act as a deterrent from crime.

The problems that had arisen concerned two groups of criminals—kenders and those criminals whose crimes were particularly unsavory. It was discovered that it was impossible to sell a kender to anyone, and it was also difficult to sell a murderer, rapist, the insane, etc. The solutions were simple. Kender were locked up overnight and then escorted to the city gates (this resulted in a small procession every morning). Institutions had been created to handle the more obdurate type of criminal.

It was to the dwarven head of one of these institutions that the bear-skin man stood talking animatedly that morning, pointing at Caramon as he stood with the other prisoners in the filthy, foul-smelling pen behind the block, and making a dramatic motion of knocking a door down with his shoulder.

The head of the institution did not seem impressed. This was not unusual, however. He had learned, long ago, that to seem impressed over a prisoner resulted in the asking price doubling on the spot. Therefore, the dwarf scowled at Caramon, spit on the ground, crossed his arms and, planting his feet firmly on the pavement, glared up at the bear-skin man.

“He’s out of shape, too fat. Plus he’s a drunk, look at his nose.” The dwarf shook his head. “And he doesn’t look mean. What did you say he did? Assaulted a cleric? Humpf!” The dwarf snorted. “The only thing it looks like he could assault’d be a wine jug!”

The bear-skin man was accustomed to this, of course.

“You’d be passing up the chance of a lifetime, Rockbreaker,” he said smoothly. “You should have seen him bash that door down. I’ve never seen such strength in any man. Perhaps he is overweight, but that’s easily cured. Fix him up and he’ll be a heartthrob. The ladies’ll adore him. Look at those melting brown eyes and that wavy hair.” The bear-skin man lowered his voice. “It would be a real shame to lose him to the mines... I tried to keep word of what he had done quiet, but Haarold got wind of it, I’m afraid.”

Both the bear-skin man and the dwarf glanced at a human standing some distance away, talking and laughing with several of his burly guards. The dwarf stroked his beard, keeping his face impassive.

The bear-skin man went on, “Haarold’s sworn to have him at all costs. Says he’ll get the work of two ordinary humans out of him. Now, you being a preferred customer, I’ll try to swing things your direction—”

“Let Haarold have him,” growled the dwarf. “Fat slob.”

But the bear-skin man saw the dwarf regarding Caramon with a speculative eye. Knowing from long experience when to talk and when to keep quiet, the bear-skin man bowed to the dwarf and went on his way, rubbing his hands.

Overhearing this conversation, and seeing the dwarf’s gaze run over him like a man looks at a prize pig, Caramon felt the sudden, wild desire to break out of his bonds, crash through the pen where he stood caged, and throttle both the bear-skin man and the dwarf. Blood hammered in his brain, he strained against his bonds, the muscles in his arms rippled—a sight that caused the dwarf to open his eyes wide and caused the guards standing around the pen to draw their swords from their scabbards. But Tasslehoff suddenly jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow.

“Caramon, look!” the kender said in excitement.

For a moment, Caramon couldn’t hear over the throbbing in his ears. Tas poked him again.

“Look, Caramon. Over there, at the edge of the crowd, standing by himself. See?”

Caramon drew a shaking breath and forced himself to calm down. He looked over to where the kender was pointing, and suddenly the hot blood in his veins ran cold.

Standing on the fringes of the crowd was a black-robed figure. He stood alone. Indeed, there was even a wide, empty circle around him. None in the crowd came near him. Many made detours, going out of their way to avoid coming close to him. No one spoke to him, but all were aware of his presence. Those near him, who had been talking animatedly, fell into uncomfortable silence, casting nervous glances his direction.

The man’s robes were a deep black, without ornamentation. No silver thread glittered on his sleeves, no border surrounded the black hood he wore pulled low over his face. He carried no staff, no familiar walked by his side. Let other mages wear runes of warding and protection, let other mages carry staves of power or have animals do their bidding. This man needed none. His power sprang from within—so great, it had spanned the centuries, spanned even planes of existence. It could be felt, it shimmered around him like the heat from the smith’s furnace.

He was tall and well-built, the black robes fell from shoulders that were slender but muscular. His white hands—the only parts of his body that were visible—were strong and delicate and supple. Though so old that few on Krynn could venture even to guess his age, he had the body of one young and strong. Dark rumors told how he used his magic arts to overcome the debilities of age.

And so he stood alone, as if a black sun had been dropped into the courtyard. Not even the glitter of his eyes could be seen within the dark depths of his hood.

“Who’s that?” Tas asked a fellow prisoner conversationally, nodding at the black-robed figure.

“Don’t you know?” the prisoner said nervously, as if reluctant to reply.

“I’m from out of town,” Tas apologized.

“Why, that’s the Dark One—Fistandantilus. You’ve heard of him, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Tas said, glancing at Caramon as much as to say I told you so! “We’ve heard of him.”

4

When Crysania first awakened from the spell Paladine had cast upon her, she was in such a state of bewilderment and confusion that the clerics were greatly concerned, fearing her ordeal had unbalanced her mind.

She spoke of Palanthas, so they assumed she must come from there. But she called continually for the Head of her Order—someone named Elistan. The clerics were familiar with the Heads of all the Orders on Krynn and this Elistan was not known. But she was so insistent that there was, at first, some fear that something might have happened to the current Head in Palanthas. Messengers were hastily dispatched.

Then, too, Crysania spoke of a Temple in Palanthas, where no Temple existed. Finally she talked quite wildly of dragons and the “return of the gods,” which caused those in the room—Quarath and Elsa, head of the Revered Daughters—to look at each other in horror and make the signs of protection against blasphemy. Crysania was given an herbal potion, which calmed her, and eventually she fell asleep. The two stayed with her for long moments after she slept, discussing her case in low voices. Then the Kingpriest entered the room, coming to allay their fears.

“I cast an augury,” said the musical voice, “and was told that Paladine called her to him to protect her from a spell of evil magic that had been used upon her. I don’t believe any of us find that difficult to doubt.”

Quarath and Elsa shook their head, exchanging knowing glances. The Kingpriest’s hatred of magic-users was well known.

“She has been with Paladine, therefore, living in that wondrous realm which we seek to recreate upon this soil. Undoubtedly, while there, she was given knowledge of the future. She speaks of a beautiful Temple being built in Palanthas. Have we not plans to build such a Temple? She talks of this Elistan, who is probably some cleric destined to rule there.”

“But... dragons, return of the gods?” murmured Elsa.

“As to the dragons,” the Kingpriest said in a voice radiating warmth and amusement, “that is probably some tale of her childhood that haunted her in her illness, or perhaps had something to do with the spell cast upon her by the magic-user.” His voice became stern. “It is said, you know, that the wizards have the power to make people see that which does not exist. As for her talk of the ‘return of the gods’...”

The Kingpriest was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, it was with a hushed and breathless quality. “You two, my closest advisors, know of the dream in my heart. You know that someday—and that day is fast approaching—I will go to the gods and demand their help to fight the evil that is still present among us. On that day, Paladine himself will heed my prayers. He will come to stand at my side, and together we will battle the darkness until it is forever vanquished! This is what she has foreseen! This is what she means by the ‘return of the gods!’”

Light filled the room, Elsa whispered a prayer, and even Quarath lowered his eyes.

“Let her sleep,” said the Kingpriest. “She will be better by morning. I will mention her in my prayers to Paladine.”

He left the room and it grew darker with his passing. Elsa stood looking after him in silence. Then, as the door shut to Crysania’s chamber, the elven woman turned to Quarath.

“Does he have the power?” Elsa asked her male counterpart as he stood staring thoughtfully at Crysania. “Does he truly intend to do... what he spoke of doing?”

“What?” Quarath’s thoughts had been far away. He glanced after the Kingpriest. “Oh, that? Of course he has the power. You saw how he healed this young woman. And the gods speak to him through the augury, or so he claims. When was the last time you healed someone, Revered Daughter?”

“Then you believe all that about Paladine taking her soul and letting her see the future?” Elsa appeared amazed. “You believe he truly healed her?”

“I believe there is something very strange about this young woman and about those two who came with her,” Quarath said gravely. “I will take care of them. You keep an eye on her. As for the Kingpriest”—Quarath shrugged—“let him call down the power of the gods. If they come down to fight for him, fine. If not, it doesn’t matter to us. We know who does the work of the gods on Krynn.”

“I wonder,” remarked Elsa, smoothing Crysania’s dark hair back from her slumbering face. “There was a young girl in our Order who had the power of true healing. That young girl who was seduced by the Solamnic knight. What was his name?”

“Soth,” said Quarath. “Lord Soth, of Dargaard Keep. Oh, I don’t doubt it. You occasionally find some, particularly among the very young or the very old, who have the power. Or think they do. Frankly, I am convinced most of it is simply a result of people wanting to believe in something so badly that they convince themselves it is true. Which doesn’t hurt any of us. Watch this young woman closely, Elsa. If she continues to talk about such things in the morning, after she is recovered, we may need to take drastic measures. But, for now—”

He fell silent. Elsa nodded. Knowing that the young woman would sleep soundly under the influence of the potion, the two of them left Crysania alone, asleep in a room in the great Temple of Istar.

Crysania woke the next morning feeling as if her head were stuffed with cotton. There was a bitter taste in her mouth and she was terribly thirsty. Dizzily, she sat up, trying to piece together her thoughts. Nothing made any sense. She had a vague, horrifying memory of a ghastly creature from beyond the grave approaching her. Then she had been with Raistlin in the Tower of High Sorcery, and then a dim memory of being surrounded by mages dressed in white, red, and black, an impression of singing stones, and a feeling of having taken a long journey.

She also had a memory of awakening and finding herself in the presence of a man whose beauty had been overpowering, whose voice filled her mind and her soul with peace. But he said he was the Kingpriest and that she was in the Temple of the Gods in Istar. That made no sense at all. She remembered calling for Elistan, but no one seemed to have heard of him. She told them about him—how he was healed by Goldmoon, cleric of Mishakal, how he led the fight against the evil dragons, and how he was telling the people about the return of the gods. But her words only made the clerics regard her with pity and alarm. Finally, they gave her an odd-tasting potion to drink, and she had fallen asleep.

Now she was still confused but determined to find out where she was and what was happening. Getting out of bed, she forced herself to wash as she did every morning, then she sat down at the strange-looking dressing table and calmly brushed and braided her long, dark hair. The familiar routine made her feel more relaxed.

She even took time to look around the bedroom, and she couldn’t help but admire its beauty and splendor. But she did think, however, that it seemed rather out of place in a Temple devoted to the gods, if that was truly where she was. Her bedroom in her parent’s home in Palanthas had not been half so splendid, and it had been furnished with every luxury money could buy.

Her mind went suddenly to what Raistlin had shown her—the poverty and want so near the Temple—and she flushed uncomfortably.

“Perhaps this is a guest room,” Crysania said to herself, speaking out loud, finding the familiar sound of her own voice comforting. “After all, the guest rooms in our new Temple are certainly designed to make our guests comfortable. Still”—she frowned, her gaze going to a costly golden statue of a dryad, holding a candle in her golden hands—“that is extravagant. It would feed a family for months.”

How thankful she was he couldn’t see this! She would speak to the Head of this Order, whoever he was. (Surely she must have been mistaken, thinking he said he was the Kingpriest!)

Having made up her mind to action, feeling her head clear, Crysania removed the night clothes she had been wearing and put on the white robes she found laid out neatly at the foot of her bed.

What quaint, old-fashioned robes, she noticed, slipping them over her head. Not at all like the plain, austere white robes worn by those of her Order in Palanthas. These were heavily decorated. Golden thread sparkled on the sleeves and hem, crimson and purple ribbon ornamented the front, and a heavy golden belt gathered the folds around her slender waist. More extravagance. Crysania bit her lip in displeasure, but she also took a peep at herself in a gilt-framed mirror. It certainly was becoming, she had to admit, smoothing the folds of the gown.

It was then that she felt the note in her pocket.

Reaching inside, she pulled out a piece of rice paper that had been folded into quarters. Staring at it curiously, wondering idly if the owner of the robes had left it by accident, she was startled to see it addressed to herself. Puzzled, she opened it.

Crysania sank down on the bed, her knees giving way beneath her. The hand that held the letter trembled. Dazedly, she stared at it, reading it over and over without comprehending the words. After a few moments, however, she grew calmer and forced herself to go over each word, reading one sentence at a time until she was certain she had grasped the meaning.

This took nearly a half hour of reading and pondering. At last she believed she understood. Or at least most of it. The memory of why she had been journeying to the Forest of Wayreft returned. So, Par-Salian had known. He had been expecting her. All the better. And he was right—the attack by the death knight had obviously been an example of Paladine’s intervention, insuring that she come back here to the past. As for that remark about her faith and her virtue—!

Crysania rose to her feet. Her pale face was fixed in firm resolve, there was a faint spot of color in each cheek, and her eyes glittered in anger. She was only sorry she had not been able to confront him with that in person! How dare he?

Her lips drawn into a tight, straight line, Crysania refolded the note, drawing her fingers across it swiftly, as though she would like to tear it apart. A small golden box—the kind of box used by ladies of the court to hold their jewelry—stood on the dressing table beside the gilt-edged mirror and the brush. Picking up the box, Crysania withdrew the small key from the lock, thrust the letter inside, and snapped the lid shut. She inserted the key, twisted it, and heard the lock click. Dropping the key into the pocket where she had found the note, Crysania looked once more into the mirror.

She smoothed the black hair back from her face, drew up the hood of her robe, and draped it over her head. Noticing the flush on her cheeks, Crysania forced herself to relax, allow her anger to seep away. The old mage meant well, after all, she reminded herself. And how could one of magic possibly understand one of faith? She could rise above petty anger. She was, after all, hovering on the edge of her moment of greatness. Paladine was with her. She could almost sense his presence. And the man she had met was truly the Kingpriest!

She smiled, remembering the feeling of goodness he had inspired. How could he have been responsible for the Cataclysm? No, her soul refused to believe it. History must have maligned him. True, she had been with him for only a few seconds, but a man so beautiful, so good and holy—responsible for such death and destruction? It was impossible! Perhaps she would be able to vindicate him. Perhaps that was another reason Paladine had sent her back here—to discover the truth!

Joy filled Crysania’s soul. And, at that moment, she heard her joy answered, it seemed, in the pealing of the bells ringing for Morning Prayers. The beauty of the music brought tears to her eyes. Her heart bursting with excitement and happiness, Crysania left her room and hurried out into the magnificent corridors, nearly running into Elsa.

“In the name of the gods,” exclaimed Elsa in astonishment, “can it be possible? How are you feeling?”

“I am feeling much better, Revered Daughter,” Crysania said in some confusion, remembering that what they had heard her say earlier must have seemed to be wild and incoherent ramblings. “As—as though I had awakened from a strange and vivid dream.”

“Paladine be praised,” murmured Elsa, regarding Crysania with narrowed eyes and a sharp, penetrating gaze.

“I have not neglected to do so, you may be certain,” said Crysania sincerely. In her own joy, she did not notice the elf woman’s odd look. “Were you going to Morning Prayers’? If so, may I accompany you?” She looked around the splendid building in awe. “I fear it will be some time before I learn my way around.”

“Of course,” Elsa said, recovering herself. “This way.” They started back down the corridor. “I was also concerned about the—the young man who was... was found with me,” Crysania stammered, suddenly remembering she knew very little about the circumstances regarding her appearance in this time.

Elsa’s face grew cold and stern. “He is where he will be well cared for, my dear. Is he a friend of yours?”

“No, of course not,” Crysania said quickly, remembering her last encounter with the drunken Caramon. “He—he was my escort. Hired escort,” she stammered, realizing suddenly that she was very poor at lying.

“He is at the School of the Games,” Elsa replied. “It would be possible to send him a message, if you are concerned.”

Crysania had no idea what this school was, and she was afraid to ask too many more questions. Thanking Elsa, therefore, she let the matter drop, her mind at ease. At least now she knew where Caramon was and that he was safe. Feeling reassured, knowing that she had a way back to her own time, she allowed herself to relax completely.

“Ah, look, my dear,” Elsa said, “here comes another to inquire after your health.”

“Revered Son.” Crysania bowed in reverence as Quarath came up to the two women. Thus she missed his swift glance of inquiry at Elsa and the elfwoman’s slight nod.

“I am overjoyed to see you up and around,” Quarath said, taking Crysania’s hand and speaking with such feeling and warmth that the young woman flushed with pleasure. “The Kingpriest spent the night in prayer for your recovery. This proof of his faith and power will be extremely gratifying. We will present you to him formally this evening. But, now”—he interrupted whatever Crysania had been about to say—“I am keeping you from Prayers. Please, do not let me detain you further.”

Bowing to them both with exquisite grace, Quarath walked past, heading down the corridor.

“Isn’t he attending services?” Crysania asked, her gaze following the cleric.

“No, my dear,” Elsa said, smiling at Crysania’s naivete, “he attends the Kingpriest in his own private ceremonies early each morning. Quarath is, after all, second only to the Kingpriest and has matters of great importance to deal with each day. One might say that, if the Kingpriest is the heart and soul of the church, Quarath is the brain.”

“My, how odd,” murmured Crysania, her thoughts on Elistan.

“Odd, my dear?” Elsa said, with a slightly reproving air. “The Kingpriest’s thoughts are with the gods. He cannot be expected to deal with such mundane matters as the day-to-day business of the church, can he’?”

“Oh, of course not.” Crysania flushed in embarrassment.

How provincial she must seem to these people; how simple and backward. As she followed Elsa down the bright and airy halls, the beautiful music of the bells and the glorious sound of a children’s choir filled her very soul with ecstasy. Crysania remembered the simple service Elistan held every morning. And he still did most of the work of the church himself!

That simple service seemed shabby to her now, Elistan’s work demeaning. Certainly it had taken a toll on his health. Perhaps, she thought with a pang of regret, he might not have shortened his own life if he had been surrounded by people like these to help him.

Well, that would change, Crysania resolved suddenly, realizing that this must be another reason why she had been sent back—she had been chosen to restore the glory of the church! Trembling in excitement, her mind already busy with plans for change, Crysania asked Elsa to describe the inner workings of the church hierarchy. Elsa was only too glad to expand upon it as the two continued down the corridor.

Lost in her interest in the conversation, attentive to Elsa’s every word, Crysania thought no more of Quarath, who was—at that moment—quietly opening the door to her bedroom and slipping inside.

5

Quarath found the letter from Par-Salian within a matter of moments. He had noticed, almost immediately on entering, that the golden box that stood on top of the dressing table had been moved. A quick search of the drawers revealed it and, since he had the master key to the locks of every box and drawer and door in the Temple, he opened it easily.

The letter itself, however, was not so easily understood by the cleric. It took him only seconds to absorb its contents. These would remain imprinted on his mind; Quarath’s phenomenal ability to memorize instantly anything he saw being one of his greatest gifts. So it was that he had the complete text of the letter locked in his mind within seconds. But, he realized, it would take hours of pondering to make sense of it.

Absently, Quarath folded the parchment and put it back into the box, then returned the box to its exact position within the drawer. He locked it with the key, glanced through the other drawers without much interest, and—finding nothing—left the young woman’s room, lost in thought.

So perplexing and disturbing were the contents of the letter that he cancelled his appointments for that morning or shifted them onto the shoulders of underlings. Then he went to his study. Here he sat, recalling each word, each phrase.

At last, he had it figured out—if not to his complete satisfaction, then, at least, enough to allow him to determine a course of action. Three things were apparent. One, the young woman might be a cleric, but she was involved with magic-users and was, therefore, suspect. Two, the Kingpriest was in danger. That was not surprising, the magic-users had good reason to hate and fear the man. Three, the young man who had been found with Crysania was, undoubtedly, an assassin. Crysania, herself might be an accomplice.

Quarath smiled grimly, congratulating himself on having already taken appropriate measures to deal with the threat. He had seen to it that the young man—Caramon was his name apparently—was serving his time in a place where unfortunate accidents occurred from time to time.

As for Crysania, she was safely within the walls of the Temple where she could be watched and subtly interrogated.

Breathing easier, his mind clearing, the cleric rang for the servant to bring his lunch, thankful to know that, for the moment at least, the Kingpriest was safe.

Quarath was an unusual man in many respects, not the least of which was that, though highly ambitious, he knew the limits of his own abilities. He needed the Kingpriest, he had no desire to take his place. Quarath was content to bask in the light of his master, all the while extending his own control and authority and power over the world—all in the name of the church.

And, as he extended his own authority, so he extended the power of his race. Imbued with a sense of their superiority over all others, as well as with a sense of their own innate goodness, the elves were a moving force behind the church.

It was unfortunate, Quarath felt, that the gods had seen fit to create other, weaker races. Races such as humans, who—with their short and frantic lives—were easy targets for the temptations of evil. But the elves were learning to deal with this. If they could not completely wipe out the evil in the world (and they were working on it), then they could at least bring it under control. It was freedom that brought about evil—freedom of choice. Especially to humans, who continually abused this gift. Give them strict rules to follow, make it clear what was right and what was wrong in no uncertain terms, restrict this wild freedom that they misused. Thus, Quarath believed, the humans would fall in line. They would be content.

As for the other races on Krynn, gnomes and dwarves and (sigh) kender, Quarath (and the church) was rapidly forcing them into small, isolated territories where they could cause little trouble and would, in time, probably die out. (This plan was working well with the gnomes and the dwarves, who hadn’t much use for the rest of Krynn anyhow. Unfortunately, however, the kender didn’t take to it at all and were still happily wandering about the world, causing no end of trouble and enjoying life thoroughly.)

All of this passed through Quarath’s mind as he ate his lunch and began to make his plans. He would do nothing in haste about this Lady Crysania. That was not his way, nor the way of the elves, for that matter. Patience in all things. Watch. Wait. He needed only one thing now, and that was more information. To this end, he rang a small golden bell. The young acolyte who had taken Denubis to the Kingpriest appeared so swiftly and quietly at the summons that he might have slipped beneath the door instead of opening it.

“What is your bidding, Revered Son?”

“Two small tasks,” Quarath said without looking up, being engaged in writing a note. “Take this to Fistandantilus. It has been some time since he was my guest at dinner, and I desire to talk with him.”

“Fistandantilus is not here, my lord,” said the acolyte. “In fact, I was on my way to report this to you.”

Quarath raised his head in astonishment.

“Not here?”

“No, Revered Son. He left last night, or so we suppose. At least that was the last anyone saw of him. His room is empty, his things gone. It is believed, from certain things he said, that he has gone to the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. Rumor has it that the wizards are holding a Conclave there, though none know for certain.”

“A Conclave,” Quarath repeated, frowning. He was silent a moment, tapping the paper with the tip of the quill. Wayreth was faraway... still, perhaps it was not far enough... Cataclysm... that odd word that had been used in the letter. Could it be possible that the magic-users were plotting some devastating catastrophe? Quarath felt chilled. Slowly, he crumpled the invitation he had been penning.

“Have his movements been traced?”

“Of course, Revered Son. As much as is possible with him. He has not left the Temple for months, apparently. Then, yesterday, he was seen in the slave market.”

“The slave market?” Quarath felt the chill spread throughout his body. “What business did he have there?”

“He bought two slaves, Revered Son.”

Quarath said nothing, interrogating the cleric with a look.

“He did not purchase the slaves himself, my lord. The purchase was made through one of his agents.”

“Which slaves?” Quarath knew the answer.

“The ones that were accused of assaulting the female cleric, Revered Son.”

“I gave orders that those two were to be sold either to the dwarf or the mines.”

“Barak did his best and, indeed, the dwarf bid for them, my lord. But the Dark One’s agents outbid him. There was nothing Barak could do. Think of the scandal. Besides, his agent sent them to the school anyway—”

“Yes,” Quarath muttered. So, it was all falling into place. Fistandantilus had even had the temerity to purchase the young man, the assassin! Then he had vanished. Gone to report, undoubtedly. But why should the mages bother with assassins? Fistandantilus himself could have murdered the Kingpriest on countless occasions. Quarath had the unpleasant impression that he had inadvertently walked from a clear, well-lighted path into a dark and treacherous forest.

He sat in troubled silence for so long that the young acolyte cleared his throat as a subtle reminder of his presence three times before the cleric noticed him.

“You had another task for me, Revered Son?”

Quarath nodded slowly. “Yes, and this news makes this task even more important. I wish you to undertake it yourself. I must talk to the dwarf.”

The acolyte bowed and left. There was no need to ask who Quarath meant—there was only one dwarf in Istar.

Just who Arack Rockbreaker was or where he came from no one knew. He never made reference to his past and generally scowled so ferociously if this subject came up that it was usually immediately dropped. There were several interesting speculations concerning this, the favorite being that he was an outcast from Thorbardin—ancient home of the mountain dwarves, where he had committed some crime resulting in exile. Just what that might have been, no one knew. Nor did anyone take into account the fact that dwarves never punished any crime by exile; execution being considered more humane.

Other rumors insisted he was actually a Dewar—a race of evil dwarves nearly exterminated by their cousins and now driven to living a wretched, embittered existence in the very bowels of the world. Though Arack didn’t particularly look or act like a Dewar, this rumor was popular due to the fact that Arack’s favorite (and only) companion was an ogre. Other rumor had it that Arack didn’t even come from Ansalon at all, but from somewhere over the sea.

Certainly, he was the meanest looking of his race anyone could remember seeing. The jagged scars that crossed his face vertically gave him a perpetual scowl. He was not fat, there wasn’t a wasted ounce on his frame. He moved with the grace of a feline and, when he stood, planted his feet so firmly that they seemed part of the ground itself.

Wherever he came from, Arack had made Istar his home for so many years now that the subject of his origin rarely came up. He and the ogre, whose name was Raag, had come for the Games in the old days when the Games had been real. They immediately became great favorites with the crowds. People in Istar still told how Raag and Arack defeated the mighty minotaur, Darmoork, in three rounds. It started when Darmoork hurled the dwarf clear out of the arena. Raag, in a berserk fit of anger, lifted the minotaur off his feet and—ignoring several terrible stab wounds—impaled him upon the huge Freedom Spire in the center of the ring.

Though neither the dwarf (who survived only by the fact that a cleric had been standing in the street when the dwarf sailed over the arena wall and landed practically at his feet) nor the ogre won his freedom that day, there was no doubt who had been winner of the contest. (Indeed, it was many days before anyone reached the Golden Key on the Spire, since it took that long to remove the remains of the minotaur.)

Arack related the gruesome details of this fight to his two new slaves.

“That’s how I got this old cracked face of mine,” the dwarf said to Caramon as he led the big man and the kender through the streets of Istar. “And that’s how me and Raag made our name in the Games.”

“What games?” asked Tas, stumbling over his chains and sprawling flat on his face, to the great delight of the crowd in the market place.

Arack scowled in irritation. “Take those durn things off ’im,” he ordered the gigantic, yellow-skinned ogre, who was acting as guard. “I guess you won’t run off and leave yer friend behind, will you?” The dwarf studied Tas intently. “No, I didn’t think so. They said you had a chance to run away once and you didn’t. Just mind you don’t run away on me!” Arack’s natural scowl deepened. “I’d have never bought a kender, but I didn’t have much choice. They said you two was to be sold together. Just remember that—as far as I’m concerned—yer worthless. Now, what fool question was you asking?”

“How are you going to get the chains off? Don’t you need a key? Oh—” Tas watched in delighted astonishment as the ogre took the chains in either hand and, with a quick jerk, yanked them apart.

“Did you see that, Caramon?” Tas asked as the ogre picked him up and set him on his feet, giving him a push that nearly sent the kender into the dirt again. “He’s really strong! I never met an ogre before. What was I saying? Oh, the games. What games?”

“Why, the Games!” Arack snapped in exasperation.

Tas glanced up at Caramon, but the big man shrugged and shook his head, frowning. This was obviously something everyone knew about here. Asking too many questions would seem suspicious. Tas cast about in his mind, dragging up every memory and every story he had ever heard about the ancient days before the Cataclysm. Suddenly he caught his breath. “The Games!” he said to Caramon, forgetting the dwarf was listening. “The great Games of Istar! Don’t you remember?”

Caramon’s face grew grim.

“You mean that’s where we’re going?” Tas turned to the dwarf, his eyes wide. “We’re going to be gladiators? And fight in the arena, with the crowd watching and all! Oh, Caramon, think of it! The great Games of Istar! Why I’ve heard stories—”

“So have I,” the big man said slowly, “and you can forget it, dwarf. I’ve killed men before, I admit—but only when it was my life or theirs. I never enjoyed killing. I can still see their faces, sometimes, at night. I won’t murder for sport!”

He said this so sternly that Raag glanced questioningly at the dwarf and raised his club slightly, an eager look on his yellow, warty face. But Arack glared at him and shook his head.

Tas was regarding Caramon with new respect. “I never thought of that,” the kender said softly. “I guess you’re right, Caramon.” He turned to the dwarf again. “I’m really sorry, Arack, but we won’t be able to fight for you.”

Arack cackled. “You’ll fight. Why? Because it’s the only way to get that collar off yer neck, that’s why.”

Caramon shook his head stubbornly. “I won’t kill—”

The dwarf snorted. “Where have you two been living? At the bottom of the Sirrion? Or are they all as dumb as you in Solace? No one fights to kill in the arena anymore.” Arack’s eyes grew misty. He rubbed them with a sigh. “Those days are gone for good, more’s the pity. It’s all fake.”

“Fake?” Tas repeated in astonishment. Caramon glowered at the dwarf and said nothing, obviously not believing a word.

“There hasn’t been a real, true fight in the old arena in ten years,” Arack avowed. “It all started with the elves”—the dwarf spat on the ground. “Ten years ago, the elven clerics—curse them to the Abyss where they belong—convinced the Kingpriest to put an end to the Games. Called ’em ‘barbaric’! Barbaric, hah!” The dwarf’s scowl twisted into a snarl, then—once more—he sighed and shook his head.

“All the great gladiators left,” Arack said wistfully, his eyes looking back to that glorious time. “Danark the Hobgoblin—as vicious a fighter as you’ll ever come across. And Old Josepf One-Eye. Remember him, Raag?” The ogre nodded sadly. “Claimed he was a Knight of Solamnia, old Josepf did. Always fought in full battle armor. They all left, except me and Raag.” A gleam appeared deep in the dwarf’s cold eyes. “We didn’t have nowhere to go, you see, and besides—I had a kind of feeling that the Games weren’t over. Not yet.”

Arack and Raag stayed in Istar. Keeping their quarters inside the deserted arena, they became, as it were, unofficial caretakers. Passers-by saw them there daily—Raag lumbering among the stands, sweeping the aisles with a crude broom or just sitting, staring down dully into the arena where Arack worked, the dwarf lovingly tending the machines in the Death Pits, keeping them oiled and running. Those who saw the dwarf sometimes noticed a strange smile on his bearded, broken-nosed face.

Arack was right. The Games hadn’t been banned many months before the clerics began noticing that their peaceful city wasn’t so peaceful anymore. Fights broke out in bars and taverns with alarming frequency, there were brawls in the streets and once, even, a full-scale riot. There were reports that the Games had gone underground (literally) and were now being held in caves outside of town. The discovery of several mauled and mutilated bodies appeared to bear this out. Finally, in desperation, a group of human and elf lords sent a delegation to the Kingpriest to request that the Games be started again.

“Just as a volcano must erupt to let the steam and poisonous vapors escape from the ground,” said one elf lord, “so it seems that humans, in particular, use the Games as an outlet for their baser emotions.”

While this speech certainly did nothing to endear the elf lord to his human counterparts, they were forced to admit there was some justification to it. At first, the Kingpriest wouldn’t hear of it. He had always abhorred the brutal contests. Life was a sacred gift of the gods, not something to be taken away just to provide pleasure to a bloodthirsty crowd.

“And then it was me gave ’em their answer,” Arack said smugly. “They weren’t going to let me in their fine and fancy Temple.” The dwarf grinned. “But no one keeps Raag out of wherever he’s a mind to go. So they hadn’t much choice.

“‘Start the Games again,’ I told ’em, and they looked down at their long noses at me. ‘But there needn’t be no killing,’ I says. No real killing, that is. Now, listen me out. You’ve seen the street actors do Huma, ain’t you? You’ve seen the knight fall to the ground, bleedin’ and moanin’ and floppin’ around. Yet five minutes later he’s up and drinking ale at the tavern down the block. I’ve done a bit of street work in my time, and... well... watch this. Come here, Raag.’

“Raag came over, a big grin on his ugly, yellow face.

“‘Give me your sword, Raag,’ I orders. Then, before they could say a word, I plunges the sword in Raag’s gut. You shoulda seen him. Blood all over! Running down my hands, spurting from his mouth. He gave a great bellow and fell to the floor, twitchin’ and groanin’.

“You shoulda heard ’em yell,” the dwarf said gleefully, shaking his head over the memory. “I thought we was gonna have to pick them elf lords up off the floor. So, before they could call the guards to come haul me away, I kicked old Raag, here.

“‘You can get up now, Raag,’ I says.

“And he sat up, giving them a big grin. Well, they all started talking at once.” The dwarf mimicked high-pitched elven voices.

“‘Remarkable! How is it done? This could be the answer—’”

“How did you do it?” Tas asked eagerly.

Arack shrugged. “You’ll learn. A lot of chicken blood, a sword with a blade that collapses down into the handle—it’s simple. That’s what I told ’em. Plus, it’s easy to teach gladiators how to act like they’re hurt, even a dummy like old Raag here.”

Tas glanced at the ogre apprehensively, but Raag was only grinning fondly at the dwarf. “Most of ’em beefed up their fights anyway, to make it look good for the gulls—audience, I should say. Well, the Kingpriest, he went for it and”—the dwarf drew himself up proudly—“he even made me Master. And that’s my title, now. Master of the Games.”

“I don’t understand,” Caramon said slowly. “You mean people pay to be tricked? Surely they must have figured it out—”

“Oh, sure.” Arack sneered. “We’ve never made no big secret of it. And now it’s the most popular sport on Krynn. People travel for hundreds of miles to see the Games. The elf lords come—and even the Kingpriest himself, sometimes. Well, here we are,” Arack said, coming to a halt outside a huge stadium and looking up at it with pride.

It was made of stone and was ages old, but what it might have been built for originally, no one remembered. On Game days, bright flags fluttered from the tops of the stone towers and it would have been thronged with people. But there were no Games today, nor would there be until summer’s end. It was gray and colorless, except for the garish paintings on the walls portraying great events in the history of the sport. A few children stood around the outside, hoping for a glimpse of one of their heroes. Snarling at them, Arack motioned to Raag to open the massive, wooden doors.

“You mean no one gets killed,” Caramon persisted, staring somberly at the arena with its bloody paintings.

The dwarf looked oddly at Caramon, Tas saw. Arack’s expression was suddenly cruel and calculating, his dark, tangled eyebrows creased over his small eyes. Caramon didn’t notice, he was still inspecting the wall paintings. Tas made a sound, and Caramon suddenly glanced around at the dwarf. But, by that time, Arack’s expression had changed.

“No one,” the dwarf said with a grin, patting Caramon’s big arm. “No one...”

6

The ogre led Caramon and Tas into a large room. Caramon had the fevered impression of its being filled with people.

“Him new man,” grunted Raag, jerking a yellow, filthy thumb in Caramon’s direction as the big man stood next to him. It was Caramon’s introduction to the “school.” Flushing, acutely conscious of the iron collar around his neck that branded him someone’s property, Caramon kept his eyes on the straw-covered, wooden floor. Hearing only a muttered response to Raag’s statement, Caramon glanced up. He was in a mess hall, he saw now. Twenty or thirty men of various races and nationalities sat about in small groups, eating dinner.

Some of the men were looking at Caramon with interest, most weren’t looking at him at all. A few nodded, the majority continued eating, Caramon wasn’t certain what to do next, but Raag solved the problem. Laying a hand on Caramon’s shoulder, the ogre shoved him roughly toward a table. Caramon stumbled and nearly fell, managing to catch himself before he smashed into the table. Whirling around, he glared angrily at the ogre. Raag stood grinning at him, his hands twitching.

I’m being baited, Caramon realized, having seen that look too many times in bars where someone was always trying to goad the big man into a fight. And this was one fight he knew he couldn’t win. Though Caramon stood almost six and a half feet tall, he didn’t even quite come to the ogre’s shoulder, while Raag’s vast hand could wrap itself around Caramon’s thick neck twice. Caramon swallowed, rubbed his bruised leg, and sat down on the long wooden bench.

Casting a sneering glance at the big human, Raag’s squinty-eyed gaze took in everyone in the mess hall. With shrugs and low murmurs of disappointment, the men went back to their dinners. From a table in a corner, where sat a group of minotaurs, there was laughter. Grinning back at them, Raag left the room.

Feeling himself blush self-consciously, Caramon hunkered down on the bench and tried to disappear. Someone was sitting across from him, but the big warrior couldn’t bear to meet the man’s gaze. Tasslehoff had no such inhibitions, however. Clambering up on the bench beside Caramon, the kender regarded their neighbor with interest.

“I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” he said, extending his small hand to a large, black-skinned human—also wearing an iron collar—sitting across them. “I’m new, too,” the kender added, feeling wounded that he had not been introduced. The black man looked up from his food, glanced at Tas, ignored the kender’s hand, then turned his gaze on Caramon.

“You two partners?”

“Yeah,” Caramon answered, thankful the man hadn’t referred to Raag in any way. He was suddenly aware of the smell of food and sniffed hungrily, his mouth watering. Looking appreciatively at the man’s plate, which was stacked high with roast deer meat, potatoes, and slabs of bread, he sighed. “Looks like they feed us well, at any rate.”

Caramon saw the black-skinned man glance at his round belly and then exchange amused looks with a tall, extraordinarily beautiful woman who took her seat next to him, her plate loaded with food as well. Looking at her, Caramon’s eyes widened. Clumsily, he attempted to stand up and bow.

“Your servant, ma’am—” he began.

“Sit down, you great oaf!” the woman snapped angrily, her tan skin darkening. “You’ll have them all laughing!”

Indeed, several of the men chuckled. The woman turned and glared at them, her hand darting to a dagger she wore in her belt. At the sight of her flashing green eyes, the men swallowed their laughter and went back to their food. The woman waited until she was certain all had been properly cowed, then she, too, turned her attention back to her meal, jabbing at her meat with swift, irritated thrusts of her fork.

“I-I’m sorry,” Caramon stammered, his big face flushed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it,” the woman said in a throaty voice. Her accent was odd, Caramon couldn’t place it. She appeared to be human, except for that strange way of talking—stranger even than the other people around here—and the fact that her hair was a most peculiar color—sort of a dull, leaden green. It was thick and straight, and she wore it in a long braid down her back. “You’re new here, I take it. You’ll soon understand—you don’t treat me any different than the others. Either in or out of the arena. Got that?”

“The arena?” Caramon said in blank astonishment. “You—you’re a gladiator?”

“One of the best, too,” the black-skinned man across from them said, grinning. “I am Pheragas of Northern Ergoth and this is Kiiri the Sirine—”

“A Sirine! From below the sea?” Tas asked in excitement. “One of those women who can change shapes and—”

The woman flashed the kender a glance of such fury that Tas blinked and fell silent. Then her gaze went swiftly to Caramon. “Do you find that funny, slave? “Kiiri asked, her eyes on Caramon’s new collar.

Caramon put his hand over it, flushing again. Kiiri gave a short, bitter laugh, but Pheragas regarded him with pity.

“You’ll get used to it, in time,” he said with a shrug.

“I’ll never get used to it!” Caramon said, clenching his big fist.

Kiiri glanced at him. “You will, or your heart will break and you will die,” she said coolly. So beautiful was she, and so proud her bearing, that her own iron collar might have been a necklace of finest gold, Caramon thought. He started to reply but was interrupted by a fat man in a white, greasy apron who slammed a plate of food down in front of Tasslehoff.

“Thank you,” said the kender politely.

“Don’t get used to the service,” the cook snarled. “After this, you pick up yer own plate, like everyone else. Here”—he tossed a wooden disk down in front of the kender—“there’s your meal chit. Show that, or you don’t eat. And here’s yours,” he added, flipping one to Caramon.

“Where’s my food?” Caramon asked, pocketing the wooden disk.

Plopping a bowl down in front of the big man, the cook turned to leave.

“What’s this?” Caramon growled, staring at the bowl.

Tas leaned over to look. “Chicken broth,” he said helpfully.

“I know what it is,” Caramon said, his voice deep. “I mean, what is this, some kind of joke? Because it’s not funny,” he added, scowling at Pheragas and Kiiri, who were both grinning at him. Twisting around on the bench, Caramon reached out and grabbed hold of the cook, jerking him backward. “Get rid of this dishwater and bring me something to eat!”

With surprising quickness and dexterity, the cook broke free of Caramon’s grip, twisted the big man’s arm behind his back and shoved his head face-first into the bowl of soup.

“Eat it and like it,” the cook snarled, dragging Caramon’s dripping head up out of the soup by the hair. “Because—as far as food goes—that’s all you’re gonna be seeing for about a month.”

Tasslehoff stopped eating, his face lighting up. The kender noticed that everyone else in the room had stopped eating again, too, certain that—this time—there would be a fight.

Caramon’s face, dripping with soup, was deathly white. There were red splotches in the cheeks, and his eyes glinted dangerously.

The cook was watching him smugly, his own fists clenched.

Eagerly, Tas waited to see the cook splattered all over the room. Caramon’s big fists clenched, the knuckles turned white. One of the big hands lifted and—slowly—Caramon began to wipe the soup from his face.

With a snort of derision, the cook turned and swaggered off.

Tas sighed. That certainly wasn’t the old Caramon, he thought sadly, remembering the man who had killed two draconians by bashing their heads together with his bare hands, the Caramon who had once left fifteen ruffians in various stages of hurt when they made the mistake of trying to rob the big man. Glancing at Caramon out of the corner of his eye, Tas swallowed the sharp words that had been on his tongue and went back to his dinner, his heart aching.

Caramon ate slowly, spooning up the soup and gulping it down without seeming to taste it. Tas saw the woman and the black-skinned man exchange glances again and, for a moment, the kender feared they would laugh at Caramon. Kiiri, in fact, started to say something, but—on looking up toward the front of the room—she shut her mouth abruptly and went back to her meal. Tas saw Raag enter the mess hall again, two burly humans trundling along behind him.

Walking over, they came to a halt behind Caramon. Raag poked the big warrior.

Caramon glanced around slowly. “What is it?” he asked in a dull voice that Tas didn’t recognize.

“You come now,” Raag said.

“I’m eating,” Caramon began, but the two humans grabbed the big man by the arms and dragged him off the bench before he could even finish his sentence. Then Tas saw a glimmer of Caramon’s old spirit. His face an ugly, dark red, Caramon aimed a clumsy blow at one. But the man, grinning derisively, dodged it easily. His partner kicked Caramon savagely in the gut. Caramon collapsed with a groan, falling to the floor on all fours. The two humans hauled him to his feet. His head hanging, Caramon allowed himself to be led away.

“Wait! Where—” Tas stood up, but felt a strong hand close over his own.

Kiiri shook her head warningly, and Tas sat back down.

“What are they going to do to him?” he asked.

The woman shrugged. “Finish your meal,” she said in a stern voice.

Tas set his fork down. “I’m not very hungry,” he mumbled despondently, his mind going back to the dwarf’s strange, cruel look at Caramon outside the arena.

The black-skinned man smiled at the kender, who sat across from him. “Come on,” he said, standing up and holding out his hand to Tas in a friendly manner, “I’ll show you to your room. We all go through it the first day. Your friend will be all right—in time.”

“In time.” Kiiri snorted, shoving her plate away.

Tas lay all alone in the room he had been told he would share with Caramon. It wasn’t much. Located beneath the arena, it looked more like a prison cell than a room. But Kiiri told him that all the gladiators lived in rooms like these.

“They are clean and warm,” she said. “There are not many in this world who can say that of where they sleep. Besides, if we lived in luxury, we would grow soft.”

Well, there was certainly no danger of that, as far as the kender could see, glancing around at the bare, stone walls, the straw-covered floor, a table with a water pitcher and a bowl, and the two small chests that were supposed to hold their possessions. A single window, high up in the ceiling right at ground level, let in a shaft of sunlight. Lying on the hard bed, Tas watched the sun travel across the room. The kender might have gone exploring, but he had the feeling he wouldn’t enjoy himself much until he found out what they had done to Caramon.

The sun’s line on the floor grew longer and longer. A door opened and Tas leaped up eagerly, but it was only another slave, tossing a sack in onto the floor, then shutting the door again. Tas inspected the sack and his heart sank. It was Caramon’s belongings! Everything he’d had on him—including his clothes! Tas studied them anxiously, looking for bloodstains. Nothing. They appeared all right... His hand closed over something hard in an inner, secret pocket.

Quickly, Tas pulled it out. The kender caught his breath. The magical device from Par-Salian! How had they missed it, he wondered, marveling at the beautiful jeweled pendant as he turned it over in his hand. Of course, it was magical, he reminded himself. It looked like nothing more than a bauble now, but he had himself seen Par-Salian transform it from a sceptre-like object. Undoubtedly it had the power to avoid discovery if it didn’t want to be discovered.

Feeling it, holding it, watching the sunlight sparkle on its radiant jewels, Tas sighed with longing. This was the most exquisite, marvelous, fantastic thing he’d ever seen in his life. He wanted it most desperately. Without thinking, his little body rose and was heading for his pouches when he caught himself.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot, said a voice that sounded uncomfortably like Flint’s, this is Serious Business you’re meddling with. This is the Way Home. Par-Salian himself, the Great Par-Salian gave it to Caramon in a solemn ceremony. It belongs to Caramon. It’s his, you have no right to it!

Tas shivered. He had certainly never thought thoughts like these before in his life. Dubiously, he glanced at the device. Perhaps it was putting these uncomfortable thoughts in his head!

He decided he didn’t want any part of them. Hurriedly, he carried the device over and put it in Caramon’s chest. Then, as an extra precaution, he locked the chest and stuffed the key in Caramon’s clothes. Even more miserable, he returned to his bed.

The sunlight had just about disappeared and the kender was growing more and more anxious when he heard a noise outside. The door was kicked open violently.

“Caramon!” Tas cried in horror, springing to his feet.

The two burly humans dragged the big man in over the doorstep and flung him down on the bed. Then, grinning, they left, slamming the door shut behind them. There was a low, moaning sound from the bed.

“Caramon!” Tas whispered. Hurriedly grabbing up the water pitcher, he dumped some water in the bowl and carried it over to the big warrior’s bedside. “What did they do?” he asked softly, moistening the man’s lips with water.

Caramon moaned again and shook his head weakly. Tas glanced quickly at the big man’s body. There were no visible wounds, no blood, no swelling, no purple welts or whip-lash marks. Yet he had been tortured, that much was obvious. The big man was in agony. His body was covered with sweat, his eyes had rolled back in his head. Every now and then, various muscles in his body twitched spasmodically and a groan of pain escaped his lips.

“Was... was it the rack?” Tas asked, gulping. “The wheel, maybe? Thumb-screws?” None of those left marks on the body, at least so he had heard.

Caramon mumbled a word.

“What?” Tas bent near him, bathing his face in water. “What did you say? Cali—cali—what’? I didn’t catch that.” The kender’s brow furrowed. “I never heard of a torture called cali-something,” he muttered. “I wonder what it could be.”

Caramon repeated it, moaning again.

“Cali... cali... calisthenics!” Tas said triumphantly. Then he dropped the water pitcher onto the floor. “Calisthenics? That’s not torture!”

Caramon groaned again.

“That’s exercises, you big baby!” Tas yelled. “Do you mean I’ve been waiting here, worried sick, imagining all sorts of horrible things, and you’ve been out doing exercises!”

Caramon had just strength enough to raise himself off the bed. Reaching out one big hand, he gripped Tas by the collar of his shirt and dragged him over to stare him in the eye.

“I was captured by goblins once,” Caramon said in a hoarse whisper, “and they tied me to a tree and spent the night tormenting me. I was wounded by draconians in Xak Tsaroth. Baby dragons chewed on my leg in the dungeons of the Queen of Darkness. And, I swear to you, that I am in more pain now than I have ever been in my life! Leave me alone, and let me die in peace.”

With another groan, Caramon’s hand dropped weakly to his side. His eyes closed. Smothering a grin, Tas crept back to his bed.

“He thinks he’s in pain now,” the kender reflected, “wait until morning!”

Summer in Istar ended. Fall came, one of the most beautiful in anyone’s memory. Caramon’s training began, and the warrior did not die, though there were times when he thought death might be easier. Tas, too, was strongly tempted on more than one occasion to put the big, spoiled baby out of his misery. One of these time had been during the night, when Tas had been awakened by a heartbreaking sob.

“Caramon?” Tas said sleepily, sitting up in bed.

No answer, just another sob.

“What is it?” Tas asked, suddenly concerned. He got out of bed and trotted across the cold, stone floor. “Did you have a dream?”

He could see Caramon nod in the moonlight.

“Was it about Tika?” asked the tenderhearted kender, feeling tears come to his own eyes. at the sight of the big man’s grief. “No. Raistlin? No. Yourself? Are you afraid—”

“A muffin!” Caramon sobbed.

“What?” Tas asked blankly.

“A muffin!” Caramon blubbered. “Oh, Tas! I’m so hungry. And I had a dream about this muffin, like Tika used to bake, all covered with sticky honey and those little, crunchy nuts...”

Picking up a shoe, Tas threw it at him and went back to bed in disgust.

But by the end of the second month of rigorous training, Tas looked at Caramon, and the kender had to admit that this was just exactly what the big man had needed. The rolls of fat around the big man’s waist were gone, the flabby thighs were once more hard and muscular, muscles rippled in his arms and across his chest and back. His eyes were bright and alert, the dull, vacant stare gone. The dwarf spirits had been sweated and soaked from his body, the red had gone from his nose, and the puffy look was gone from his face. His body was tanned a deep bronze from being out in the sun. The dwarf decreed that Caramon’s brown hair be allowed to grow long, as this style was currently popular in Istar, and now it curled around his face and down his back.

He was a superbly skilled warrior now, too. Although Caramon had been well-trained before, it had been informal training, his weapons technique picked up mostly from his older half-sister, Kitiara. But Arack imported trainers from all over the world, and now Caramon was learning techniques from the best.

Not only this, but he was forced to hold his own in daily contests between the gladiators themselves. Once proud of his wrestling skill, Caramon had been deeply shamed to find himself flat on his back after only two rounds against the woman, Kiiri. The black man, Pheragas, sent Caramon’s sword flying after one pass, then bashed him over the head with his own shield for good measure.

But Caramon was an apt, attentive pupil. His natural ability made him a quick study, and it wasn’t long before Arack was watching in glee as the big man flipped Kiiri with ease, then coolly wrapped Pheragas up in his own net, pinning the black man to the arena floor with his own trident.

Caramon, himself, was happier than he had been in a long time. He still detested the iron collar, and rarely a day went by at first without his longing to break it and run. But, these feelings lessened as he became interested in his training. Caramon had always enjoyed military life. He liked having someone tell him what to do and when to do it. The only real problem he was having was with his acting abilities.

Always open and honest, even to a fault, the worst part of his training came when he had to pretend to be losing. He was supposed to cry out loudly in mock pain when Rolf stomped on his back. He had to learn how to collapse as though horribly wounded when the Barbarian lunged at him with the fake, collapsible swords.

“No! No! No! you big dummy!” Arack screamed over and over. Swearing at Caramon one day, the dwarf walked over and punched him hard, right in the face.

“Arrgh!” Caramon cried out in real pain, not daring to fight back with Raag watching in glee.

“There—” Arack said, standing back in triumph, his fists clenched, blood on the knuckles. “Remember that yell. The gulls’ll love it.”

But, in acting, Caramon appeared hopeless. Even when he did yell, it sounded “more like some wench getting her behind pinched than like anyone dying,” Arack told Kiiri in disgust. And then, one day, the dwarf had an idea.

It came to him as he was watching the training sessions that afternoon. There happened to be a small audience at the time. Arack occasionally allowed certain members of the public in, having discovered that this was good for business. At this time, he was entertaining a nobleman, who had traveled here with his family from Solamnia. The nobleman had two very charming young daughters and, from the moment they entered the arena, they had never taken their eyes from Caramon.

“Why didn’t we see him fight the other night?” one asked their father.

The nobleman looked inquiringly at the dwarf.

“He’s new,” Arack said gruffly. “He’s still in training. He’s just about ready, mind you. In fact, I was thinking of putting him in—when did you say you were coming back to the Games!”

“We weren’t,” the nobleman began, but his daughters both cried out in dismay. “Well,” he amended, “perhaps—if we can get tickets.”

The girls both clapped their hands, their eyes going back to Caramon, who was practicing his sword work with Pheragas. The young man’s tanned body glistened with sweat, his hair clung in damp curls to his face, he moved with the grace of a well-trained athlete. Seeing the girls’ admiring gaze, it suddenly occurred to the dwarf what a remarkably handsome young man Caramon was.

“He must win,” said one of the girls, sighing. “I could not bear to see him lose!”

“He will win,” said the other. “He was meant to win. He looks like a victor.”

“Of course! That solves all my problems!” said the dwarf suddenly, causing the noblemen and his family to stare at him, puzzled. “The Victor! That’s how I’ll bill ’im. Never defeated! Doesn’t know how to lose! Vowed to take his own life, he did, if anyone ever beat him!”

“Oh, no!” both girls cried in dismay. “Don’t tell us that.”

“It’s true,” the dwarf said solemnly, rubbing his hands.

“They’ll come from miles around,” he told Raag that night, “hoping to be there the night he loses. And, of course, he won’t lose—not for a good, long while. Meanwhile, he’ll be a heart-breaker. I can see that now. And I have just the costume...”

Tasslehoff, meanwhile, was finding his own life in the arena quite interesting. Although at first deeply wounded when told he couldn’t be a gladiator (Tas had visions of himself as another Kronin Thistleknot—the hero of Kenderhome), Tas had moped around for a few days in boredom. This ended in his nearly getting killed by an enraged minotaur who discovered the kender happily going through his room.

The minotaurs were furious. Fighting at the arena for the love of the sport only, they considered themselves a superior race, living and eating apart from the others. Their quarters were sacrosanct and inviolate.

Dragging the kender before Arack, the minotaur demanded that he be allowed to slit him open and drink his blood. The dwarf might have agreed—not having overly much use for kenders himself—but Arack remembered the talk he’d had with Quarath shortly after he’d purchased these two slaves. For some reason, the highest church authority in the land was interested in seeing that nothing happened to these two. He had to refuse the minotaur’s request, therefore, but mollified him by giving him a boar he could butcher in sport. Then, Arack took Tas aside, cuffed him across the face a few times, and finally gave him permission to leave the arena and explore the town if the kender promised to come back at night.

Tas, who had already been sneaking out of the arena anyway, was thrilled at this, and repaid the dwarf’s kindness by bringing him back any little trinket he thought Arack might like. Appreciative of this attention, Arack only beat the kender with a stick when he caught Tas trying to sneak pastry to Caramon, instead of whipping him as he would have otherwise.

Thus, Tas came and went about Istar pretty much as he liked, learning quickly to dodge the townguards, who had a most unreasonable dislike for kender. And so it was that Tasslehoff was able to enter the Temple itself.

Amid his training and dieting and other problems, Caramon had never lost sight of his real goal. He had received a cold, terse message from Lady Crysania, so he knew she was all right. But that was all. Of Raistlin, there was no sign.

At first, Caramon despaired of finding his brother or Fistandantilus, since he was never allowed outside the arena. But he soon realized that Tas could go places and see things much easier than he could, even if he had been free. People had a tendency to treat kender the same way they treated children—as if they weren’t there. And Tas was even more expert than most kender at melting into shadows and ducking behind curtains or sneaking quietly through halls.

Plus there was the advantage that the Temple itself was so vast and filled with so many people, coming and going at nearly all hours, that one kender was easily ignored or—at most—told irritably to get out of the way. This was made even easier by the fact that there were several kender slaves working in the kitchens and even a few kender clerics, who came and went freely.

Tas would have dearly loved to make friends of these and to ask questions about his homeland—particularly the kender clerics, since he’d never known these existed. But he didn’t dare. Caramon had warned him about talking too much and, for once, Tas took this warning seriously. Finding it nerve-racking to be on constant guard against talking about dragons or the Cataclysm or something that would get everyone all upset, he decided it would be easier to avoid temptation altogether. So he contented himself with nosing around the Temple and gathering information.

“I’ve seen Crysania,” he reported to Caramon one night after they’d returned from dinner and a game of arm wrestling with Pheragas. Tas lay down on the bed while Caramon practiced with a mace and chain in the center of the room, Arack wanting him skilled in weapons other than the sword. Seeing that Caramon still needed a lot of practice, Tas crept to the far end of the bed—well out of the way of some of the big man’s wilder swings.

“How is she?” Caramon asked, glancing over at the kender with interest.

Tas shook his head. “I don’t know. She looks all right, I guess. At least she doesn’t look sick. But she doesn’t look happy, either. Her face is pale and, when I tried to talk to her, she just ignored me. I don’t think she recognized me.”

Caramon frowned. “See if you can find out what the matter is,” he said. “She was looking for Raistlin, too, remember. Maybe it has something to do with him.”

“All right,” the kender replied, then ducked as the mace whistled by his head. “Say, be careful! Move back a little.” He felt his topknot anxiously to see if all his hair was still there.

“Speaking of Raistlin,” Caramon said in a subdued voice. “I don’t suppose you found out anything today either?”

Tas shook his head. “I’ve asked and asked. Fistandantilus has apprentices that come and go sometimes. But no one’s seen anyone answering Raistlin’s description. And, you know, people with golden skin and hourglass eyes do tend to stand out in a crowd. But”—the kender looked more cheerful—“I may find out something soon. Fistandantilus is back, I heard.”

“He is?” Caramon stopped swinging the mace and turned to face Tas.

“Yes. I didn’t see him, but some of the clerics were talking about it. I guess he reappeared last night, right in the Kingpriest’s Hall of Audience. Just—poof! There he was. Quite dramatic.”

“Yeah,” Caramon grunted. Swinging the mace thoughtfully, he was quiet for so long that Tas yawned and started to drift off to sleep. Caramon’s voice brought him back to consciousness with a start.

“Tas,” Caramon said, “this is our chance.”

“Our chance to what?” The kender yawned again.

“Our chance to murder Fistandantilus,” the warrior said quietly.

7

Caramon’s cold statement woke the kender up quickly.

“M-murder! I—uh—think you ought to think about this, Caramon,” Tas stammered. “I mean, well, look at it this way. This Fistandantilus is a really, really good, I-I mean, talented magic-user. Better even than Raistlin and Par-Salian put together, if what they say is true. You just don’t sneak up and murder a guy like that. Especially when you’ve never murdered anybody! Not that I’m saying we should practice, mind you, but—”

“He has to sleep, doesn’t he?” Caramon asked.

“Well,” Tas faltered, “I suppose so. Everybody has to sleep, I guess, even magic-users—”

“Magic-users most of all,” Caramon interrupted coldly. “You remember how weak Raist’d be if he didn’t sleep? And that holds true of all wizards, even the most powerful. That’s one reason they lost the great battles—the Lost Battles. They had to rest. And quit talking about this ‘we’ stuff. I’ll do it. You don’t even have to come along. Just find out where his room is, what kind of defenses he has, and when he goes to bed. I’ll take care of it from there.”

“Caramon,” Tas began hesitantly, “do you suppose it’s right? I mean, I know that’s why the mages sent you back here. At least I think that’s why. It all got sort of muddled there at the end. And I know this Fistandantilus is supposed to be a really evil person and he wears the black robes and all that, but is it right to murder him? I mean, it seems to me that this just makes us as evil as he is, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t care,” Caramon said without emotion, his eyes on the mace he was slowly swinging back and forth. “It’s his life or Raistlin’s, Tas. If I kill Fistandantilus now, back in this time, he won’t be able to come forward and grab Raistlin. I could free Raistlin from that shattered body, Tas, and make him whole! Once I wrench this man’s evil hold from him—then I know he’d be just like the old Raist. The little brother I loved.” Caramon’s voice grew wistful and his eyes moist. “He could come and live with us, Tas.”

“What about Tika?” Tas asked hesitantly. “How’s she going to feel about you murdering somebody?”

Caramon’s brown eyes flashed in anger. “I told you before—don’t talk about her, Tas!”

“But, Caramon—”

“I mean it, Tas!”

And this time the big man’s voice held the tone that Tas knew meant he had gone too far. The kender sat hunched miserably in his bed. Looking over at him, Caramon sighed.

“Look, Tas,” he said quietly, “I’ll explain it once. I-I haven’t been very good to Tika. She was right to throw me out, I see that now, though there was a time I thought I’d never forgive her.” The big man was quiet a moment, sorting out his thoughts. Then, with another sigh, he continued. “I told her once that, as long as Raistlin lived, he’d come first in my thoughts. I warned her to find someone who could give her all his love. I thought at first I could, when Raistlin went off on his own. But”—he shook his head—“I dunno. It didn’t work. Now, I’ve got to do this, don’t you see? And I can’t think about Tika! She—she only gets in the way...”

“But Tika loves you so much!” was all Tas could say. And, of course, it was the wrong thing. Caramon scowled and began swinging the mace again.

“All right, Tas,” he said, his voice so deep it might have come from beneath the kender’s feet, “I guess this means good-bye. Ask the dwarf for a different room. I’m going to do this and, if anything goes wrong, I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble—”

“Caramon, you know I didn’t mean I wouldn’t help,” Tas mumbled. “You need me!”

“Yeah, I guess,” Caramon muttered, flushing. Then, looking over at Tas, he smiled in apology. “I’m sorry. Just don’t talk about Tika anymore, all right?”

“All right,” Tas said unhappily. He smiled back at Caramon in return, watching as the big man put his weapons away and prepared for bed. But it was a sickly smile and, when Tas crawled into his own bed, he felt more depressed and unhappy than he had since Flint died.

“He wouldn’t have approved, that’s for sure,” Tas said to himself, thinking of the gruff, old dwarf. “I can hear him now. ‘Stupid, doorknob of a kender!’ he’d say. ‘Murdering wizards! Why don’t you just save everyone trouble and do away with yourself!’ And then there’s Tanis,” Tas thought, even more miserable. “I can just imagine what he’d say!” Rolling over, Tas pulled the blankets up around his chin. “I wish he was here! I wish someone was here to help us! Caramon’s not thinking right, I know he isn’t! But what can I do? I’ve got to help him. He’s my friend. And he’d likely get into no end of trouble without me!”

The next day was Caramon’s first day in the Games. Tas made his visit to the Temple in the early morning and was back in time to see Caramon’s fight, which would take place that afternoon. Sitting on the bed, swinging his short legs back and forth, the kender made his report as Caramon paced the floor nervously, waiting for the dwarf and Pheragas to bring him his costume.

“You’re right,” Tas admitted reluctantly. “Fistandantilus needs lots of sleep, apparently. He goes to bed early every night and sleeps like the dead—I m-mean”—Tas stuttered—“sleeps soundly till morning.”

Caramon looked at him grimly.

“Guards?”

“No,” Tas said, shrugging. “He doesn’t even lock his door. No one locks doors in the Temple. After all, it is a holy place, and I guess everyone either trusts everyone or they don’t have any—thing to lock up. You know,” the kender said on reflection, “I always detested door locks, but now I’ve decided that life without them would be really boring. I’ve been in a few rooms in the Temple”—Tas blissfully ignored Caramon’s horrified glance—“and, believe me, it’s not worth the bother. You’d think a magic-user would be different, but Fistandantilus doesn’t keep any of his spell stuff there. I guess he just uses his room to spend the night when he’s visiting the court. Besides,” the kender pointed out with a sudden brilliant flash of logic, “he’s the only evil person in the court, so he wouldn’t need to protect himself from anyone other than himself!”

Caramon, who had quit listening long ago, muttered something and kept pacing. Tas frowned uncomfortably. It had suddenly occurred to him that he and Caramon now ranked right up there with evil magic-users. This helped him make up his mind.

“Look, I’m sorry, Caramon,” Tas said, after a moment. “But I don’t think I can help you, after all. Kender aren’t very particular, sometimes, about their own things, or other people’s for that matter, but I don’t believe a kender ever in his life murdered anybody!” He sighed, then continued in a quivering voice. “And, I got to thinking about Flint and... and Sturm. You know Sturm wouldn’t approve! He was so honorable. It just isn’t right, Caramon! It makes us just as bad as Fistandantilus. Or maybe worse.”

Caramon opened his mouth and was just about to reply when the door burst open and Arack marched in.

“How’re we doing, big guy?” the dwarf said, leering up at Caramon. “Quite a change from when you first came here, ain’t it?” He patted the big man’s hard muscles admiringly, then—balling up his fist—suddenly slammed it into Caramon’s gut. “Hard as steel,” he said, grinning and shaking his hand in pain.

Caramon glowered down at the dwarf in disgust, glanced at Tas, then sighed. “Where’s my costume?” he grumbled. “It’s nearly High Watch.”

The dwarf held up a sack. “It’s in here. Don’t worry, it won’t take you long to dress.”

Grabbing the sack nervously, Caramon opened it. “Where’s the rest of it? he demanded of Pheragas, who had just entered the room.

“That’s it!” Arack cackled. “I told you it wouldn’t take long to dress!”

Caramon’s face flushed a deep red. “I—I can’t wear... just this...” he stammered, shutting the sack hastily. “You said there’d be ladies...”

“And they’ll love every bronze inch!” Arack hooted. Then the laughter vanished from the dwarf’s broken face, replaced by the dark and menacing scowl. “Put it on, you great oaf. What do you think they pay to see? A dancing school? No—they pay to see bodies covered in sweat and blood. The more body, the more sweat, the more blood—real blood—the better!”

“Real blood? Caramon looked up, his brown eyes flaring. “What do you mean? I thought you said—”

“Bah! Get him ready, Pheragas. And while you’re at it, explain the facts of life to the spoiled brat. Time to grow up, Caramon, my pretty poppet.” With that and a grating laugh, the dwarf stalked out.

Pheragas stood aside to let the dwarf pass, then entered the small room. His face, usually jovial and cheerful, was a blank mask. There was no expression in his eyes, and he avoided looking directly at Caramon.

“What did he mean? Grow up? Caramon asked. “Real blood?

“Here,” Pheragas said gruffly, ignoring the question. “I’ll help with these buckles. It takes a bit of getting used to at first. They’re strictly ornamental, made to break easily. The audience loves it if a piece comes loose or falls off.”

He lifted an ornate shoulder guard from the bag and began strapping it onto Caramon, working around behind him, keeping his eyes fixed on the buckles.

“This is made out of gold,” Caramon said slowly.

Pheragas grunted.

“Butter would stop a knife sooner than this stuff,” Caramon continued, feeling it. “And look at all these fancy do-dads! A sword point’ll catch and stick in any of ’em.”

“Yeah.” Pheragas laughed, but it was forced laughter. “As you can see, it’s almost better to be naked than wear this stuff.”

“I don’t have much to worry about then,” Caramon remarked grimly, pulling out the leather loincloth that was the only other object in the sack, besides an ornate helmet. The loincloth, too, was ornamented in gold and barely covered his private parts decently. When he and Pheragas had him dressed, even the kender blushed at the sight of Caramon from the rear.

Pheragas started to go, but Caramon stopped him, his hand on his arm. “You better tell me, my friend. That is, if you still are my friend.”

Pheragas looked at Caramon intently, then shrugged. “I thought you’d have figured it out by now. We use edged weapons. Oh, the swords still collapse,” he added, seeing Caramon’s eyes narrow. “But, if you get hit, you bleed—for real. That’s why we harped on your stabbing thrusts.”

“You mean people really get hurt? I could hurt someone? Someone like Kiiri, or Rolf, or the Barbarian?” Caramon’s voice raised in anger. “What else goes on! What else didn’t you tell me—friend!”

Pheragas regarded Caramon coldly. “Where did you think I got these scars? Playing with my nanny? Look, someday you’ll understand. There’s not time to explain it now. Just trust us, Kiiri and I. Follow our lead. And—keep your eyes on the minotaurs. They fight for themselves, not for any masters or owners. They answer to no one. Oh, they agree to abide by the rules—they have to or the Kingpriest would ship them back to Mithas. But... well, they’re favorites with the crowd. The people like to see them draw blood. And they can take as good as they give.”

“Get out!” Caramon snarled.

Pheragas stood staring at him a moment, then he turned and started out the door. Once there, however, he stopped.

“Listen, friend,” he said sternly, “these scars I get in the ring are badges of honor, every bit as good as some knight’s spurs he wins in a contest! It’s the only kind of honor we can salvage out of this tawdry show! The arena’s got its own code, Caramon, and it doesn’t have one damn thing to do with those knights and noblemen who sit out there and watch us slaves bleed for their own amusement. They talk of their honor. Well, we’ve got our own. It’s what keeps us alive.” He fell silent. It seemed he might say something more, but Caramon’s gaze was on the floor, the big man stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his words or presence.

Finally, Pheragas said “You’ve got five minutes,” and left, slamming the door behind him.

Tas longed to say something but, seeing Caramon’s face, even the kender knew it was time to keep silent.

Go into a battle with bad blood, and it’ll be spilled by nightfall. Caramon couldn’t remember what gruff old commander had told him that, but he’d found it a good axiom. Your life often depended on the loyalty of those you fought with. It was a good idea to get any quarrels between you settled. He didn’t like holding grudges either. It generally did nothing for him but upset his stomach.

It was an easy thing, therefore, to shake Pheragas’s hand when the black man started to turn away from him prior to entering the arena and to make his apologies. Pheragas accepted these warmly, while Kiiri—who obviously had heard all about the episode from Pheragas—indicated her approval with a smile. She indicated her approval of Caramon’s costume, too; looking at him with such open admiration in her flashing green eyes that Caramon flushed in embarrassment.

The three stood talking in the corridors that ran below the arena, waiting to make their entrance. With them were the other gladiators who would fight today, Rolf, the Barbarian, and the Red Minotaur. Above them, they could hear occasional roars from the crowd, but the sound was muffled. Craning his neck, Caramon could see out the entryway door. He wished it was time to start. Rarely had he ever felt this nervous, more nervous than going into battle, he realized.

The others felt the tension, too. It was obvious in Kiiri’s laughter that was too shrill and loud and the sweat that poured down Pheragas’s face. But it was a good kind of tension, mingled with excitement. And, suddenly, Caramon realized he was looking forward to this.

“Arack’s called our names,” Kiiri said. She and Pheragas and Caramon walked forward—the dwarf having decided that since they worked well together they should fight as a team. (He also hoped that the two pros would cover up for any of Caramon’s mistakes!)

The first thing Caramon noticed as he stepped out into the arena was the noise. It crashed over him in thunderous waves, one after another, coming seemingly from the sun-drenched sky above him. For a moment he felt lost in confusion. The by-now familiar arena—where he had worked and practiced so hard these last few months—was a strange place suddenly. His gaze went to the great circular rows of stands surrounding the arena, and he was overwhelmed at the sight of the thousands of people, all—it seemed—on their feet screaming and stomping and shouting.

The colors swam in his eyes—gaily fluttering banners that announced a Games Day, silk banners of all the noble families of Istar, and the more humble banners of those who sold everything from fruited ice to tarbean tea, depending on the season of the year. And it all seemed to be in motion, making him dizzy, and suddenly nauseous. Then he felt Kiiri’s cool hand upon his arm. Turning, he saw her smile at him in reassurance. He saw the familiar arena behind her, he saw Pheragas and his other friends.

Feeling better, he quickly turned his attention back to the action. He had better keep his mind on business, he told himself sternly. If he missed a single rehearsed move, he would not only make himself look foolish, but he might accidentally hurt someone. He remembered how particular Kiiri had been that he time his swordthrusts just right. Now, he thought grimly, he knew why.

Keeping his eyes on his partners and the arena, ignoring the noise and the crowd, he took his place, waiting to start. The arena looked different, somehow, and for a moment he couldn’t figure it out. Then he realized that, just as they were in costume, the dwarf had decorated the arena, too. Here were the same old sawdust-covered platforms where he fought every day, but now they were tricked out with symbols representing the four corners of the world.

Around these four platforms, the hot coals blazed, the fire roared, the oil boiled and bubbled. Bridges of wood spanned the Death Pits as they were called, connecting the four platforms. These Pits had, at first, alarmed Caramon. But he had learned early in the game that they were for effect only. The audience loved it when a fighter was driven from the arena onto the bridges. They went wild when the Barbarian held Rolf by his heels over the boiling oil. Having seen it all in rehearsal, Caramon could laugh with Kiiri at the terrified expression on Rolf’s face and the frantic efforts he made to save himself that resulted—as always—in the Barbarian being hit over the head by a blow from Rolf’s powerful arms.

The sun reached its zenith and a flash of gold brought Caramon’s eyes to the center of the arena. Here stood the Freedom Spire—a tall structure made of gold, so delicate and ornate that it seemed out of place in such crude surroundings. At the top hung a key—a key that would open a lock on any of the iron collars. Caramon had seen the spire often enough in practice, but he had never seen the key, which was kept locked in Arack’s office. Just looking at it made the iron collar around his neck feel unusually heavy. His eyes filled with sudden tears. Freedom... To wake in the morning and be able to walk out a door, to go anywhere in this wide world you wanted. It was such a simple thing. Now, how much he missed it!

Then he heard Arack call out his name, he saw him point at them. Gripping his weapon, Caramon turned to face Kiiri, the sight of the Golden Key still in his mind. At the end of the year, any slave who had done well in the Games could fight for the right to climb that spire and get the key. It was all fake, of course. Arack always selected those guaranteed to draw the biggest audiences. Caramon had never thought about it before—his only concern being his brother and Fistandantilus. But, now, he realized he had a new goal. With a wild yell, he raised his phony sword high in the air in salute.

Soon, Caramon began to relax and have fun. He found himself enjoying the roars and applause of the crowd. Caught up in their excitement, he discovered he was playing up to them—just as Kiiri had told him he would. The few wounds he’d received in the warm-up bouts were nothing, only scratches. He couldn’t even feel the pain. He laughed at himself for his worry. Pheragas had been right not to mention such a silly thing. He was sorry he had made such a big deal of it.

“They like you,” Kiiri said, grinning at him during one of their rest periods. Once again, her eyes swept admiringly over Caramon’s muscular, practically nude body. “I don’t blame them. I’m looking forward to our wrestling match.”

Kiiri laughed at his blush, but Caramon saw in her eyes that she wasn’t kidding and he was suddenly accutely aware of her femaleness—something that had never occurred to him in practice. Perhaps it was her own scanty costume, which seemed designed to reveal everything, yet hid all that was most desirable. Caramon’s blood burned, both with passion and the pleasure he always found in battle. Confused memories of Tika came to his mind, and he looked away from Kiiri hurriedly, realizing he had been saying more with his own eyes than he intended.

This ploy was only partly successful, because he found himself staring into the stands—right into the eyes of many admiring and beautiful women, who were obviously trying to capture his attention.

“We’re on again,” Kiiri nudged him, and Caramon returned thankfully to the ring.

He grinned at the Barbarian as the tall man strode forward. This was their big number, and he and Caramon had practiced it many times. The Barbarian winked at Caramon as they faced each other, their faces twisted into looks of ferocious hatred. Growling and snarling like animals, both men crouched over, stalking each other around the ring a suitable amount of time to build up tension. Caramon caught himself about to grin and had to remind himself that he was supposed to look mean. He liked the Barbarian. A Plainsman, the man reminded him in many ways of Riverwind—tall, dark-haired, though not nearly as serious as the stern ranger.

The Barbarian was a slave as well, but the iron collar around his neck was old and scratched from countless battles. He would be one chosen to go after the golden key this year, that was certain.

Caramon thrust out with the collapsible sword. The Barbarian dodged with ease and, catching Caramon with his heel, neatly tripped him. Caramon went down with a roar. The audience groaned (the women sighed), but there were many cheers for the Barbarian, who was a favorite. The Barbarian lunged at the prone Caramon with a spear. The women screamed in terror. At the last moment, Caramon rolled to one side and, grabbing the Barbarian’s foot, jerked him down to the sawdust platform.

Thunderous cheers. The two men grappled on the floor of the arena. Kiiri rushed out to aid her fallen comrade and the Barbarian fought them both off, to the crowd’s delight. Then, Caramon, with a gallant gesture, ordered Kiiri back behind the line. It was obvious to the crowd that he would take care of this insolent opponent himself.

Kiiri patted Caramon on his rump (that wasn’t in the script and nearly caused Caramon to forget his next move), then she ran off. The Barbarian lunged at Caramon, who pulled his collapsible dagger. This was the show-stopper—as they had planned. Ducking beneath the Barbarian’s upraised arm with a skillful maneuver, Caramon thrust the dummy dagger right into the Barbarian’s gut where a bladder of chicken blood was cleverly concealed beneath his feathered breastplate.

It worked! The chicken blood splashed out over Caramon, running down his hand and his arm. Caramon looked into the Barbarian’s face, ready for another wink of triumph...

Something was wrong.

The man’s eyes had widened, as was in the script. But they had widened in true pain and in shock. He staggered forward—that was in the script,too—but not the gasp of agony. As Caramon caught him, he realized in horror that the blood washing over his arm was warm!

Wrenching his dagger free, Caramon stared at it, even as he fought to hold onto the Barbarian, who was collapsing against him. The blade was real!

“Caramon...” The man choked. Blood spurted from. His mouth.

The audience roared. They hadn’t seen special effects like this in months!

“Barbarian! I didn’t know!” Caramon cried, staring at dagger in horror. “I swear!”

And then Pheragas and Kiiri were by his side, helping to ease the dying Barbarian down onto the arena floor.

“Keep up the act!” Kiiri snapped harshly.

Caramon nearly struck her in his rage, but Pheragas caught his arm. “Your life, our lives depend on it!” the black man hissed. “And the life of your little friend!”

Caramon stared at them in confusion. What did they mean? What were they saying’? He had just killed a man—a friend! Groaning, he jerked away from Pheragas and knelt beside the Barbarian. Dimly he could hear the crowd cheering, and he knew—somewhere inside of him—that they were eating this up. The Victor paying tribute to the “dead.”

“Forgive me,” he said to the Barbarian, who nodded.

“It’s not your fault,” the man whispered. “Don’t blame yoursel—” His eyes fixed in his head, a bubble of blood burst on his lips.

“We’ve got to get him out of the arena,” Pheragas whispered sharply to Caramon, “and make it look good. Like we rehearsed. Do you understand?”

Caramon nodded dully. Your life... the life of your little friend. I am a warrior. I’ve killed before. Death is nothing new. The life of your little friend. Obey orders. I’m used to that. Obey orders, then I’ll figure out the answers...

Repeating that over and over, Caramon was able to subdue the part of his mind that burned with rage and pain. Coolly and calmly, he helped Kiiri and Pheragas lift the Barbarian’s “lifeless” corpse to its feet as they had done countless times in rehearsal. He even found the strength to turn and face the crowd and bow. Pheragas, with a skillful motion of his free arm, made it seem as if the “dead” Barbarian were bowing, too. The crowd loved it and cheered wildly. Then the three friends dragged the corpse off the stage, down into the dark aisles below.

Once there, Caramon helped them ease the Barbarian down onto the cold stone. For long moments, he stared at the corpse, dimly aware of the other gladiators, who had been waiting their turn to go up into the arena, looking at the lifeless body, then melting back into the shadows.

Slowly, Caramon stood up. Turning around, he grabbed hold of Pheragas and, with all his strength, hurled the black man up against the wall. Drawing the bloodstained dagger from his belt, Caramon held it up before Pheragas’s eyes.

“It was an accident,” Pheragas said through clenched teeth.

“Edged weapons!” Caramon cried, shoving Pheragas’s head roughly into the stone wall. “Bleed a little! Now, you tell me! What in the name of the Abyss is going on!”

“It was an accident, oaf,” came a sneering voice.

Caramon turned. The dwarf stood before him, his squat body a small, twisted shadow in the dark and dank corridor beneath the arena.

“And now I’ll tell you about accidents,” Arack said, his voice soft and malevolent. Behind him loomed the giant figure of Raag, his club in his huge hand. “Let Pheragas go. He and Kiiri have to get back to the arena and take their bows. You all were the winners today.”

Caramon glanced at Pheragas for a moment, then dropped his hand. The dagger slipped from his nerveless fingers onto the floor, he slumped back against the wall. Kiiri regarded him in mute sympathy, laying her hand on his arm. Pheragas sighed, cast the smug dwarf a venomous glance, then both he and Kiiri left the corridor. They walked around the body of the Barbarian, which lay, untouched, on the stone.

“You told me no one got killed!” Caramon said in a voice choked with anger and pain.

The dwarf came over to stand in front of the big man. “It was an accident,” Arack repeated. “Accidents happen around here. Particularly to people who aren’t careful. They could happen to you, if you’re not careful. Or to that little friend of yours. Now, the Barbarian, here, he wasn’t careful. Or rather, his master wasn’t careful.”

Caramon raised his head, staring at the dwarf, his eyes wide with shock and horror.

“Ah, I see you finally got it figured out.” Arack nodded.

“This man died because his owner crossed someone,” Caramon said softly.

“Yeah.” The dwarf grinned and tugged at his beard. “Civilized, ain’t it? Not like the old days. And no one’s the wiser. Except his master, of course. I saw his face this afternoon. He knew, as soon as you stuck the Barbarian. You might as well have thrust that dagger into him. He got the message all right.”

“This was a warning?” Caramon asked in strangled tones.

The dwarf nodded again and shrugged.

“Who? Who was his owner?”

Arack hesitated, regarding Caramon quizzically, his broken face twisted into a leer. Caramon could almost see him calculating, figuring how much he could gain from telling, how much he might gain by keeping silent. Apparently, the money added up quickly in the “telling” column, because he didn’t hesitate long. Motioning Caramon to lean down, he whispered a name in his ear.

Caramon looked puzzled.

“High cleric, a Revered Son of Paladine,” the dwarf added.

“Number two to the Kingpriest himself. But he’s made a bad enemy, a bad enemy.” Arack shook his head.

A burst of muffled cheering roared from above them. The dwarf glanced up, then back at Caramon. “You’ll have to go up, take a bow. It’s expected. You’re a winner.”

“What about him?” Caramon asked, his gaze going to the Barbarian. “He won’t be going up. Won’t they wonder?”

“Pulled muscle. Happens all the time. Can’t make his final bow,” the dwarf said casually. “We’ll put the word out he retired, was given his freedom.”

Given his freedom! Tears filled his eyes. He looked away, down the corridor. There was another cheer. He would have to go. Your life. Our lives. The life of your little friend.

“That’s why,” Caramon said thickly, “that’s why you had me kill him! Because now you’ve got me! You know I won’t talk—”

“I knew that anyway,” Arack said, grinning wickedly. “Let’s say having you kill him was just a little extra touch. The customers like that, shows I care. You see, it was your master who sent this warning! I thought he’d appreciate it, having his own slave carry it out. Course that puts you in a bit of danger. The Barbarian’s death’ll have to be avenged. But, it’ll do wonders for business, once the rumor spreads.”

“My master!” Caramon gasped. “But, you bought me! The school—”

“Ah, I acted as agent only.” The dwarf cackled. “I thought maybe you didn’t know!”

“But who is my—” And then Caramon knew the answer. He didn’t even hear the words the dwarf said. He couldn’t hear them over the sudden roaring sound that echoed in his brain. A blood-red tide surged over him, suffocating him. His lungs ached, his stomach heaved, and his legs gave way beneath him.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting in the corridor, the ogre holding his head down between his knees. The dizziness passed. Caramon gasped and lifted his head, shaking off the ogre’s grasp.

“I’m all right,” he said through bloodless lips.

Raag glanced at him, then up at the dwarf.

“We can’t take him out there in this condition,” Arack said, regarding Caramon with disgust. “Not looking like a fish gone belly up. Haul him to his room.”

“No,” said a small voice from the darkness. “I-I’ll take care of him.”

Tas crept out of the shadows, his face nearly as pale as Caramon’s.

Arack hesitated, then snarled something and turned away. With a gesture to the ogre, he hurried off, clambering up the stairs to make the awards to the victors.

Tasslehoff knelt beside Caramon, his hand on the big man’s arm. The kender’s gaze went to the body that lay forgotten on the stone floor. Caramon’s gaze followed. Seeing the pain and anguish in his eyes, Tas felt a lump come to his throat. He couldn’t say a word, he could only pat Caramon’s arm.

“How much did you hear?” Caramon asked thickly.

“Enough,” Tas murmured. “Fistandantilus.”

“He planned this all along.” Caramon sighed and leaned his head back, wearily closing his eyes. “This is how he’ll get rid of us. He won’t even have to do it himself. Just let this... this cleric...”

“Quarath.”

“Yeah, he’ll let this Quarath kill us.” Caramon’s fists clenched. “The wizard’s hands will be clean! Raistlin will never suspect. And all the time, every fight from now on, I’ll wonder. Is that dagger Kiiri holds real?” Opening his eyes, Caramon looked at the kender. “And you, Tas. You’re in this, too. The dwarf said so. I can’t leave, but you could! You’ve got to get out of here!”

“Where would I go?” Tas asked helplessly. “He’d find me, Caramon. He’s the most powerful magic-user that ever lived. Even kender can’t hide from people like him.”

For a moment the two sat together in silence, the roar of the crowd echoing above them. Then Tas’s eyes caught a gleam of metal across the corridor. Recognizing the object, he rose to his feet and crept over to retrieve it.

“I can get us inside the Temple,” he said, taking a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. Picking up the bloodstained dagger, he brought it back and handed it to Caramon.

“I can get us in tonight.”

8

The silver moon, Solinari, flickered on the horizon. Rising up over the central tower of the Temple of the Kingpriest, the moon looked like a candle flame burning on a tall, fluted wick. Solinari was full and bright this night, so bright that the services of the lightwalkers were not needed and the boys who earned their living lighting party-goers from one house to another with their quaint, silver lamps spent the night at home, cursing the bright moonlight that robbed them of their livelihood.

Solinari’s twin, the blood-red Lunitari, had not risen, nor would it rise for several more hours, flooding the streets with its eerie purplish brilliance. As for the third moon, the black one, its dark roundness among the stars was noted by one man, who gazed at it briefly as he divested himself of his black robes, heavy with spell components, and put on the simpler, softer, black sleeping gown. Drawing the black hood up over his head to blot out Solinari’s cold, piercing light, he lay down on his bed and drifted into the restful sleep so necessary to him and his Art.

At least that is what Caramon envisioned him doing as he and the kender walked the moonlit, crowded streets. The night was alive with fun. They passed group after group of merrymakers—parties of men laughing boisterously and discussing the games; parties of women, who clung together and shyly glanced at Caramon out of the corners of their eyes. Their filmy dresses floated around them in the soft breeze that was mild for late autumn. One such group recognized Caramon, and the big man almost ran, fearing they would call guards to take him back to the arena.

But Tas—wiser about the ways of the world—made him stay. The group was enchanted with him. They had seen him fight that afternoon and, already, he had won their hearts. They asked inane questions about the Games, then didn’t listen to his answers—which was just as well. Caramon was so nervous, he made very little sense. Finally they went on their way, laughing and bidding him good fortune. Caramon glanced at the kender wonderingly at this, but Tas only shook his head.

“Why did you think I made you dress up?” he asked Caramon shortly.

Caramon had, in fact, been wondering about this very thing. Tas had insisted that he wear the golden, silken cape he wore in the ring, plus the helmet he had worn that afternoon. It didn’t seem at all suitable for sneaking into Temples—Caramon had visions of crawling through sewers or climbing over rooftops. But when he balked, Tas’s eyes had grown cold. Either Caramon did as he was told or he could forget it, he said sharply.

Caramon, sighing, dressed as ordered, putting the cape on over his regular loose shirt and leather breeches. He put the bloodstained dagger in his belt. Out of habit, he had started to clean it, then stopped. No, it would be more suitable this way.

It had been a simple matter for the kender to unlock their door after Raag locked them in that night, and the two had slipped through the sleeping section of the gladiators’ quarters without incident; most of the fighters either being asleep or—in the case of the minotaurs—roaring drunk.

The two walked the streets openly, to Caramon’s vast discomfort. But the kender seemed unperturbed. Unusually moody and silent, Tas continually ignored Caramon’s repeated questions. They drew nearer and nearer the Temple. It loomed before them in all its pearl and silver radiance, and finally Caramon stopped.

“Wait a minute, Tas,” he said softly, pulling the kender into a shadowy corner, “just how do you plan to get us in here?”

“Through the front doors,” Tas answered quietly.

“The front doors?” Caramon repeated in blank astonishment. “Are you mad? The guards! They’ll stop us—”

“It’s a Temple, Caramon,” Tas said with a sigh. “A Temple to the gods. Evil things just don’t enter.”

“Fistandantilus enters,” Caramon said gruffly.

“But only because the Kingpriest allows it,” Tas said, shrugging. “Otherwise, he couldn’t get in here. The gods wouldn’t permit it. At least that’s what one of the clerics told me when I asked.”

Caramon frowned. The dagger in his belt seemed heavy, the metal was hot against his skin. Just his imagination, he told himself. After all, he’d worn daggers before. Reaching beneath his cloak, he touched it reassuringly. Then, his lips pressed tightly together, he started walking toward the Temple. After a moment’s hesitation, Tas caught up with him.

“Caramon,” said the kender in a small voice, “I-I think I know what you were thinking. I’ve been thinking the same thing. What if the gods won’t let us in’”

“We’re out to destroy evil,” Caramon said evenly, his hand on the dagger’s hilt. “They’ll help us, not hinder us. You’ll see.”

“But, Caramon—” Now it was Tas’s turn to ask questions and Caramon’s turn to grimly ignore him. Eventually, they reached the magnificent steps leading up to the Temple. Caramon stopped, staring at the building. Seven towers rose to the heavens, as if praising the gods for their creation. But one spiraled above them all. Gleaming in Solinari’s light, it seemed not to praise the gods but sought to rival them. The beauty of the Temple, its pearl and rose-colored marble gleaming softly in the moonlight, its still pools of water reflecting the stars, its vast gardens of lovely, fragrant flowers, its ornamentation of silver and of gold, all took Caramon’s breath away, piercing his heart. He could not move but was held as though spellbound by the wonder.

And then, in the back of his mind, came a lurking feeling of horror. He had seen this before! Only he had seen it in a nightmare—the towers twisted and misshapen... Confused, he closed his eyes. Where? How? Then, it came to him. The Temple at Neraka, where he’d been imprisoned! The Temple of the Queen of Darkness! It had been this very Temple, perverted by her evil, corrupted, turned to a thing of horror. Caramon trembled. Overwhelmed by this terrible memory, wondering at its portent, he thought for a moment of turning around and fleeing.

Then he felt Tas tug at his arm. “Keep moving!” the kender ordered. “You look suspicious!”

Caramon shook his head, clearing it of stupid memories that meant nothing, he told himself. The two approached the guards at the door.

“Tas!” Caramon said suddenly, gripping the kender by the shoulder so tightly he squeaked in pain. “Tas, this is a test! If the gods let us in, I’ll know we’re doing the right thing! We’ll have their blessing!”

Tas paused. “Do you think so?” he asked hesitantly.

“Of course!” Caramon’s eyes shone in Solinari’s bright light.

“You’ll see. Come on.” His confidence restored, the big man strode up the stairs. He was an imposing sight, the golden, silken cape fluttering about him, the golden helmet flashing in the moonlight. The guards stopped talking and turned to watch him. One nudged the other, saying something and making a swift, stabbing motion with his hand. The other guard grinned and shook his head, regarding Caramon with admiration.

Caramon knew immediately what the pantomime represented and he nearly stopped walking, feeling once again the warm blood splash over his hand and hearing the Barbarian’s last, choked words. But he had come too far to quit now. And, perhaps this too was a sign, he told himself. The Barbarian’s spirit, lingering near, anxious for its revenge.

Tas glanced up at him anxiously. “Better let me do the talking,” the kender whispered.

Caramon nodded, swallowing nervously.

“Greetings, gladiator,” called one of the guards. “You’re new to the Games, are you not? I was telling my companion on watch, here, that he missed a pretty fight today. Not only that, but you won me six silver pieces, as well. What is it you are called?”

“He’s the ‘Victor,’ ” Tas said glibly. “And today was just the beginning. He’s never been defeated in battle, and he never will be.”

“And who are you, little cutpurse? His manager?”

This was met by roars of laughter from the other guard and nervous high-pitched laughter from Caramon. Then he glanced down at Tas and knew immediately they were in trouble. Tas’s face was white. Cutpurse! The most dreadful insult, the worst thing in the world one could call a kender! Caramon’s big hand clapped over Tas’s mouth.

“Sure,” said Caramon, keeping a firm grip on the wriggling kender, “and a good one, too.”

“Well, keep an eye on him,” the other guard added, laughing even harder. “We want to see you slit throats—not pockets!”

Tasslehoff’s ears—the only part visible above Caramon’s wide hand—flushed scarlet. Incoherent sounds came from behind Caramon’s palm. “I-I think we better go on in,” the big warrior stammered, wondering how long he could hold Tas. “We’re late.”

The guards winked at each other knowingly, one of them shook his head in envy. “I saw the women watching you today,” he said, his gaze going to Caramon’s broad shoulders. “I should have known you’d be invited here for—uh—dinner.”

What were they talking about? Caramon’s puzzled look caused the guards to break out in renewed laughter.

“Name of the gods!” One sputtered. “Look at him! He is new!”

“Go ahead,” the other guard waved him on by. “Good appetite!”

More laughter. Flushing red, not knowing what to say and still trying to hold onto Tas, Caramon entered the Temple. But, as he walked, he heard crude jokes pass between the guards, giving him sudden clear insight into their meaning. Dragging the wriggling kender down a hallway, he darted around the first corner he came to. He hadn’t the vaguest idea where he was. Once the guards were out of sight and hearing, he let Tas go. The kender was pale, his eyes dilated.

“Why, those—those—I’ll—They’ll regret—”

“Tas!” Caramon shook him. “Stop it. Calm down. Remember why we’re here!”

“Cutpurse! As if I were a common thief!” Tas was practically frothing at the mouth. “I—”

Caramon glowered at him, and the kender choked. Getting control of himself, he drew a deep breath and let it out again slowly. “I’m all right, now,” he said sullenly. “I said I’m all right,” he snapped as Caramon continued to regard him dubiously.

“Well, we got inside, though not quite the way I expected,” Caramon muttered. “Did you hear what they were saying?”

“No, not after ‘cu—cut’... after that word. You had part of your hand over my ears,” Tas said accusingly.

“They... they sounded like... the ladies invited m-men here for—for... you know...”

“Look, Caramon,” Tas said, exasperated. “You got your sign. They let us in. They were probably just teasing you. You know how gullible you are. You’ll believe anything! Tika’s always saying so.”

A memory of Tika came to Caramon’s mind. He could hear her say those very words, laughing. It cut him like a knife. Glaring at Tas, he shoved the memory away immediately.

“Yeah,” he said bitterly, flushing, “you’re probably right. They’re having their joke on me. And I fell for it, too! But”—he lifted his head and, for the first time, looked around at the splendor of the Temple. He began to realize where he was—this holy place, this palace of the gods. Once more he felt the reverence and awe he had experienced as he stood gazing at it, bathed in Solinari’s radiant light—“you’re right—the gods have given us our sign!”

There was a corridor in the Temple where few came and, of those that did, none went voluntarily. If forced to come here on some errand, they did their business quickly and left as swiftly as possible.

There was nothing wrong with the corridor itself. It was just as splendid as the other halls and corridors of the Temple. Beautiful tapestries done in muted colors graced its walls, soft carpets covered its marble floors, graceful statues filled its shadowy alcoves. Ornately carved wooden doors opened off of it, leading to rooms as pleasingly decorated as other rooms in the Temple. But the doors opened no longer. All were locked. All the rooms were empty—all except one.

That room was at the very far end of the corridor, which was dark and silent even in the daytime. It was as if the occupant of this one room cast a pall over the very floor he walked, the very air he breathed. Those who entered this corridor complained of feeling smothered. They gasped for breath like someone dying inside a burning house.

This room was the room of Fistandantilus. It had been his for years, since the Kingpriest came to power and drove the magic-users from their Tower in Palanthas—the Tower where Fistandantilus had reigned as Head of the Conclave.

What bargain had they struck—the leading powers of good and of evil in the world? What deal had been made that allowed the Dark One to live inside the most beautiful, most holy place on Krynn? None knew, many speculated. Most believed it was by the grace of the Kingpriest, a noble gesture to a defeated foe.

But even he—even the Kingpriest himself—did not walk this corridor. Here, at least, the great mage reigned in dark and terrifying supremacy.

At the far end of the corridor stood a tall window. Heavy plush curtains were drawn over it, blotting out the sunlight in the daytime, the moons’ rays at night. Rarely did light penetrate the curtains’ thick folds. But this night, perhaps because the servants had been driven by the Head of Household to clean and dust the corridor, the curtains were parted the slightest bit, letting Solinari’s silver light shine into the bleak, empty corridor. The beams of the moon the dwarves call Night Candle pierced the darkness like a long, thin blade of glittering steel.

Or perhaps the thin, white finger of a corpse, Caramon thought, looking down that silent corridor. Stabbing through the glass, the finger of moonlight ran the length of the carpeted floor and, reaching the length of the hall, touched him where he stood at the end.

“That’s his door,” the kender said in such a soft whisper Caramon could barely hear him over the beating of his own heart. “On the left.”

Caramon reached beneath his cloak once more, seeking the dagger’s hilt, its reassuring presence. But the handle of the knife was cold. He shuddered as he touched it and quickly withdrew his hand.

It seemed a simple thing, to walk down this corridor. Yet he couldn’t move. Perhaps it was the enormity of what he contemplated—to take a man’s life, not in battle, but as he slept. To kill a man in his sleep—of all times, the time we are most defenseless, when we place ourselves in the hands of the gods. Was there a more heinous, cowardly crime?

The gods gave me a sign, Caramon reminded himself, and sternly he made himself remember the dying Barbarian. He made himself remember his brother’s torment in the Tower. He remembered how powerful this evil mage was when awake. Caramon drew a deep breath and grasped the hilt of the dagger firmly. Holding it tightly, though he did not draw it from his belt, he began to walk down the still corridor, the moonlight seeming now to beckon him on.

He felt a presence behind him, so close that, when he stopped, Tas bumped into him.

“Stay here,” Caramon ordered.

“No—” Tas began to protest, but Caramon hushed him.

“You’ve got to. Someone has to stand on watch at this end of the corridor. If anyone comes, make a noise or something.”

But—

Caramon glared down at the kender. At the sight of the big man’s grim expression and cold, emotionless glare, Tas gulped and nodded. “I-I’ll just stand over there, in that shadow.” He pointed and crept away.

Caramon waited until he was certain Tas wouldn’t “accidentally” follow him. But the kender hunched miserably in the shadow of huge, potted tree that had died months ago. Caramon turned and continued on.

Standing next to the brittle skeleton whose dry leaves rustled when the kender moved, Tas watched Caramon walk down the hallway. He saw the big man reach the end, stretch out a hand, and wrap it around the door handle. He saw Caramon give it a gentle push. It yielded to his pressure and opened silently. Caramon disappeared inside the room.

Tasslehoff began to shake. A horrible, sick feeling spread from his stomach throughout his body, a whimper escaped his lips. Clasping his hand over his mouth so that he wouldn’t yelp, the kender pressed himself up against the wall and thought about dying, alone, in the dark.

Caramon eased his big body around the door, opening it only a crack in case the hinges should squeak. But it was silent. Everything in the room was silent. No noise from anywhere in the Temple came into this chamber, as if all life itself had been swallowed by the choking darkness. Caramon felt his lungs burn, and he remembered vividly the time he had nearly drowned in the Blood Sea of Istar. Firmly, he resisted the urge to gasp for air.

He paused a moment in the doorway, trying to calm his racing heart, and looked around the room. Solinari’s light streamed in through a gap in the heavy curtains that covered the window. A thin sliver of silver light slit the darkness, slicing through it in a narrow cut that led straight to the bed at the far end of the room.

The chamber was sparsely furnished. Caramon saw the shapeless bulk of a heavy black robe draped over a wooden chair. Soft leather boots stood next to it. No fire burned in the grate, the night was too warm. Gripping the hilt of the knife, Caramon drew it slowly and crossed the room, guided by the moon’s silver light.

A sign from the gods, he thought, his pounding heartbeat nearly choking him. He felt fear, fear such as he had rarely experienced in his life—a raw, gut-wrenching, bowel-twisting fear that made his muscles jerk and dried his throat. Desperately, he forced himself to swallow so that he wouldn’t cough and wake the sleeper.

I must do this quickly! he told himself, more than half afraid he might faint or be sick. He crossed the room, the soft carpet muffling his swift footsteps. Now he could see the bed and the figure asleep within it. He could see the figure clearly, the moonlight slicing a neat line across the floor, up the bedstead, over the coverlet, slanting upward to the head lying on the pillow, its hood pulled over the face to blot out the light.

“Thus the gods point my way,” Caramon murmured, unaware that he was speaking. Creeping up to the side of the bed, he paused, the dagger in his hand, listening to the quiet breathing of his victim, trying to detect any change in the deep, even rhythm that would tell him he had been discovered.

In and out... in and out... the breathing was strong, deep, peaceful. The breathing of a healthy young man. Caramon shuddered, recalling how old this wizard was supposed to be, recalling the dark tales he had heard about how Fistandantilus renewed his youth. The man’s breathing was steady, even. There was no break, no quickening. The moonlight poured in, cold, unwavering, a sign...

Caramon raised the dagger. One thrust—swift and neat—deep in the chest and it would be over. Moving forward, Caramon hesitated. No, before he struck, he would look upon the face—the face of the man who had tortured his brother.

No! Fool! a voice screamed inside Caramon. Stab now, quickly! Caramon even lifted the knife again, but his hand shook. He had to see the face! Reaching out a trembling hand, he gently touched the black hood. The material was soft and yielding. He pushed it aside.

Solinari’s silver moonlight touched Caramon’s hand, then touched the face of the sleeping mage, bathing it in radiance. Caramon’s hand stiffened, growing white and cold as that of a corpse as he stared down at the face on the pillow.

It was not the face of an ancient, evil wizard, scarred with countless sins. It was not even the face of some tormented being whose life had been stolen from his body to keep the dying mage alive.

It was the face of a young magic-user, weary from long nights of study at his books, but now relaxed, finding welcome rest. It was the face of one whose tenacious endurance of constant pain was marked in the firm, unyielding lines about the mouth. It was a face as familiar to Caramon as his own, a face he had looked upon in sleep countless times, a face he had soothed with cooling water...

The hand holding the dagger stabbed down, plunging the blade into the mattress. There was a wild, strangled shriek, and Caramon fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching at the coverlet with fingers curled in agony. His big body shook convulsively, wracked with shuddering sobs.

Raistlin opened his eyes and sat up, blinking in Solinari’s bright light. He drew his hood over his eyes once more, then, sighing in irritation, reached out and carefully removed the dagger from his brother’s nerveless grip.

9

This was truly stupid, my brother,” said Raistlin, turning the dagger over in his slender hands, studying it idly. “I find it hard to believe, even of you.”

Kneeling on the floor by the bedside, Caramon looked up at his twin. His face was haggard, drawn and deathly pale. He opened his mouth.

“‘I don’t understand, Raist,’ ” Raistlin whined, mocking him.

Caramon clamped his lips shut, his face hardened into a dark, bitter mask. His eyes glanced at the dagger his brother still held. “Perhaps it would have been better if I hadn’t drawn aside the hood,” he muttered.

Raistlin smiled, though his brother did not see him.

“You had no choice,” he replied. Then he sighed and shook his head. “My brother, did you honestly think to simply walk into my room and murder me as I slept? You know what a light sleeper I am, have always been.”

“No, not you!” Caramon cried brokenly, lifting his gaze. “I thought—” He could not go on.

Raistlin stared at him, puzzled for a moment, then suddenly began to laugh. It was horrible laughter, ugly and taunting, and Tasslehoff—still standing at the end of the hall—clasped his hands over his ears at the sound, even as he began creeping down the corridor toward it to see what was going on.

“You were going to murder Fistandantilus!” Raistlin said, regarding his brother with amusement. He laughed again at the thought. “Dear brother,” he said, “I had forgotten how entertaining you could be.”

Caramon flushed, and rose unsteadily to his feet.

“I was going to do it... for you,” he said. Walking over to the window, he pulled aside the curtain and stared moodily out into the courtyard of the Temple that shimmered with pearl and silver in Solinari’s light.

“Of course you were,” Raistlin snapped, a trace of the old bitterness creeping into his voice. “Why did you ever do anything, except for me?”

Speaking a sharp word of command, Raistlin caused a bright light to fill the room, gleaming from the Staff of Magius that leaned against the wall in a corner. The mage threw back the coverlet and rose from his bed. Walking over to the grate, he spoke another word and flames leaped up from the bare stone. Their orange light beat upon his pale, thin face and was reflected in the clear, brown eyes.

“Well, you are late, my brother,” Raistlin continued, holding his hands out to warm them at the blaze, flexing and exercising his supple fingers. “Fistandantilus is dead. By my hands.”

Caramon turned around sharply to stare at his brother, caught by the odd tone in Raistlin’s voice. But his brother remained standing by the fire, staring into the flames.

“You thought to walk in and stab him as he slept,” Raistlin murmured, a grim smile on his thin lips. “The greatest mage who ever lived—up until now.”

Caramon saw his brother lean against the mantlepiece, as if suddenly weak.

“He was surprised to see me,” said Raistlin softly. “And he mocked me, as he mocked me in the Tower. But he was afraid. I could see it in his eyes.

“‘So, little mage,’ Fistandantilus sneered, ‘and how did you get here? Did the great Par-Salian send you?’

“‘I came on my own,’ I told him. ‘I am the Master of the Tower now.’

“He had not expected that. ‘Impossible,’ he said, laughing. ‘I am the one whose coming the prophecy foretold. I am master of past and present. When I am ready, I will return to my property.’

“But the fear grew in his eyes, even as he spoke, for he read my thoughts. ‘Yes,’ I answered his unspoken words, ‘the prophecy did not work as you hoped. You intended to journey from the past to the present, using the lifeforce you wrenched from me to keep you alive. But you forgot, or perhaps you didn’t care, that I could draw upon your spiritual force! You had to keep me alive in order to keep sucking out my living juices. And—to that end—you gave me the words and taught me to use the dragon orb. When I lay dying at Astinus’s feet, you breathed air into this wretched body you had tortured. You brought me to the Dark Queen and beseeched her to give me the Key to unlock the mysteries of the ancient magic texts I could not read. And, when you were finally ready, you intended to enter the shattered husk of my body and claim it for your own.’”

Raistlin turned to face his brother, and Caramon stepped back a pace, frightened at the hatred and fury he saw burning within the eyes, brighter than the dancing flames of the fire.

“So he thought to keep me weak and frail. But I fought him! I fought him!” Raistlin repeated softly, intently, his gaze staring far away. “I used him! I used his spirit and I lived with the pain and I overcame it! ‘You are master of the past,’ I told him, ‘but you lack the strength to get into the present. I am master of the. present, about to become master of the past!’”

Raistlin sighed, his hand dropped, the light flickered in his eyes and died, leaving them dark and haunted. “I killed him,” he murmured, “but it was a bitter battle.”

“You killed him? They—they said you came back to learn from him,” Caramon stammered, confusion twisting his face.

“I did,” Raistlin said softly. “Long months I spent with him, in another guise, revealing myself to him only when I was ready. This time, I sucked him dry!”

Caramon shook his head. “That’s impossible. You didn’t leave until the same time we did, that night... At least that’s what the dark elf said—”

Raistlin shook his head irritably. “Time to you, my brother, is a journey from sunrise to sunset. Time to those of us who have mastered its secrets is a journey beyond suns. Seconds become years, hours—millennia. I have walked these halls as Fistandantilus for months now. These last few weeks I have traveled to all the Towers of High Sorcery—those still standing, that is—to study and to learn. I have been with Lorac, in the elven kingdom, and taught him to use the dragon orb—a deadly gift, for one as weak and vain as he. It will snare him, later on. I have spent long hours with Astinus in the Great Library. And, before that, I studied with the great Fistandantilus. Other places I have visited, seeing horrors and wonders beyond your imagining. But, to Dalamar, for example, I have been gone no more than a day and a night. As have you.”

This was beyond Caramon. Desperately, he sought to grab at some fraction of reality.

“Then... does this mean that you’re... all right, now? I mean, in the present? In our time?” He gestured. “Your skin isn’t gold anymore, you’ve lost the hourglass eyes. You look... like you did when you were young, and we rode to the Tower, seven years ago. Will you be like that when we go back?”

“No, my brother,” Raistlin said, speaking with the patience one uses explaining things to a child. “Surely Par-Salian explained this? Well, perhaps not. Time is a river. I have not changed the course of its flow. I have simply climbed out and jumped in at a point farther upstream. It carries me along its course. I—”

Raistlin stopped suddenly, casting a sharp glance at the door. Then, with a swift motion of his hand, he caused the door to burst open and Tasslehoff Burrfoot tumbled inside, falling down face first.

“Oh, hullo,” Tas said, cheerfully picking himself up off the floor. “I was just going to knock.” Dusting himself off, he turned eagerly to Caramon. “I have it figured out! You see—it used to be Fistandantilus becoming Raistlin becoming Fistandantilus. Only now it’s Fistandantilus becoming Raistlin becoming Fistandantilus, then becoming Raistlin again. See?”

No, Caramon did not. Tas turned around to the mage. “Isn’t that right, Raist—”

The mage didn’t answer. He was staring at Tasslehoff with such a queer, dangerous expression in his eyes that the kender glanced uneasily at Caramon and took a step or two nearer the warrior—just in case Caramon needed help, of course.

Suddenly Raistlin’s hand made a swift, slight, summoning motion. Tasslehoff felt no sensation of movement, but there was a blurring in the room for half a heartbeat, and then he was being held by his collar within inches of Raistlin’s thin face.

“Why did Par-Salian send you?” Raistlin asked in a soft voice that “shivered” the kender’s skin, as Flint used to say.

“Well, he thought Caramon needed help, of course and—” Raistlin’s grip tightened, his eyes narrowed. Tas faltered. “Uh, actually, I don’t think he, uh, really intended to s-send me.” Tas tried to twist his head around to look beseechingly at Caramon, but Raistlin’s grip was strong and powerful, nearly choking the kender. “It—it was, more or less, an accident, I guess, at least as far as he was c-concerned. And I could t-talk better if you’d let me breathe... every once in awhile.”

“Go on!” Raistlin ordered, shaking Tas slightly.

“Raist, stop—” Caramon began, taking a step toward him, his brow furrowed.

“Shut up!” Raistlin commanded furiously, never taking his burning eyes off the kender. “Continue.”

“There—there was a ring someone had dropped... well, maybe not dropped—” Tas stammered, alarmed enough by the expression in Raistlin’s eyes into telling the truth, or as near as was kenderly possible. “I-I guess I was sort of going into someone else’s room, and it f-fell in—into my pouch, I suppose, because I don’t know how it got there, but when th—the red-robed man sent Bupu home, I knew I was next. And I couldn’t leave Caramon! So I-I said a prayer to F-Fizban—I mean Paladine—and I put the ring on and—poof!”—Tas held up his hands—“I was a mouse!”

The kender paused at this dramatic moment, hoping for an appropriately amazed response from his audience. But Raistlin’s eyes only dilated with impatience and his hand twisted the kender’s collar just a bit more, so Tas hurried on, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.

“And so I was able to hide,” he squeaked, not unlike the mouse he had been, “and sneaked into Par-Salian’s labra-labora-lavaratory—and he was doing the most wonderful things and the rocks were singing and Crysania was lying there all pale and Caramon looked terrified and I couldn’t let him go alone—so... so...” Tas shrugged and looked at Raistlin with disarming innocence, “here I am...”

Raistlin continued clutching him for a moment, devouring him with his eyes, as if he would strip the skin from his bones and see inside his very soul. Then, apparently satisfied, the mage let the kender drop to the floor and turned back to stare into the fire, his thoughts abstracted.

“What does this mean?” he murmured. “A kender—by all the laws of magic forbidden! Does this mean the course of time can be altered? Is he telling the truth? Or is this how they plot to stop me?”

“What did you say?” Tas asked with interest, looking up from where he sat on the carpet, trying to catch his breath. “The course of time altered? By me? Do you mean that I could—”

Raistlin whirled, glaring at the kender so viciously that Tas shut his mouth and began edging his way back to where Caramon stood.

“I was sure surprised to find your brother. Weren’t you?” Tas asked Caramon, ignoring the spasm of pain that crossed Caramon’s face. “Raistlin was surprised to see me, too, wasn’t he? That’s odd, because I saw him in the slave market and I assumed he must have seen us—”

“Slave market!” Caramon said suddenly. Enough of this talk about rivers and time. This was something he could understand! “Raist—you said you’ve been here months! That means you are the one who made them think I attacked Crysania! You’re the one who bought me! You’re the one who sent me to the Games!”

Raistlin made an impatient gesture, irritated at having his thoughts interrupted.

But Caramon persisted. “Why!” he demanded angrily. “Why that place?”

“Oh, in the name of the gods, Caramon!” Raistlin turned around again, his eyes cold. “What possible use could you be to me in the condition you were in when you came here? I need a strong warrior where we’re going next—not a fat drunk.”

“And... and you ordered the Barbarian’s death?” Caramon asked, his eyes flashing. “You sent the warning to what’s-his-name—Quarath?”

“Don’t be a dolt, my brother,” Raistlin said grimly. “What do I care for these petty court intrigues? Their little, mindless games? If I wanted to do away with an enemy, his life would be snuffed out in a matter of seconds. Quarath flatters himself to think I would take such an interest in him.”

“But the dwarf said—”

“The dwarf hears only the sound of money being dropped into his palm. But, believe what you will.” Raistlin shrugged. “It matters little to me.”

Caramon was silent long moments, pondering. Tas opened his mouth—there were at least a hundred questions he was dying to ask Raistlin—but Caramon glared at him and the kender closed it quickly. Caramon, slowly going over in his mind all that his brother had told him, suddenly raised his gaze.

“What do you mean—‘where we go next’?”

“My counsel is mine to keep,” Raistlin replied. “You will know when the time comes, so to speak. My work here progresses, but it is not quite finished. There is one other here besides you who must be beaten down and hammered into shape.”

“Crysania,” Caramon murmured. “This has something to do with challenging the—the Dark Queen, doesn’t it? Like they said? You need a cleric—”

“I am very tired, my brother,” Raistlin interrupted. At his gesture, the flames in the fireplace vanished. At a word, the light from the Staff winked out. Darkness, chill and bleak, descended on the three who stood there. Even Solinari’s light was gone, the moon having sunk behind the buildings. Raistlin crossed the room, heading for his bed. His black robes rustled softly. “Leave me to my rest. You should not remain here long in any event. Undoubtedly, spies have reported your presence, and Quarath can be a deadly enemy. Try to avoid getting yourself killed. It would annoy me greatly to have to train another bodyguard. Farewell, my brother. Be ready. My summons will come soon. Remember the date.”

Caramon opened his mouth, but he found himself talking to a door. He and Tas were standing outside in the now-dark corridor.

“That’s really incredible!” the kender said, sighing in delight. “I didn’t even feel myself moving, did you? One minute we were there, the next we’re here. Just a wave of the hand. It must be wonderful being a mage,” Tas said wistfully, staring at the closed door. “Zooming through time and space and closed doors.”

“Come on,” Caramon said abruptly, turning and stalking down the corridor.

“Say, Caramon,” Tas said softly, hurrying after him. “What did Raistlin mean—‘remember the date’? Is it his Day of Life Gift coming up or something? Are you supposed to get him a present?”

“No,” Caramon growled. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly,” Tas protested, offended. “After all, Yule-tide is in a few weeks, and he’s probably expecting a present for that. At least, I suppose they celebrate Yuletide back here in Istar the same as we celebrate it in our time. Do you think—”

Caramon came to a sudden halt.

“What is it’!” Tas asked, alarmed at the horrified expression on the big man’s face. Hurriedly, the kender glanced around, his hand closing over the hilt of a small knife he had tucked into his own belt. “What do you see? I don’t—”

“The date!” Caramon cried. “The date, Tas! Yuletide! In Istar!” Whirling around, he grabbed the startled kender. “What year is it? What year?”

“Why...” Tas gulped, trying to think. “I believe, yes, someone told me it was—962.”

Caramon groaned, his hands dropped Tas and clutched at his head.

“What is it?” Tas asked.

“Think, Tas, think!” Caramon muttered. Then, clutching at his head in misery, the big man stumbled blindly down the corridor in the darkness. “What do they want me to do? What can I do?”

Tas followed more slowly. “Let’s see. This is Yuletide, year 962 I.A. Such a ridiculously high number. For some reason it sounds familiar. Yuletide, 962... Oh, I remember!” he said triumphantly. “That was the last Yuletide right before .. right before...”

The thought took the kender’s breath away.

“Right before the Cataclysm!” he whispered.

10

Denubis set down the quill pen and rubbed his eyes. He sat in the quiet of the copying room, his hand over his eyes, hoping that a brief moment of rest would help him. But it didn’t. When he opened his eyes and grasped the quill pen to begin his work again, the words he was trying to translate still swam together in a meaningless jumble.

Sternly, he reprimanded himself and ordered himself to concentrate and—finally—the words began to make sense and sort themselves out. But it was difficult going. His head ached. It had ached, it seemed, for days now, with a dull, throbbing pain that was present even in his dreams.

“It’s this strange weather,” he told himself repeatedly. “Too hot for the beginning of Yule season.”

It was too hot, strangely hot. And the air was thick with moisture, heavy and oppressive. The fresh breezes had seemingly been swallowed up by the heat. One hundred miles away at Kathay, so he had heard, the ocean lay flat and calm beneath the fiery sun, so calm that no ships could sail. They sat in the harbor, their captains cursing, their cargo rotting.

Mopping his forehead, Denubis tried to continue working diligently, translating the Disks of Mishakal into Solamnic. But his mind wandered. The words made him think of a tale he had heard some Solamnic knights discussing last night—a gruesome tale that Denubis kept trying to banish from his mind.

A knight named Soth had seduced a young elven cleric and then married her, bringing her home to his castle at Dargaard Keep as his bride. But this Soth had already been married, so the knights said, and there was more than one reason to believe that his first wife had met a most foul end.

The knights had sent a delegation to arrest Soth and hold him for trial, but Dargaard Keep, it was said, was now an armed fortress—Soth’s own loyal knights defending their lord. What made it particularly haunting was that the elven woman the lord had deceived remained with him, steadfast in her love and loyalty to the man, even though his guilt had been proven.

Denubis shuddered and tried to banish the thought. There! He made an error. This was hopeless! He started to lay the quill down again, then heard the door to the copying room opening. Hastily, he lifted the quill pen and began to write rapidly.

“Denubis,” said a soft, hesitant voice.

The cleric looked up. “Crysania, my dear,” he said, with a smile.

“Am I disturbing your work? I can come back—”

“No, no,” Denubis assured her. “I am glad to see you. Very glad.” This was quite true. Crysania had a way of making him feel calm and tranquil. Even his headache seemed to lessen. Leaving his high-backed writing stool, he found a chair for her and one for himself, then sat down near her, wondering why she had come.

As if in answer, Crysania looked around the still, peaceful room and smiled. “I like it here,” she said. “It’s so quiet and, well, private.” Her smile faded. “I sometimes get tired of... of so many people,” she said, her gaze going to the door that led to the main part of the Temple.

“Yes, it is quiet,” Denubis said. “Now, at any rate. It wasn’t so, in past years. When I first came, it was filled with scribes, translating the words of the gods into languages so that everyone could read them. But the Kingpriest didn’t think that was necessary and—one by one—they all left, finding more important things to do. Except me.” He sighed. “I guess I’m too old,” he added gently, apologetically. “I tried to think of something important to do, and I couldn’t. So I stayed here. No one seemed to mind... very much.”

He couldn’t help frowning slightly, remembering those long talks with Revered Son, Quarath, prodding and poking at him to make something of himself. Eventually, the higher cleric gave up, telling Denubis he was hopeless. So Denubis had returned to his work, sitting day after day in peaceful solitude, translating the scrolls and the books and sending them off to Solamnia where they sat, unread, in some great library.

“But, enough about me,” he added, seeing Crysania’s wan face. “What is the matter, my dear? Are you not feeling well? Forgive me, but I couldn’t help but notice, these past few weeks, how unhappy you’ve seemed.”

Crysania stared down at her hands in silence, then glanced back up at the cleric. “Denubis,” she began hesitantly, “do... do you think the church is... what it should be?”

That wasn’t at all what he had expected. She had more the look of a young girl deceived by a lover. “Why, of course, my dear,” Denubis said in some confusion.

“Really?” Lifting her gaze, she looked into his eyes with an intent stare that made Denubis pause. “You have been with the church for a long time, before the coming of the Kingpriest and Quar—his ministers. You talk about the old days. You have seen it change. Is it better?”

Denubis opened his mouth to say, certainly, yes, it was better. How could it be otherwise with such a good and holy man as the Kingpriest at its head? But Lady Crysania’s gray eyes were staring straight into his soul, he realized suddenly, feeling their searching, seeking gaze bringing light to all the dark corners where he had been hiding things—he knew—for years. He was reminded, uncomfortably, of Fistandantilus.

“I—well—of course—it’s just—” He was babbling and he knew it. Flushing, he fell silent. Crysania nodded gravely, as if she had expected the answer.

“No, it is better,” he said firmly, not wanting to see her young faith bruised, as his had been. Taking her hand, he leaned forward. “I’m just a middle-aged old man, my dear. And middle-aged old men don’t like change. That’s all. To us, everything was better in the old days. Why”—he chuckled—“even the water tasted better, it seems. I’m not used to modern ways. It’s hard for me to understand. The church is doing a world of good, my dear. It’s bringing order to the land and structure to society—”

“Whether society wants it or not,” Crysania muttered, but Denubis ignored her.

“It’s eradicating evil,” he continued, and suddenly the story of that knight—that Lord Soth—floated to the top of his mind, unbidden. He sank it hurriedly, but not before he had lost his place in his lecture. Lamely, he tried to pick it up again, but it was too late.

“Is it?” Lady Crysania was asking him. “Is it eradicating evil? Or are we like children, left alone in the house at night, who light candle after candle to keep away the darkness. We don’t see that the darkness has a purpose—though we may not understand it—and so, in our terror, we end up burning down the house!”

Denubis blinked, not understanding this at all; but Crysania continued, growing more and more restless as she talked. It was obvious, Denubis realized uncomfortably, that she had kept this pent up inside her for weeks.

“We don’t try to help those who have lost their way find it again! We turn our backs on them, calling them unworthy, or we get rid of them! Do you know”—she turned on Denubis—“that Quarath has proposed ridding the world of the ogre races?”

“But, my dear, ogres are, after all, a murderous, villainous lot—” Denubis ventured to protest feebly.

“Created by the gods, just as we were,” Crysania said. “Do we have the right, in our imperfect understanding of the great scheme of things, to destroy anything the gods created?”

“Even spiders?” Denubis asked wistfully, without thinking. Seeing her irritated expression, he smiled. “Never mind. The ramblings of an old man.”

“I came here, convinced that the church was everything good and true, and now I—I—” She put her head in her hands.

Denubis’s heart ached nearly as much as his head. Reaching out a trembling hand, he gently stroked the smooth, blue-black hair, comforting her as he would have comforted the daughter he never had.

“Don’t feel ashamed of your questioning, child,” he said, trying to forget that he had been feeling ashamed of his. “Go, talk to the Kingpriest. He will answer your doubts. He has more wisdom than I.”

Crysania looked up hopefully.

“Do you think—”

“Certainly.” Denubis smiled. “See him tonight, my dear. He will be holding audience. Do not be afraid. Such questions do not anger him.”

“Very well,” Crysania said, her face filled with resolve. “You are right. It’s been foolish of me to wrestle with this myself, without help. I’ll ask the Kingpriest. Surely, he can make this darkness light.”

Denubis smiled and rose to his feet as Crysania rose. Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Thank you, my friend,” she said softly. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Watching her walk from the still, sunlit room, Denubis felt a sudden, inexplicable sorrow and, then, a very great fear. It was as if he stood in a place of bright light, watching her walk into a vast and terrible darkness. The light around him grew brighter and brighter, while the darkness around her grew more horrible, more dense.

Confused, Denubis put his hand to his eyes. The light was real! It was streaming into this room, bathing him in a radiance so brilliant and beautiful that he couldn’t look upon it. The light pierced his brain, the pain in his head was excruciating. And still, he thought desperately, I must warn Crysania, I must stop her...

The light engulfed him, filling his soul with its radiant brilliance. And then, suddenly, the bright light was gone. He was once more standing in the sunlit room. But he wasn’t alone. Blinking, trying to accustom his eyes to the darkness, he looked around and saw an elf standing in the room with him, observing him coolly. The elf was elderly, balding, with a long, meticulously groomed, white beard. He was dressed in long, white robes, the medallion of Paladine hung about his neck. The expression on the elf’s face was one of sadness, such sadness that Denubis was moved to tears, though he had no idea why.

“I’m sorry,” Denubis said huskily. Putting his hand to his head, he suddenly realized it didn’t hurt anymore. “I-I didn’t see you come in. Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?”

“No, I have found the one I seek,” the elf said calmly, but still with the same sad expression, “if you are Denubis.”

“I am Denubis,” the cleric replied, mystified. “But, forgive me, I can’t place you—”

“My name is Loralon,” said the elf.

Denubis gasped. The greatest of the elven clerics, Loralon had, years ago, fought Quarath’s rise to power. But Quarath was too strong. Powerful forces backed him. Loralon’s words of reconciliation and peace were not appreciated. In sorrow, the old cleric had returned to his people, to the wondrous land of Silvanesti that he loved, vowing never to look upon Istar again.

What was he doing here?

“Surely, you seek the Kingpriest,” Denubis stammered, “I’ll—”

“No, there is only one in this Temple I seek and that is you, Denubis,” Loralon said. “Come, now. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Journey!” Denubis repeated stupidly, wondering if he were going mad. “That’s impossible. I’ve not left Istar since I came here, thirty years—”

“Come along, Denubis,” said Loralon gently.

“Where? How? I don’t understand—” Denubis cried. He saw Loralon standing in the center of the sunlit, peaceful room, watching him, still with that same expression of deep, unutterable sadness. Reaching up, Loralon touched the medallion he wore around his neck.

And then Denubis knew. Paladine gave his cleric insight. He saw the future. Blanching in horror, he shook his head.

“No,” he whispered. “That is too dreadful.”

“All is not decided. The scales of balance are tipping, but they have not yet been upset. This journey may be only temporary, or it may last for time beyond reckoning. Come, Denubis, you are needed here no longer.”

The great elven cleric stretched out his hand. Denubis felt blessed with a sense of peace and understanding he had never before experienced, even in the presence of the Kingpriest.

Bowing his head, he reached out and took Loralon’s hand. But, as he did so, he could not help weeping...

Crysania sat in a corner of the Kingpriest’s sumptuous Hall of Audience, her hands folded calmly in her lap, her face pale but composed. Looking at her, no one would have guessed the turmoil in her soul. No one, perhaps, except one man, who had entered the room unnoticed by anyone and who now stood in a shadowy alcove, watching Crysania.

Sitting there, listening to the musical voice of the Kingpriest, hearing him discuss important matters of state with his ministers, hearing him go from politics to solving the great mysteries of the universe with other ministers, Crysania actually blushed to think she had even considered approaching him with her petty questions.

Words of Elistan’s came to her mind. “Do not go to others for the answers. Look in your own heart, search your own faith. You will either find the answer or come to see that the answer is with the gods themselves, not with man.”

And so Crysania sat, preoccupied with her thoughts, searching her heart. Unfortunately, the peace she sought eluded her. Perhaps there were no answers to her questions, she decided abruptly. Then she felt a hand on her arm. Starting, Crysania looked up.

“There are answers to your questions, Revered Daughter,” said a voice that sent a thrill of shocked recognition through her nerves, “there are answers, but you refuse to listen to them.”

She knew the voice, but—looking eagerly into the shadows of the hood, she could not recognize the face. She glanced at the hand on her shoulder, thinking she knew that hand. Black robes fell around it, and her heart lurched. But there were no silver runes upon the robes, such as he wore. Once more, she stared into the face. All she could see was the glitter of hidden eyes, pale skin... Then the hand left her shoulder and, reaching up, turned back the front of the hood.

At first, Crysania felt bitter disappointment. The young man’s eyes were not golden, not shaped like the hourglass that had become his symbol. The skin was not tinted gold, the face was not frail and sickly. This man’s face was pale, as if from long hours of study, but it was healthy, even handsome, except for its look of perpetual, bitter cynicism. The eyes were brown, clear and cold as glass, reflecting back all they saw, revealing nothing within. The man’s body was slender, but well-muscled.

The black, unadorned robes he wore revealed the outline of strong shoulders, not the stooped and shattered frame of the mage. And then the man smiled, the thin lips parted slightly.

“It is you!” Crysania breathed, starting up from her chair.

The man placed his hand upon her shoulder again, exerting a gentle pressure that forced her back down. “Please, remain seated, Revered Daughter,” he said. “I will join you. It is quiet here, and we can talk without interruption.” Turning, he motioned with a graceful gesture and a chair that had been across the room suddenly stood next to him. Crysania gasped slightly and glanced around the room. But, if anyone else had noticed, they were all studiously intent upon ignoring the mage. Looking back, Crysania found Raistlin watching her in amusement, and she felt her skin grow warm.

“Raistlin,” she said formally, to cover her confusion, “I am pleased to see you.”

“And I am pleased to see you, Revered Daughter,” he said in that mocking voice that grated on her nerves. “But my name is not’ Raistlin.”

She stared at him, flushing even more now in her embarrassment. “Forgive me,” she said, looking intently at his face, “but you reminded me strongly of someone I know—once knew.”

“Perhaps this will clear up the mystery,” he said softly. “My name, to those around here, is Fistandantilus.”

Crysania shivered involuntarily, the lights in the room seemed to darken. “No,” she said, shaking her head slowly, “that cannot be! You came back... to learn from him!”

“I came back to become him,” Raistlin replied.

“But... I’ve heard stories. He’s evil, foul—” She drew away from Raistlin, her gaze fixed on him in horror.

“The evil is no more,” Raistlin replied. “He is dead.”

“You?” The word was a whisper.

“He would have killed me, Crysania,” Raistlin said simply, “as he has murdered countless others. It was my life or his.”

“We have exchanged one evil for another,” Crysania answered in a sad, hopeless voice. She turned away.

I am losing her! Raistlin realized instantly. Silently, he regarded her. She had shifted in her chair, turning her face from him. He could see her profile, cold and pure as Solinari’s light. Coolly he studied her, much as he studied the small animals that came under his knife when he probed for the secrets of life itself. Just as he stripped away their skins to see the beating hearts beneath, so he mentally stripped away Crysania’s outer defenses to see her soul.

She was listening to the beautiful voice of the Kingpriest, and on her face was a look of profound peace. But Raistlin remembered her face as he had seen it on entering. Long accustomed to observing others and reading the emotions they thought they hid, he had seen the slight line appear between her black eyebrows, he had seen her gray eyes grow dark and clouded.

She had kept her hands in her lap, but he had seen the fingers twist the cloth of her gown. He knew of her conversation with Denubis. He knew she doubted, that her faith was wavering, teetering on the edge of the precipice. It would take little to shove her over the edge. And, with a bit of patience on his part, she might even jump over of her own accord.

Raistlin remembered how she had flinched at his touch. Drawing near her, he reached out and took hold of her wrist. She started and almost immediately tried to break free of his hold. But his grip was firm. Crysania looked up into his eyes and could not move.

“Do you truly believe that of me?” Raistlin asked in the voice of one who has suffered long and then returned to find it was all for nothing. He saw his sorrow pierce her heart. She tried to speak, but Raistlin continued, twisting the knife in her soul.

“Fistandantilus planned to return to our time, destroy me, take my body, and pick up where the Queen of Darkness left off. He plotted to bring the evil dragons under his control. The Dragon Highlords, like my sister, Kitiara, would have flocked to his standard. The world would be plunged into war, once again.” Raistlin paused. “That threat is now ended,” he said softly.

His eyes held Crysania, just as his hand held her wrist. Looking in them, she saw herself reflected in their mirrorlike surface. And she saw herself, not as the pale, studious, severe cleric she had heard herself called more than once, but as someone beautiful and caring. This man had come to her in trust and she had let him down. The pain in his voice was unendurable, and Crysania tried once again to speak, but Raistlin continued, drawing her ever nearer.

“You know my ambitions,” he said. “To you, I opened my heart. Is it my design to renew the war? Is it my desire to conquer the world? My sister, Kitiara, came to me to ask this very thing, to seek my help. I refused, and you, I fear, paid the consequences.” Raistlin sighed and lowered his eyes. “I told her about you, Crysania, and of your goodness and your power. She was enraged and sent her death knight to destroy you, thinking to end your influence over me.”

“Do I have influence over you then?” Crysania asked softly, no longer trying to break free of Raistlin’s hold. Her voice trembled with joy. “Can I dare hope that you have seen the ways of the church and—”

“The ways of this church?” Raistlin asked, his voice once again bitter and mocking. Withdrawing his hand abruptly, he sat back in his chair, gathering his black robes about him and regarding Crysania with a sneering smile.

Embarrassment, anger, and guilt stained Crysania’s cheeks a faint pink, her gray eyes darkened to deep blue. The color in her cheeks spread to her lips and suddenly she was beautiful, something Raistlin noticed without meaning to. The thought annoyed him beyond all bounds, threatening to disrupt his concentration. Irritably, he pushed it away.

“I know your doubts, Crysania,” he continued abruptly. “I know what you have seen. You have found the church to be far more concerned with running the world than teaching the ways of the gods. You have seen its clerics double-dealing, dabbling in politics, spending money for show that might have fed the poor. You thought to vindicate the church, when you came back; to discover that others caused the gods in their righteous anger to hurl the fiery mountain down upon those who forsook them. You sought to blame... magic-users, perhaps.”

Crysania’s flush deepened, she could not look at him and turned her face away, but her pain and humiliation were obvious.

Raistlin continued mercilessly. “The time of the Cataclysm draws near. Already, the true clerics have left the land... Yes, didn’t you know? Your friend, Denubis, has gone. You, Crysania, are the only true cleric left in the land.”

Crysania stared at Raistlin in shock. “That’s... impossible,” she whispered. Her eyes glanced around the room. And she could hear, for the first time, the conversations of those gathered in knots away from the Kingpriest. She heard talk of the Games, she heard arguments over the distribution of public funds, the routing of armies, the best means to bring a rebellious land under control—ail in the name of the church.

And then, as if to drown out the other, harsh voices, the sweet, musical voice of the Kingpriest welled up in her soul, calming her troubled spirit. The Kingpriest was here, still. Turning from the darkness, she looked toward his light and felt her faith, once more strong and pure, rise up to defend her. Coolly, she looked back at Raistlin.

“There is still goodness in the world,” she said sternly. Standing she started to leave. “As long as that holy man, who is surely blessed of the gods, rules, I cannot believe that the gods visited their wrath upon the church. Say, rather, it was on the world for ignoring the church,” she continued, her voice low and passionate. Raistlin had risen as well and, watching her intently, moved nearer to her.

She did not seem to notice but kept on. “Or for ignoring the Kingpriest! He must foresee it! Perhaps even now he is trying to prevent it! Begging the gods to have mercy!”

“Look at this man,” Raistlin whispered, “ ‘blessed’ of the gods.” Reaching out, the mage took hold of Crysania with his strong hands and forced her to face the Kingpriest. Overwhelmed with guilt for having doubted and angry with herself for having carelessly allowed Raistlin to see within her, Crysania angrily tried to free herself of his hold, but he gripped her firmly, his fingers burning into her skin.

“Look!” he repeated. Shaking her slightly, he made her raise her head to look directly into the light and glory that surrounded the Kingpriest.

Raistlin felt the body he held so near his own start to tremble, and he smiled in satisfaction. Moving his black-hooded head near hers, Raistlin whispered in her ear, his breath touching her cheek.

“What do you see, Revered Daughter?”

His only answer was a heartbroken moan.

Raistlin’s smile deepened. “Tell me,” he persisted.

“A man,” Crysania faltered, her shocked gaze on the Kingpriest. “Only a human man. He looks weary and... and frightened. His skin sags, he hasn’t slept for nights. Pale blue eyes dart here and there in fear—” Suddenly, she realized what she had been saying. Accutely aware of Raistlin’s nearness, the warmth and the feel of the strong, muscled body beneath the soft, black robes, Crysania broke free of his grip.

“What spell is this you have cast over me?” she demanded angrily, turning to confront him.

“No spell, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said quietly. “I have broken the spell he weaves around himself in his fear. It is that fear which will prove his undoing and bring down destruction upon the world.”

Crysania stared at Raistlin wildly. She wanted him to be lying, she willed him to be lying. But then she realized that, even if he was, it didn’t matter. She could no longer lie to herself.

Confused, frightened, and bewildered, Crysania turned around and, half-blinded by her tears, ran out of the Hall of Audience.

Raistlin watched her go, feeling neither elation nor satisfaction at his victory. It was, after all, no more than he had expected. Sitting down again, near the fire, he selected an orange from a bowl of fruit sitting on a table and casually tore off its peel as he stared thoughtfully into the flames.

One other person in the room watched Crysania flee the audience chamber. He watched as Raistlin ate the orange, draining the fruit of its juice first, then devouring the pulp.

His face pale with anger vying with fear, Quarath left the Hall of Audience, returning to his own room, where he paced the floor until dawn.

11

It became known in later history as the Night of Doom, that night the true clerics left Krynn. Where they went and what their fate may have been, not even Astinus records. Some say they were seen during the bleak, bitter days of the War of the Lance, three hundred years later. There are many elves who will swear on all they hold dear that Loralon, greatest and most devout of the elven clerics, walked the tortured lands of Silvanesti, grieving at its downfall and blessing the efforts of those who gave of themselves to help in its rebuilding.

But, for most on Krynn, the passing of the true clerics went unnoticed. That night, however, proved to be a Night of Doom in many ways for others.

Crysania fled the Hall of Audience of the Kingpriest in confusion and fear. Her confusion was easily explained. She had seen that greatest of beings, the Kingpriest, the man that even clerics in her own day still revered, as a human afraid of his own shadow, a human who hid himself behind spells and who let others rule for him. All of the doubts and misgivings she had developed about the church and its purpose on Krynn returned.

As for what she feared, that she could not or would not define.

On first leaving the Hall, she stumbled along blindly without any clear idea of where she was going or what she was doing. Then she sought refuge in a corner, dried her tears, and pulled herself together. Ashamed of her momentary loss of control, she knew at once what she had to do.

She must find Denubis. She would prove Raistlin wrong.

Walking through the empty corridors lit by Solinari’s waning light, Crysania went to Denubis’s chamber. This tale of vanishing clerics could not be true. Crysania had, in fact, never believed in the old legends about the Night of Doom, considering them children’s tales. Now, she still refused to believe it. Raistlin was... mistaken.

She hurried on without pause, familiar with the way. She had visited Denubis in his chambers several times to discuss theology or history, or to listen to his stories of his homeland.

She knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

“He’s asleep,” Crysania said to herself, irritated at the sudden shiver that shook her body. “Of course, it’s past Deep Watch. I’ll return in the morning.”

But she knocked again and even called out softly, “Denubis.”

Still no answer.

“I’ll come back. After all, it’s only been a few hours since I saw him,” she said to herself again, but she found her hand on the doorknob, gently turning it. “Denubis?” she whispered, her heart throbbing in her throat. The room was dark, it faced into an inner courtyard and so the window let in nothing of the moon’s light. For a moment Crysania’s will failed her. “This is ridiculous!” she reprimanded herself, already envisioning Denubis’s embarrassment and her own if the man woke up to find her creeping into his bed chamber in the dead of night.

Firmly, Crysania threw open the door, letting the light from the torches in the corridor shine into the small room. It was just the way he had left it—neat, orderly... and empty.

Well, not quite empty. The man’s books, his quill pens, even his clothes were still there, as if he had just stepped out for a few minutes, intending to return directly. But the spirit of the room was gone, leaving it cold and vacant as the still-made bed.

For a moment, the lights in the corridor blurred before Crysania’s eyes. Her legs felt weak and she leaned against the door.

Then, as before, she forced herself to be calm, to think rationally. Firmly, she shut the door and, even more firmly, made herself walk down the sleeping corridors toward her own room.

Very well, the Night of Doom had come. The true clerics were gone. It was nearly Yule. Thirteen days after Yule, the Cataclysm would strike. That thought brought her to a halt. Feeling weak and sick, she leaned against a window and stared unseeing into a garden bathed in white moonlight. So this was the end of her plans, her dreams, her goals. She would be forced to go back to her own time and report nothing but dismal failure.

The silver garden swam in her sight. She had found the church corrupt, the Kingpriest apparently at fault for the terrible destruction of the world. She had even failed in her original intent, to draw Raistlin from the folds of darkness. He would never listen to her. Right now, probably, he was laughing at her with that terrible, mocking laugh...

“Revered Daughter?” came a voice.

Hastily wiping her eyes, Crysania turned. “Who is there?” she asked, trying to clear her throat. Blinking rapidly, she stared into the darkness, then caught her breath as a dark, robed figure emerged from the shadows. She could not speak, her voice failed.

“I was on my way to my chambers when I saw you standing here,” said the voice, and it was not laughing or mocking. It was cool and tinged with cynicism, but there was a strange quality to it, a warmth, that made Crysania tremble.

“I hope you are not ill,” Raistlin said, coming over to stand beside her. She could not see his face, hidden by the shadows of the dark hood. But she could see his eyes, glittering, clear and cold in the moonlight.

“No,” Crysania murmured in confusion and turned her face away, devoutly hoping that all traces of tears were gone. But it did little good. Weariness, strain, and her own failings overwhelmed her. Though she sought desperately to control them, the tears came again, sliding down her cheeks.

“Go away, please,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut, swallowing the tears like bitter medicine.

She felt warmth envelop her and the softness of velvet black robes brush against her bare arm. She smelled the sweet scent of spices and rose petals and a vaguely cloying scent of decay—bat’s wings, perhaps, the skull of some animal—those mysterious things magicians used to cast their spells. And then she felt a hand touch her cheek, slender fingers, sensitive and strong and burning with that strange warmth.

Either the fingers brushed the tears away or they dried at their burning touch, Crysania wasn’t certain. Then the fingers gently lifted her chin and turned her head away from the moonlight. Crysania couldn’t breathe, her heartbeat stifled her. She kept her eyes closed, fearing what she might see. But she could feel Raistlin’s slender body, hard beneath the soft robes, press against hers. She could feel that terrible warmth...

Crysania suddenly wanted his darkness to enfold her and hide her and comfort her. She wanted that warmth to burn away the cold inside of her. Eagerly, she raised her arms and reached out her hands... and he was gone. She could hear the rustle of his robes receding in the stillness of the corridor.

Startled, Crysania opened her eyes. Then, weeping once more, she pressed her cheek against the cold glass. But these were tears of joy.

“Paladine,” she whispered, “thank you. My way is clear. I will not fail!”

A dark-robed figure stalked the Temple halls. Any who met it shrank away from it in terror, shrank from the anger that could be felt if not seen on the hooded face. Raistlin at last entered his own deserted corridor, hit the door to his room with a blast that nearly shattered it, and caused flames to leap up in the grate with nothing more than a glance. The fire roared up the chimney and Raistlin paced, hurling curses at himself until he was too tired to walk. Then he sank into a chair and stared at the fire with a feverish gaze.

“Fool!” he repeated. “I should have foreseen this!” His fist clenched. “I should have known. This body, for all its strength, has the great weakness common to mankind. No matter how intelligent, how disciplined the mind, how controlled the emotions, that waits in the shadows like a great beast, ready to leap out and take over.” He snarled in rage and dug his nails into his palm until it bled. “I can still see her! I can see her ivory skin, her pale, soft lips. I can smell her hair and feel the curving softness of her body next to mine!”

“No!” This was fairly a shriek. “This must not, will not be allowed to happen! Or perhaps... ” A thought. “What if I were to seduce her? Would that not put her even more in my power?” The thought was more than tempting, it brought such a rush of desire to the young man that his entire body shook.

But the cold and calculating, logical part of Raistlin’s mind took over. “What do you know of lovemaking?” he asked himself with a sneer. “Of seduction? In this, you are a child, more stupid than your behemoth of a brother.”

Memories of his youth came back to him in a flood. Frail and sickly, noted for his biting sarcasm and his sly ways, Raistlin had certainly never attracted the attention of women, not like his handsome brother. Absorbed, obsessed by his studies of magic, he had not felt the loss—much. Oh, once he had experimented. One of Caramon’s girlfriends, bored by easy con quest, thought the big man’s twin brother might prove more interesting. Goaded by his brother’s gibes and those of his fellows, Raistlin had given way to her coarse overtures. It had been a disappointing experience for both of them. The girl returned gratefully to Caramon’s arms. For Raistlin, it had simply proved what he had long suspected—that he found true ecstasy only in his magic.

But this body—younger, stronger, more like his brother’s—ached with a passion he had never before experienced. Yet he could not give way to it. “I would end up destroying myself”—he saw with cold clarity—“and, far from furthering my objective, might well harm it. She is virgin, pure in mind and body. That purity is her strength. I need it tarnished, but I need it intact.”

Having firmly resolved this and being long experienced in the practice of exerting strict mental control over his emotions, the young mage relaxed and sat back in his chair, letting weariness sweep over him. The fire died low, his eyes closed in the rest that would renew his flagging power.

But, before he drifted off to sleep, still sitting in the chair, he saw once more, with unwanted vividness, a single tear glistening in the moonlight.

The Night of Doom continued. An acolyte was awakened from a sound sleep and told to report to Quarath. He found the elven cleric sitting in his chambers.

“Did you send for me, my lord?” the acolyte asked, attempting to stifle a yawn. He looked sleepy and rumpled. Indeed, his outer robes had been put on backward in his haste to answer the summons that had come so late in the night.

“What is the meaning of this report?” Quarath demanded, tapping at a piece of paper on his desk.

The acolyte bent over to look, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes enough to make the writing coherent.

“Oh, that,” he said after a moment. “Just what it says, my lord.”

“That Fistandantilus was not responsible for the death of my slave? I find that very difficult to believe.”

“Nonetheless, my lord, you may question the dwarf yourself. He confessed—after a great deal of monetary persuasion—that he had in reality been hired by the lord named there, who was apparently incensed at the church’s takeover of his holdings on the outskirts of the city.”

“I know what he’s incensed about!” Quarath snapped. “And killing my slave would be just like Onygion—sneaky and underhanded. He doesn’t dare face me directly.”

Quarath sat, musing. “Then why did that big slave commit the deed?” he asked suddenly, giving the acolyte a shrewd glance.

“The dwarf stated that this was something arranged privately between himself and Fistandantilus. Apparently the first ‘job’ of this nature that came his way was to be given to the slave, Caramon.”

“That wasn’t in the report,” Quarath said, eyeing the young man sternly.

“No,” the acolyte admitted, flushing. “I-I really don’t like putting anything about... the magic-user... down in writing. Anything like that, where he might read it—”

“No, I don’t suppose I blame you,” Quarath muttered. “Very well, you may go.”

The acolyte nodded, bowed, and returned thankfully to his bed.

Quarath did not go to his bed for long hours, however, but sat in his study, going over and over the report. Then, he sighed. “I am becoming as bad as the Kingpriest, jumping at shadows that aren’t there. If Fistandantilus wanted to do away with me, he could manage it within seconds. I should have realized—this is not his style.” He rose to his feet, finally. “Still, he was with her tonight. I wonder what that means? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps the man is more human than I would have supposed. Certainly the body he has appeared in this time is better than those he usually dredges up.”

The elf smiled grimly to himself as he straightened his desk and filed the report away carefully. ‘Yule is approaching. I will put this from my mind until the holiday season is past. After all, the time is fast coming when the Kingpriest will call upon the gods to eradicate evil from the face of Krynn. That will sweep this Fistandantilus and those who follow him back into the darkness which spawned them.”

He yawned, then, and stretched. “But I’ll take care of Lord Onygion first.”

The Night of Doom was nearly ended. Morning lit the sky as Caramon lay in his cell, staring into the gray light. Tomorrow was another game, his first since the “accident.”

Life had not been pleasant for the big warrior these last few days. Nothing had changed outwardly. The other gladiators were old campaigners, most of them, long accustomed to the ways of the Game.

“It is not a bad system,” Pheragas said with a shrug when Caramon confronted him the day after his return from the Temple. “Certainly better than a thousand men killing each other on the fields of battle. Here, if one nobleman feels offended by another, their feud is handled secretly, in private, to the satisfaction of all.”

“Except the innocent man who dies for a cause he doesn’t care about or understand!” Caramon said angrily.

“Don’t be such a baby!” Kiiri snorted, polishing one of her collapsible daggers. “By your own account, you did some mercenary work. Did you understand or care about the cause then? Didn’t you fight and kill because you were being well paid? Would you have fought if you weren’t? I don’t see the difference.”

“The difference is I had a choice!” Caramon responded, scowling. “And I knew the cause I fought for! I never would have fought for anyone I didn’t believe was in the right! No matter how much money they paid me! My brother felt the same. He and I—” Caramon abruptly fell silent.

Kiiri looked at him strangely, then shook her head with a grin. “Besides,” she added lightly, “it adds spice, an edge of real tension. You’ll fight better from now on. You’ll see.”

Thinking of this conversation as he lay in the darkness, Caramon tried to reason it out in his slow, methodical fashion.

Maybe Kiiri and Pheragas were correct, maybe he was being a baby, crying because the bright, glittering toy he had enjoyed playing with suddenly cut him. But—looking at it every way possible—he still couldn’t believe it was right. A man deserved a choice, to choose his own way to live, his own way to die. No one else had the right to determine that for him.

And then, in the predawn, a crushing weight seemed to fall on Caramon. He sat up, leaning on one elbow, staring unseeing into the gray cell. If that was true, if every man deserved a choice, then what about his brother’? Raistlin had made his choice—to walk the ways of night instead of day. Did Caramon have the right to drag his brother from those paths?

His mind went back to those days he had unwittingly recalled when talking to Kiiri and Pheragas—those days right before the Test, those days that had been the happiest in his life—the days of mercenary work with his brother.

The two fought well together, and they were always welcomed by nobles. Though warriors were common as leaves in the trees, magic-users who could and would join the fighting were another thing altogether. Though many nobles looked somewhat dubious when they saw Raistlin’s frail and sickly appearance, they were soon impressed by his courage and his skill. The brothers were paid well and were soon much in demand.

But they always selected the cause they fought for with care.

“That was Raist’s doing,” Caramon whispered to himself wistfully. “I would have fought for anyone, the cause mattered little to me. But Raistlin insisted that the cause had to be a just one. We walked away from more than one job because he said it involved a strong man trying to grow stronger by devouring others...

“But that’s what Raistlin’s doing!” Caramon said softly, staring up at the ceiling. “Or is it? That’s what they say he’s doing, those magic-users. But can I trust them? Par-Salian was the one who got him into this, he admitted that! Raistlin rid the world of this Fistandantilus creature. By all accounts, that’s a good thing. And Raist told me he didn’t have anything to do with the Barbarian’s death. So he hasn’t really done anything wrong. Maybe we’ve misjudged him... Maybe we have no right to try to force him to change...”

Caramon sighed. “What should I do?” Closing his eyes in forlorn weariness, he fell asleep, and soon the smell of warm, freshly baked muffins filled his mind.

The sun lit the sky. The Night of Doom ended. Tasslehoff rose from his bed, eagerly greeted the new day, and decided that he—he personally—would stop the Cataclysm.

12

“Alter time!” Tasslehoff said eagerly, slipping over the garden wall into the sacred Temple area and dropping down to land in the middle of a flower bed. Some clerics were walking in the garden, talking among themselves about the merriment of the forthcoming Yule season. Rather than interrupt their conversation, Tas did what he considered the polite thing and flattened himself down among the flowers until they left, although it meant getting his blue leggings dirty.

It was rather pleasant, lying among the red Yule roses, so called because they grew only during the Yule season. The weather was warm, too warm, most people said. Tas grinned. Trust humans. If the weather was cold, Yule-type weather, they’d complain about that, too. He thought the warmth was delightful. A trifle hard to breathe in the heavy air, perhaps, but—after all—you couldn’t have everything.

Tas listened to the clerics with interest. The Yule parties must be splendid things, he thought, and briefly considered attending. The first one was tonight—Yule Welcoming. It would end early, since everyone wanted to get lots of sleep in preparation for the big Yule parties themselves, which would begin at dawn tomorrow and run for days—the last celebration before the harsh, dark winter set in.

“Perhaps I’ll attend that party tomorrow,” Tas thought. He had supposed that a Yule Welcoming party in the Temple would be solemn and grand and, therefore, dull and boring—at least from a kender viewpoint. But the way these clerics talked, it sounded quite lively.

Caramon was fighting tomorrow—the Games being one of the highlights of the Yule season. Tomorrow’s fight determined which teams would have the right to face each other in the Final Bout—the last game of the year before winter forced the closing of the arena. The winners of this last game would win their freedom. Of course, it was already predetermined who would win tomorrow—Caramon’s team. For some reason, this news had sent Caramon into a gloomy depression.

Tas shook his head. He never would understand that man, he decided. All this sulking about honor. After all, it was only a game. Anyway, it made things easy. It would be simple for Tas to sneak off and enjoy himself.

But then the kender sighed. No, he had serious business to attend to—stopping the Cataclysm was more important than a party, maybe even a couple of parties. He’d sacrifice his own amusement to this great cause.

Feeling very self-righteous and noble (and suddenly quite bored), the kender glared at the clerics irritably, wishing they’d hurry up. Finally, they strolled inside, leaving the garden empty. Heaving a sigh of relief, Tas picked himself up and brushed off the dirt. Plucking a Yule rose, he stuck it in his top-knot for decoration in honor of the season, then slipped into the Temple.

It, too, was decorated for the Yule season, and the beauty and splendor took the kender’s breath away. He stared around in delight, marveling at the thousands of Yule roses that had been raised in gardens all over Krynn and brought here to fill the Temple corridors with their sweet fragrance. Wreaths of everbloom added a spicy scent, sunlight glistened off its pointed, polished leaves twined with red velvet and swans’ feathers. Baskets of rare and exotic fruits stood on nearly every table—gifts from all over Krynn to be enjoyed by everyone in the Temple. Plates of wonderful cakes and sweetmeats stood beside them. Thinking of Caramon, Tas stuffed his pouches full, happily picturing the big man’s delight. He had never known Caramon to stay depressed in the face of a crystal sugared almond puff.

Tas roamed the halls, lost in happiness. He almost forgot why he had come and had to remind himself continually of his Important Mission. No one paid any attention to him. Everyone he passed was intent on the upcoming celebration or on the business of running the government or the church or both. Few even gave Tas a second glance. Occasionally, a guard stared sternly at him, but Tas just smiled cheerily, waved, and went on. It was an old kender proverb—Don’t change color to match the walls. Look like you belong and the walls will change color to match you.

Finally, after many windings and turnings (and several stops to investigate interesting objects, some of which happened to fall into the kender’s pouches), Tas found himself in the one corridor that was not decorated, that was not filled with merry people making gleeful party arrangements, that was not resounding with the sounds of choirs practicing their Yule hymns. In this corridor, the curtains were still drawn, denying the sun admittance. It was chill and dark and forbidding, more so than ever because of the contrast to the rest of the world.

Tas crept down the hall, not walking softly for any particular reason except that the corridor was so grimly silent and gloomy it seemed to expect everyone who entered to be the same and would be highly offended if he weren’t. The last thing Tas wanted to do was offend a corridor, he told himself, so he walked quietly. The possibility that he might be able to sneak up on Raistlin without the mage knowing it and catch a glimpse of some wonderful magical experiment certainly never crossed the kender’s mind.

Drawing near the door, he heard Raistlin speaking and, from the tone, it sounded like he had a visitor.

“Drat,” was Tas’s first thought. “Now I’ll have to wait to talk to him until this person leaves. And I’m on an Important Mission, too. How inconsiderate. I wonder how long they’re going to be.”

Putting his ear to the keyhole—to see if he could figure out how much longer the person planned to stay—Tas was startled to hear a woman’s voice answer the mage.

“That voice sounds familiar,” said the kender to himself, pressing closer to listen. “Of course! Crysania! I wonder what she’s doing here.”

“You’re right, Raistlin,” Tas heard her say with a sigh, “this is much more restful than those garish corridors. When I first came here, I was frightened. You smile! But I was. I admit it. This corridor seemed so bleak and desolate and cold. But now the hallways of the Temple are filled with an oppressive, stifling warmth. Even the Yule decorations depress me. I see so much waste, money squandered that could be helping those in need.”

She stopped speaking, and Tas heard a rustle. Since no one was talking, the kender quit listening and put his eyes to the keyhole. He could see inside the room quite clearly. The heavy curtains were drawn, but the chamber was lit with soft candlelight. Crysania sat in a chair, facing him. The rustling sound he heard was apparently her stirring in impatience or frustration.

She rested her head on her hand, and the look on her face was one of confusion and perplexity.

But that was not what made the kender open his eyes wide. Crysania had changed! Gone were the plain, unadorned white robes, the severe hair style. She was dressed as the other female clerics in white robes, but these were decorated with fine embroidery. Her arms were bare, though a slender golden band adorned one, enhancing the pure whiteness of her skin. Her hair fell from a central part to sweep down around her shoulders with feathery softness. There was a flush of color in her cheeks, her eyes were warm and their gaze lingered on the black-robed figure that sat across from her, his back to Tas.

“Humpf,” said the kender with interest. “Tika was right.”

“I don’t know why I come here,” Tas heard Crysania say after a moment’s pause.

I do, the kender thought gleefully, quickly moving his ear back to the keyhole so he could hear better.

Her voice continued. “I am filled with such hope when I come to visit you, but I always leave depressed and unhappy. I plan to show you the ways of righteousness and truth, to prove to you that only by following those ways can we hope to bring peace to our world. But you always turn my words upside down and inside out.”

“Your questions are your own,” Tas heard Raistlin say, and there was another rustling sound, as if the mage moved closer to the woman. “I simply open your heart so that you may hear them. Surely Elistan counsels against blind faith...”

Tas heard a sarcastic note in the mage’s voice, but apparently Crysania did not detect it, for she answered quickly and sincerely, “Of course. He encourages us to question and often tell: us of Goldmoon’s example—how her questioning led to the return of the true gods. But questions should lead one to better understanding, and your questions only make me confused and miserable!”

“How well I know that feeling,” Raistlin murmured so softly that Tas almost didn’t hear him. The kender heard Crysania move in her chair and risked a quick peep. The mage was near her, one hand resting on her arm. As he spoke those words, Crysania moved nearer him, impulsively placing her hand over his. When she spoke, there was such hope and love and joy in her voice that Tas felt warm all over.

“Do you mean that?” Crysania asked the mage. “Are my poor words touching some part of you? No, don’t look away! I can see by your expression that you have thought of them and pondered them. We are so alike! I knew that the first time I met you. Ah, you smile again, mocking me. Go ahead. I know the truth. You told me the same thing, in the Tower. You said I was as ambitious as you were. I’ve thought about it, and you’re right. Our ambitions take different forms, but perhaps they are not as dissimilar as I once believed. We both live lonely lives, dedicated to our studies. We open our hearts to no one, not even those who would be closest to us. You surround yourself with darkness, but, Raistlin, I have seen beyond that. The warmth, the light...”

Tas quickly put his eye back to the keyhole. He’s going to kiss her! he thought, wildly excited. This is wonderful! Wait until I tell Caramon.

“Come on, fool!” he instructed Raistlin impatiently as the mage sat there, his hands on Crysania’s arms. “How can he resist?” the kender muttered, looking at the woman’s parted lips, her shining eyes.

Suddenly Raistlin let loose of Crysania and turned away from her, abruptly rising out of his chair. “You had better go,” he said in a husky voice. Tas sighed and drew away from the door in disgust. Leaning against the wall, he shook his head.

There was the sound of coughing, deep and harsh, and Crysania’s voice, gentle and filled with concern.

“It is nothing,” Raistlin said as he opened the door. “I have felt unwell for several days. Can you not guess the reason?” he asked, pausing with the door half ajar. Tas pressed back against the wall so they wouldn’t see him, not wanting to interrupt (or miss) anything. “Haven’t you felt it?”

“I have felt something,” Crysania murmured breathlessly. “What do you mean?”

“The anger of the gods,” Raistlin answered, and it was obvious to Tas that this wasn’t the answer Crysania had hoped for. She seemed to droop. Raistlin did not notice, but continued on. “Their fury beats upon me, as if the sun were drawing nearer and nearer to this wretched planet. Perhaps that is why you are feeling depressed and unhappy.”

“Perhaps,” murmured Crysania.

“Tomorrow is Yule,” Raistlin continued softly. “Thirteen days after that, the Kingpriest will make his demand. Already, he and his ministers plan for it. The gods know. They have sent him a warning—the vanishing of the clerics. But he did not heed it. Every day, from Yule on, the warning signs will grow stronger, clearer. Have you ever read Astinus’s Chronicles of the Last Thirteen Days? They are not pleasant reading, and they will be less pleasant to live through.”

Crysania looked at him, her face brightening. “Come back with us before then,” she said eagerly. “Par-Salian gave Caramon a magical device that will take us back to our own time. The kender told me—”

“What magical device?” Raistlin demanded suddenly, and the strange tone of his voice sent a thrill through the kender and startled Crysania. “What does it look like? How does it work?” His eyes burned feverishly.

“I-I don’t know,” Crysania faltered.

“Oh, I’ll tell you,” Tas offered, stepping out from against the wall. “Gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that I couldn’t help overhearing. Merry Yule to you both, by the way,” Tas extended his small hand, which no one took.

Both Raistlin and Crysania were staring at him with the same expressions worn on the faces of those who suddenly see a spider drop into their soup at dinner. Unabashed, Tas continued prattling cheerfully, putting his hand in his pocket. “What were we talking about? Oh, the magical device. Yes, well,” Tas continued more hurriedly, seeing Raistlin’s eyes narrow in an alarming fashion, “when it’s unfolded, it’s shaped like a... a sceptre and it has a... a ball at one end, all glittering with jewels. It’s about this big.” The kender spread his hands about an arm’s length apart. “That’s when it’s stretched out. Then, Par-Salian did something to it and it—”

“Collapsed in upon itself,” Raistlin finished, “until you could carry it in your pocket.”

“Why, yes!” Tas said excitedly. “That’s right! How did you know?”

“I am familiar with the object,” Raistlin replied, and Tas noticed again a strange sound to the mage’s voice, a quivering, a tenseness—fear? Or elation? The kender couldn’t tell. Crysania noticed it, too.

“What is it?” she asked.

Raistlin didn’t answer immediately, his face was suddenly a mask, unreadable, impassive, cold. “I hesitate to say,” he told her. “I must study on this matter.” Flicking a glance at the kender—“What is it you want? Or are you simply listening at keyholes?”

“Certainly not!” Tas said, insulted. “I came to talk to you, if you and Lady Crysania are finished, that is,” he amended hastily, his glance going to Crysania.

She regarded him with quite an unfriendly expression, the kender thought, then turned away from him to Raistlin. “Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked.

“I think not,” he said. “I will not, of course, be attending the Yule party.”

“Oh, but I don’t want to go either—” Crysania began.

“You will be expected,” Raistlin said abruptly. “Besides, I have too long neglected my studies in the pleasure of your com pany.”

“I see,” Crysania said. Her own voice was cool and distant and, Tasslehoff could tell, hurt and disappointed.

“Farewell, gentlemen,” she said after a moment, when it was apparent Raistlin wasn’t going to add anything further. Bowing slightly, she turned and walked down the dark hall, her white robes seeming to take the light away as she left.

“I’ll tell Caramon you send your regards,” Tas called after her helpfully, but Crysania didn’t turn around. The kender turned to Raistlin with a sigh. “I’m afraid Caramon didn’t make much of an impression on her. But, then, he was all fuddled because of the dwarf spirits—”

Raistlin coughed. “Did you come here to discuss my brother?” he interrupted coldly, “because, if so, you can leave—”

“Oh, no!” Tas said hastily. Then he grinned up at the mage. “I came to stop the Cataclysm!”

For the first time in his life, the kender had the satisfaction of seeing his words absolutely stun Raistlin. It was not a satisfaction he enjoyed long, however. The mage’s face went white and stiff, his mirrorlike eyes seemed to shatter, allowing Tas to see inside, into those dark, burning depths the mage kept hidden. Hands as strong as the claws of a predatory bird sank into the kender’s shoulders, hurting him. Within seconds, Tas found himself thrown inside Raistlin’s room. The door slammed shut with a shattering bang.

“What gave you this idea?” Raistlin demanded.

Tas shrank backward, startled, and glanced around the room uneasily, his kender instincts telling him he better look for someplace to hide.

“Uh—you d-did,” Tas stammered. “Well, n-not exactly. But you said something about m-my coming back here and being able to alter time. And, I thought, st—stopping the Cataclysm would be a sort of good thing—”

“How did you plan to do it?” Raistlin asked, and his eyes burned with a hot fire that made Tas sweat just looking into it.

“Well, I planned to discuss it with you first, of course,” the kender said, hoping Raistlin was still subject to flattery, “and then I thought—if you said it was all right—that I would just go and talk to the Kingpriest and tell him he was making a really big mistake—one of the All Time Big Mistakes, if you take my meaning. And, I’m sure, once I explained, that he’d listen—”

“I’m sure,” Raistlin said, and his voice was cool and controlled. But Tas thought he detected, oddly, a note of vast relief.

“So”—the mage turned away—“you intend to talk to the Kingpriest. And what if he refuses to listen? What then?”

Tas paused, his mouth open. “I guess I hadn’t considered that,” the kender said, after a moment. He sighed, then shrugged. “We’ll go home.”

“There’s another way,” Raistlin said softly, sitting down in his chair and regarding the kender with his mirrorlike eyes. “A sure way! A way you could stop the Cataclysm without fail.”

“There is?” Tas said eagerly. “What?”

“The magical device,” Raistlin answered, spreading his slender hands. “Its powers are great, far beyond what Par-Salian told that idiot brother of mine. Activate it on the Day of the Cataclysm, and its magic will destroy the fiery mountain high above the world, so that it harms no one.”

“Really?” Tas gasped. “That’s wonderful.” Then he frowned.

“But, how can I be sure. Suppose it doesn’t work—”

“What have you got to lose?” Raistlin asked. “If, for some reason, it fails, and I truly doubt it.” The mage smiled at the kender’s naivete. “It was, after all, created by the highest level magic-users—”

“Like dragon orbs?” Tas interrupted.

“Like dragon orbs,” Raistlin snapped, irritated at the interruption. “But if it did fail, you could always use it to escape at the last moment.”

“With Caramon and Crysania,” Tas added.

Raistlin did not answer, but the kender didn’t notice in his excitement. Then he thought of something.

“What if Caramon decides to leave before then?” he asked fearfully.

“He won’t,” Raistlin answered softly. “Trust me,” he added, seeing Tas about to argue.

The kender pondered again, then sighed. “I just thought of something. I don’t think Caramon will let me have the device. Par-Salian told him to guard it with his life. He never lets it out of his sight and locks it up in a chest when he has to leave. And I’m sure he wouldn’t believe me if I tried to explain why I wanted it.”

“Don’t tell him. The day of the Cataclysm is the day of the Final Bout,” Raistlin said, shrugging. “If it is gone for a short time, he’ll never miss it.”

“But, that would be stealing!” Tas said, shocked.

Raistlin’s lips twitched. “Let us say—borrowing,” the mage amended soothingly. “It’s for such a worthy cause! Caramon won’t be angry. I know my brother. Think how proud he will be of you!”

“You’re right,” Tas said, his eyes shining. “I’d be a true hero, greater than Kronin Thistleknot himself! How do I find out how to work it?”

“I’ll give you instructions,” Raistlin said, rising. He began to cough again. “Come back... in three days’ time. And now... I must rest.”

“Sure,” Tas said cheerfully, getting to his feet. “I hope you feel better.” He started for the door. Once there, however, he hesitated. “Oh, say, I don’t have a gift for you. I’m sorry—”

“You have given me a gift,” Raistlin said, “a gift of inestimable value. Thank you.”

“I have?” Tas said, astonished. “Oh, you must mean stopping the Cataclysm. Well, don’t mention it. I—”

Tas suddenly found himself in the middle of the garden, staring at the rosebushes and an extremely surprised cleric who had seen the kender apparently materialize out of nowhere, right in the middle of the path.

“Great Reorx’s beard! I wish I knew how to do that,” Tasslehoff said wistfully.

13

On Yule day came the first of what would be later known as the Thirteen Calamities, (note that Astinus records them in the Chronicles as the Thirteen Warnings).

The day dawned hot and breathless. It was the hottest Yule day anyone—even the elves—could remember. In the Temple, the Yule roses drooped and withered, the everbloom wreaths smelled as if they had been baked in an oven, the snow that cooled the wine in silver bowls melted so rapidly that the servants did nothing all day but run back and forth from the depths of the rock cellars to the party rooms, carrying buckets of slush.

Raistlin woke on that morning, in the dark hour before the dawn, so ill he could not rise from his bed. He lay naked, bathed in sweat, a prey to the fevered hallucinations that had caused him to rip off his robes and the bedcovers. The gods were indeed near, but it was the closeness of one god in particular—his goddess, the Queen of Darkness—that was affecting him. He could feel her anger, as he could sense the anger of all the gods at the Kingpriest’s attempt to destroy the balance they sought to achieve in the world.

Thus he had dreamed of his Queen, but she had chosen not to appear to him in her anger as might have been expected. He had not dreamed of the terrible five-headed dragon, the Dragon of All Colors and of None that would try to enslave the world in the Wars of the Lance. He had not seen her as the Dark Warrior, leading her legions to death and destruction. No, she had appeared to him as the Dark Temptress, the most beautiful of all women, the most seductive, and thus she had spent the night with him, tantalizing him with the weakness, the glory of the flesh.

Closing his eyes, shivering in the room that was cool despite the heat outdoors, Raistlin pictured to himself once again the fragrant dark hair hanging over him; he felt her touch, her warmth. Reaching up his hands, letting himself sink beneath her spell, he had parted the tangled hair—and seen Crysania’s face!

The dream ended, shattered as his mind took control once more. And now he lay awake, exultant in his victory, yet knowing the price it had cost. As if to remind him, a wrenching coughing fit seized him.

“I will not give in,” he muttered when he could breathe. “You will not win me over so easily, my Queen.” Staggering out of bed, so weak he had to pause more than once to rest, he put on the black robes and made his way to his desk. Cursing the pain in his chest, he opened an ancient text on magical paraphernalia and began his laborious search.

Crysania, too, had slept poorly. Like Raistlin, she felt the nearness of all the gods, but of her god—Paladine—most of all. She felt his anger, but it was tinged with a sorrow so deep and devastating that Crysania could not bear it. Overwhelmed with guilt, she turned away from that gentle face and began to run. She ran and ran, weeping, unable to see where she was going. She stumbled and was falling into nothingness, her soul torn with fear. Then strong arms caught her. She was enfolded in soft black robes, held near a muscular body. Slender fingers stroked her hair, soothing her. She looked into a face—

Bells. Bells broke the stillness. Startled, Crysania sat up in bed, looking around wildly. Then, remembering the face she had seen, remembering the warmth of his body and the comfort she had found there, she put her aching head in her hands and wept.

Tasslehoff, on waking, at first felt disappointment. Today was Yule, he remembered, and also the day Raistlin said Dire Things would begin to happen. Looking around in the gray light that filtered through their window, the only dire thing Tas saw was Caramon, down on the floor, huffing and puffing his way grimly through morning exercises.

Although Caramon’s days were filled with weapons’ practice, working out with his team members, developing new parts of their routine, the big man still fought a never-ending battle with his weight. He had been taken off his diet and allowed to eat the same food as the others. But the sharp-eyed dwarf soon noticed that Caramon was eating about five times more than anyone else!

Once, the big man had eaten for pleasure. Now, nervous and unhappy and obsessed by thoughts of his brother, Caramon sought consolation in food as another might seek consolation in drink. (Caramon had, in fact, tried that once, ordering Tas to sneak a bottle of dwarf spirits in to him. But, unused to the strong alcohol, it had made him violently sick—much to the kender’s secret relief.)

Arack decreed, therefore, that Caramon could eat only if he performed a series of strenuous exercises each day. Caramon often wondered how the dwarf knew if he missed a day, since he did them early in the morning before anyone else was up. But Arack did know, somehow. The one morning Caramon had skipped the exercises, he had been denied access to the mess hall by a grinning, club-wielding Raag.

Growing bored with listening to Caramon grunt and groan and swear, Tas climbed up on a chair, peering out the window to see if there was anything dire happening outside. He felt cheered immediately.

“Caramon! Come look!” he called in excitement. “Have you ever seen a sky that peculiar shade before?”

“Ninety-nine, one hundred,” puffed the big man. Then Tas heard a large “ooof.” With a thud that shook the room, Caramon flopped down on his now rock-hard belly to rest. Then the big man heaved himself up off the stone floor and came to look out the barred window, mopping the sweat from his body with a towel.

Casting a bored glance outside, expecting nothing but an ordinary sunrise, the big man blinked, then his eyes opened wide.

“No,” he murmured, draping the towel around his neck and coming to stand behind Tas, “I never did. And I’ve seen some strange things in my time, too.”

“Oh, Caramon!” Tas cried, “Raistlin was right. He said—”

“Raistlin!”

Tas gulped. He hadn’t meant to bring that up.

“Where did you see Raistlin?” Caramon demanded, his voice deep and stern.

“In the Temple, of course,” Tas answered as if it were the most common thing in the world. “Didn’t I mention I went there yesterday?”

“Yes, but you—”

“Well, why else would I go except to see our friends?”

“You never—”

“I saw Lady Crysania and Raistlin. I’m sure I mentioned that. You never do listen to me, you know,” Tas complained, wounded. “You sit there on that bed, every night, brooding and sulking and talking to yourself. ‘Caramon,’ I could say, ‘the roof’s caving in,’ and you’d say, ‘That’s nice, Tas.’”

“Look, kender, I know that if I had heard you mention—”

“Lady Crysania, Raistlin, and I had a wonderful little chat,” Tas hurried on, “all about Yule—by the way, Caramon, you should see how beautifully they’ve decorated the Temple! It’s filled with roses and everbloom and, say, did I remember to give you that candy? Wait, it’s right over there in my pouch. Just a minute”—the kender tried to jump off the chair, but Caramon had him cornered—“well, I guess it can wait. Where was I? Oh, yes”—seeing Caramon scowl—“Raistlin and Lady Crysania and I were talking and, oh, Caramon! It’s so exciting. Tika was right, she’s in love with your brother.”

Caramon blinked, having completely lost the thread of the conversation, which Tas, being rather careless with his pronouns, didn’t help.

“No, I don’t mean Tika’s in love with your brother,” Tas amended, seeing Caraman’s confusion. “I mean Lady Crysania’s in love with your brother! It was great fun. I was sort of leaning against Raistlin’s closed door, resting, waiting for them to finish their conversation, and I happened to glance in the keyhole and he almost kissed her, Caramon! Your brother! Can you imagine! But he didn’t.” The kender sighed. “He practically yelled at her to leave. She did, but she didn’t want to, I could tell. She was all dressed up and looked really pretty.”

Seeing Caramon’s face darken and the preoccupied look steal over it, Tas began to breathe a bit easier. “We got to talking about the Cataclysm, and Raistlin mentioned how Dire Things would begin happening today—Yule—as the gods tried to warn the people to change.”

“In love with him?” Caramon muttered. Frowning, he turned away, letting Tas slip off the chair.

“Right. Unmistakably,” the kender said glibly, hurrying over to his pouch and digging through it until he came to the batch of sweetmeats he had brought back. They were half-melted, sticking together in a gooey mass, and they had also acquired an outer coating of various bits and pieces from the kender’s pouch, but Tas was fairly certain Caramon would never notice. He was right. The big man accepted the treat and began to eat without even glancing at it.

“He needs a cleric, they said,” Caramon mumbled, his mouth full. “Were they right, after all? Is he going to go through with it? Should I let him? Should I try to stop him? Do I have the right to stop him? If she chooses to go with him, isn’t that her choice? Maybe that would be the best thing for him,” Caramon said softly, licking his sticky fingers. “Maybe, if she loves him enough...”

Tasslehoff sighed in relief and sank down on his bed to wait for the breakfast call. Caramon hadn’t thought to ask the kender why he’d gone to see Raistlin in the first place. And Tas was certain now, that he’d never remember he hadn’t. His secret was safe...

The sky was clear that Yule day, so clear it seemed one could look up into the vast dome that covered the world and see realms beyond. But, though everyone glanced up, few cared to fix their gazes upon it long enough to see anything. For the sky was indeed “a peculiar shade,” as Tas said—it was green.

A strange, noxious, ugly green that, combined with the stifling heat and the heavy, hard-to-breathe air, effectively sucked the joy and merriment out of Yule. Those forced to go outside to attend parties hurried through the sweltering streets, talking about the odd weather irritably, viewing it as a personal insult. But they spoke in hushed voices, each feeling a tiny sliver of fear prick their holiday spirit.

The party inside the Temple was somewhat more cheerful, being held in the Kingpriest’s chambers that were shut away from the outside world. None could see the strange sky, and all those who came within the presence of the Kingpriest felt their irritation and fear melt away. Away from Raistlin, Crysania was once again under the Kingpriest’s spell and sat near him a long time. She did not speak, she simply let his shining presence comfort her and banish the dark, nighttime thoughts. But she, too, had seen the green sky. Remembering Raistlin’s words, she tried to recall what she had heard of the Thirteen Days.

But it was all children’s tales that were muddled together with the dreams she had had last night. Surely, she thought, the Kingpriest will notice! He will heed the warnings... She willed time to change or, if that were not possible, she willed the Kingpriest innocent. Sitting within his light, she banished from her mind the picture she had seen of the frightened mortal with his pale blue, darting eyes. She saw a strong man, denouncing the ministers who had deceived him, an innocent victim of their treachery...

The crowd at the arena that day was sparse, most not caring to sit out beneath the green sky, whose color deepened and darkened more and more fearfully as the day wore on.

The gladiators themselves were uneasy, nervous, and per formed their acts half-heartedly. Those spectators who came were sullen, refusing to cheer, cat-calling and hurling gibes at even their favorites.

“Do you often have such skies?” Kiiri asked, glancing up with a shudder as she and Caramon and Pheragas stood in the corridors, awaiting their turn in the arena. “If so, I know why my people choose to live beneath the sea!”

“My father sailed the sea,” growled Pheragas, “as did my grandfather before him, as did I, before I tried to knock some sense into the first mate’s head with a belaying pin and got sent here for my pains. And I’ve never seen a sky this color. Or heard of one either. It bodes ill, I’ll wager.”

“No doubt,” Caramon said uncomfortably. It had suddenly begun to sink into the big man that the Cataclysm was thirteen days away! Thirteen days... and these two friends, who had grown as dear to him as Sturm and Tanis, these two friends would perish! The rest of the inhabitants of Istar meant little to him. From what he had seen, they were a selfish lot, living mainly for pleasure and money (though he found he could not look upon the children without a pang of sorrow), but these two—He had to warn them, somehow. If they left the city, they might escape.

Lost in his thoughts, he had paid little attention to the fight in the arena. It was between the Red Minotaur, so called because the fur that covered his bestial face had a distinctly reddish-brown cast to it, and a young fighter—a new man, who had arrived only a few weeks before. Caramon had watched the young man’s training with patronizing amusement.

But then he felt Pheragas, who was standing next to him, stiffen. Caramon’s gaze went immediately to the ring. “What is it?”

“That trident,” Pheragas said quietly, “have you ever seen one like it in the prop room?”

Caramon stared hard at the Red Minotaur’s weapon, squinting against the harsh sun blazing in the green-glazed sky. Slowly, he shook his head, feeling anger stir inside of him. The young man was completely outclassed by the minotaur, who had fought in the arena for months and who, in fact, was rivaling Caramon’s team for the championship. The only reason the young man had lasted as long as he had was the skilled showmanship of the minotaur, who blundered around in a pretended battle rage that actually won a few laughs from the audience.

“A real trident. Arack intends to blood the young man, no doubt,” Caramon muttered. “Look there, I was right,” pointing to three bleeding scratches that suddenly appeared on the young man’s chest.

Pheragas said nothing, only flicked a glance at Kiiri, who shrugged.

“What is it?” Caramon shouted above the roar of the crowd. The Red Minotaur had just won by neatly tripping up his opponent and pinning him to the mat, thrusting the points of the trident down around his neck.

The young man staggered to his feet, feigning shame, anger, and humiliation as he had been taught. He even shook his fist at his victorious opponent before he stalked from the arena. But, instead of grinning as he passed Caramon and his team, enjoying a shared joke on the audience, the young man appeared strangely preoccupied and never looked at them. His face was pale, Caramon saw, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. His face twisted with pain, and he had his hand clasped over the bloody scratches.

“Lord Onygion’s man,” Pheragas said quietly, laying a hand on Caramon’s arm. “Count yourself fortunate, my friend. You can quit worrying.”

“What?” Caramon gaped at the two in confusion. Then he heard a shrill scream and a thud from within the underground tunnel. Whirling around, Caramon saw the young man fall into a writhing heap on the floor, clutching his chest and screaming in agony.

“No!” Kiiri commanded, holding onto Caramon. “Our turn next. Look, Red Minotaur comes off.”

The minotaur sauntered past them, ignoring them as that race ignores all it considers beneath them. The Red Minotaur also walked past the dying young man without a glance. Arack came scurrying down the tunnel, Raag behind. With a gesture, the dwarf ordered the ogre to remove the now lifeless body.

Caramon hesitated, but Kiiri sank her nails into his arm, dragging him out into the hideous sunlight. “The score for the Barbarian is settled,” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth. “Your master had nothing to do with it, apparently. It was Lord Onygion, and now he and Quarath are even.”

The crowd began to cheer and the rest of Kiiri’s words were lost. The spectators had begun to forget their oppression at the sight of their favorite trio. But Caramon didn’t hear them. Raistlin had told him the truth! He hadn’t had anything to do with the Barbarian’s death. It had been coincidence, or perhaps the dwarf’s perverted idea of a joke. Caramon felt a sensation of relief flow over him.

He could go home! At last he understood. Raistlin had tried to tell him. Their paths were different, but his brother had the right to walk his as he chose. Caramon was wrong, the magic-users were wrong, Lady Crysania was wrong. He would go home and explain. Raistlin wasn’t harming anyone, he wasn’t a threat. He simply wanted to pursue his studies in peace.

Walking out into the arena, Caramon waved back to the cheering crowd in elation.

The big man even enjoyed that day’s fighting. The bout was rigged, of course, so that his team would win—setting up the final battle between them and the Red Minotaur on the day of the Cataclysm. But Caramon didn’t need to worry about that. He would be long gone, back at home with Tika. He would warn his two friends first, of course, and urge them to leave this doomed city. Then he’d apologize to his brother, tell him he understood, take Lady Crysania and Tasslehoff back to their own time, and begin his life anew. He’d leave tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.

But it was at the moment when Caramon and his team were taking their bows after a well-acted battle that the cyclone struck the Temple of Istar.

The green sky had deepened to the color of dark and stagnant swamp water when the swirling clouds appeared, snaking down out of the vast emptiness to wrap their sinuous coils about one of the seven towers of the Temple and tear it from its foundations. Lifting it into the air, the cyclone broke the marble into fragments fine as hail and sent it rattling down upon the city in a stinging rain.

No one was hurt seriously, though many suffered small cuts from being struck by the sharp pieces of rock. The part of the Temple that was destroyed was used for study and for the work of the church. It had—fortunately—been empty during the holiday. But the inhabitants of the Temple and the city itself were thrown into a panic.

Fearing that cyclones might start descending everywhere, people fled the arena and clogged the streets in panicked efforts to reach their homes. Within the Temple, the Kingpriest’s musical voice fell silent, his light wavered. After surveying the wreckage, he and his ministers—the Revered Sons and Daughters of Paladine—descended to an inner sanctuary to discuss the matter. Everyone else hurried about, trying to clean up, the wind having overturned furniture, knocked paintings off the walls, and sent clouds of dust drifting down over everything.

This is the beginning, Crysania thought fearfully, trying to force her numb hands to quit shaking as she picked up fragments of fine china from the dining hall. This is only the beginning...

And it will get worse.

14

It is the forces of evil, working to defeat me,” cried the Kingpriest, his musical voice sending a thrill of courage through the souls of those listening. “But I will not give in! Neither must you! We must be strong in the face of this threat...”

“No,” Crysania whispered to herself in despair. “No, you have it all wrong! You don’t understand! How can you be so blind!”

She was sitting at Morning Prayers, twelve days after the First of the Thirteen Warnings had been given—but had not been heeded. Since then, reports had poured in from all parts of the continent, telling of other strange events—a new one each day.

“King Lorac reports that, in Silvanesti, the trees wept blood for an entire day,” the Kingpriest recounted, his voice swelling with the awe and horror of the events he related. “The city of Palanthas is covered in a dense white fog so thick people wander around lost if they venture out into the streets.

“In Solamnia, no fires will burn. Their hearths lie cold and barren. The forges are shut down, the coals might as well be ice for all the warmth they give. Yet, on the plains of Abanasinia, the prairie grass has caught fire. The flames rage out of control, filling the skies with black smoke and driving the Plainsmen from their tribal lodges.

“Just this morning, the griffons carried word that the elven city of Qualinost is being invaded by the forest animals, suddenly turned strange and savage—”

Crysania could bear it no longer. Though the women glanced at her in shock as she stood up, she ignored their glowering looks and left the Services, fleeing into the corridors of the Temple.

A jagged flash of lightning blinded her, the vicious crack of thunder immediately following made her cover her face with her hands.

“This must cease or I will go mad!” she murmured brokenly, cowering in a corner.

For twelve days, ever since the cyclone, a thunderstorm raged over Istar, flooding the city with rain and hail. The flash of lightning and peals of thunder were almost continuous, shaking the Temple, destroying sleep, battering the mind. Tense, numb with fatigue and exhaustion and terror, Crysania sank down in a chair, her head in her hands.

A gentle touch on her arm made her start in alarm, jumping up. She faced a tall, handsome young man wrapped in a sopping wet cloak. She could see the outlines of strong, muscular shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Revered Daughter, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said in a deep voice that was as vaguely familiar as his face.

“Caramon!” Crysania gasped in relief, clutching at him as something real and solid. There was another bright flash and explosion. Crysania squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth, feeling even Caramon’s strong, muscular body tense nervously. He held onto her, steadying her.

“I-I had to go to Morning Prayers,” Crysania said when she could be heard. “It must be horrible out there. You’re soaked to the skin!”

“I’ve tried for days to see you—” Caramon began.

“I-I know,” Crysania faltered. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I-I’ve been busy—”

“Lady Crysania,” Caramon interrupted, trying to keep his voice steady. “We’re not talking about an invitation to a Yule Party. Tomorrow this city will cease to exist! I—”

“Hush!” Crysania commanded. Nervously, she glanced about. “We cannot talk here!” A flash of lightning and a shattering crash made her cringe, but she regained control almost immediately. “Come with me.”

Caramon hesitated then, frowning, followed her as she led the way through the Temple into one of several dark, inner rooms. Here, the lightning at least could not penetrate and the thunder was muffled. Shutting the door carefully, Crysania sat down in a chair and motioned Caramon to do the same.

Caramon stood a moment, then sat down, uncomfortable and on edge, acutely conscious of the circumstances of their last meeting when his drunkenness had nearly gotten them all killed. Crysania might have been thinking of this, too. She regarded him with eyes that were cold and gray as the dawn. Caramon flushed.

“I am glad to see your health has improved,” Crysania said, trying to keep the severity out of her voice and failing entirely.

Caramon’s flush grew deeper. He looked down at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Crysania said abruptly. “Please forgive me. I-I haven’t slept for nights, ever since this started.” She put a trembling hand to her forehead. “I can’t think,” she added hoarsely. “This incessant noise...”

“I understand,” Caramon said, glancing up at her. “And you have every right to despise me. I despise myself for what I was. But that really doesn’t matter now. We’ve got to leave, Lady Crysania!”

“Yes, you’re right.” Crysania drew a deep breath. “We’ve got to get out of here. We have only hours left to escape. I am well aware of it, believe me.” Sighing, she looked down at her hands. “I have failed,” she said dully. “I kept hoping, up until this last moment, that somehow things might change. But the Kingpriest is blind! Blind!”

“That’s not why you’ve been avoiding me though, is it?” Caramon asked, his voice expressionless. “Preventing me from leaving?”

Now it was Crysania who blushed. She looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. “No,” she said so softly Caramon barely heard. “No, I-I didn’t want to leave without... with out...

“Raistlin,” Caramon finished. “Lady Crysania, he has magic of his own. It brought him here in the first place. He has made his choice. I’ve come to realize that. We should leave—”

“Your brother has been terribly ill,” Crysania said abruptly.

Caramon looked up quickly, his face drawn with concern.

“I have tried for days to see him, ever since Yule, but he refused admittance to all, even to me. And now, today, he has sent for me,” Crysania continued, feeling her face burn under Caramon’s penetrating gaze. “I am going to talk to him, to persuade him to come with us. If his health is impaired, he will not have the strength to use his magic.”

“Yes,” Caramon muttered, thinking about the difficulty involved in casting such a powerful, complex spell. It had taken Par-Salian days, and he was in good health. “What’s wrong with Raist?” he asked suddenly.

“The nearness of the gods affects him,” Crysania replied, “as it does others, though they refuse to admit it.” Her voice died in sorrow, but she pressed her lips together tightly for a moment, then continued. “We must be prepared to move quickly, if he agrees to come with us—”

“If he doesn’t?” Caramon interrupted.

Crysania blushed. “I think... he will,” she said, overcome by confusion, her thoughts going back to the time in his chambers when he had been so near her, the look of longing and desire in his eyes, the admiration. “I’ve been... talking to him... about the wrongness of his ways. I’ve shown him how evil can never build or create, how it can only destroy and turn in upon itself. He has admitted the validity of my arguments and promised to think about them.”

“And he loves you,” Caramon said softly.

Crysania could not meet the man’s gaze. She could not answer. Her heart beat so she could not, for a moment, hear above the pulsing of her blood. She could sense Caramon’s dark eyes regarding her steadily as the thunder rumbled and shook the Temple around them. Crysania gripped her hands together to stop their trembling. Then she was aware of Caramon rising to his feet.

“My lady,” he said in a hushed, solemn voice, “if you are right, if your goodness and your love can turn him from those dark paths that he walks and lead him—by his own choice—into the light, I would... I would—” Caramon choked and turned his head hurriedly.

Hearing so much love in the big man’s voice and seeing the tears he tried to hide, Crysania was overcome with pain and remorse. She began to wonder if she had misjudged him. Standing up, she gently touched the man’s huge arm, feeling its great muscles tense as Caramon fought to bring himself under control.

“Must you return? Can’t you stay—”

“No.” Caramon shook his head. “I’ve got to get Tas, and the device Par-Salian gave me. It’s locked away. And then, I have friends... I’ve been trying to convince them to leave the city. It may be too late, but I’ve got to make one more attempt—”

“Certainly,” Crysania said. “I understand. Return as quickly as you can. Meet me... meet me in Raistlin’s rooms.”

“I will, my lady,” he replied fervently. “And now I must go, before my friends leave for practice.” Taking her hand in his, he clasped it firmly, then hurried away. Crysania watched him walk back out into the corridor, whose torchlights shone in the gloomy darkness. He moved swiftly and surely, not even flinching when he passed a window at the end of the corridor and was suddenly illuminated by a brilliant flash of lightning. It was hope that anchored his storm-tossed spirit, the same hope Crysania felt suddenly welling up inside her.

Caramon vanished into the darkness and Crysania, catching up her white robes in one hand, quickly turned and climbed the stairs to the part of the Temple that housed the black-robed mage.

Her good spirits and her hope failed slightly as she entered that corridor. Here the full fury of the storm seemed to rage unabated. Not even the heaviest curtains could keep out the blinding lightning, the thickest walls could not muffle the peals of thunder. Perhaps because of some ill-fitting window, even the wind itself seemed to have penetrated the Temple walls. Here no torches would burn, not that they were needed, so incessant was the lighting.

Crysania’s black hair blew in her eyes, her robes fluttered around her. As she neared the mage’s room at the end of the corridor, she could hear the rain beat against the glass. The air was cold and damp. Shivering, she hastened her steps and had raised her hand to knock upon the door when the corridor suddenly sizzled with a blue-white flash of lightning. The simultaneous explosion of thunder knocked Crysania against the door. It flew open, and she was in Raistlin’s arms.

It was like her dream. Almost sobbing in her terror, she nestled close to the velvet softness of the black robes and warmed herself by the heat of his body. At first, that body next to hers was tense, then she felt it relax. His arms tightened around her almost convulsively, a hand reached up to stroke her hair, soothingly, comfortingly.

“There, there,” he whispered as one might to a frightened child, “fear not the storm, Revered Daughter. Exult in it! Taste the power of the gods, Crysania! Thus do they frighten the foolish. They cannot harm us—not if you choose otherwise.”

Gradually Crysania’s sobs lessened. Raistlin’s words were not the gentle murmurings of a mother. Their meaning struck home to her. She lifted her head, looking up at him.

“What do you mean?” she faltered, suddenly frightened. A crack had appeared in his mirrorlike eyes, permitting her to see the soul burning within.

Involuntarily, she started to push away from him, but he reached out and, smoothing the tangled black hair from her face with trembling hands, whispered, “Come with me, Crysania! Come with me to a time when you will be the only cleric in the world, to the time when we may enter the portal and challenge the gods, Crysania! Think of it! To rule, to show the world such power as this!”

Raistlin let go his grasp. Raising his arms, the black robes shimmering about him as the lightning flared and the thunder roared, he laughed. And then Crysania saw the feverish gleam in his eyes and the bright spots of color on his deathly pale cheeks. He was thin, far thinner than when she had seen him last.

“You’re ill,” she said, backing up, her hands behind her, reaching for the door. “I’ll get help...”

“No!” Raistlin’s shout was louder than the thunder. His eyes regained their mirrored surface, his face was cold and composed. Reaching out, he grasped her wrist with a painful grip and jerked her back into the room. The door slammed shut behind her. “I am ill,” he said more quietly, “but there is no help, no cure for my malady but to escape this insanity. My plans are almost completed. Tomorrow, the day of the Cataclysm, the attention of the gods will be turned to the lesson they must inflict upon these poor wretches. The Dark Queen will not be able to stop me as I work my magic and carry myself forward to the one time in history when she is vulnerable to the power of a true cleric!”

“Let me go!” Crysania cried, pain and outrage submerging her fear. Angrily, she wrenched her arm free of his grasp. But she still remembered his embrace, the touch of his hands... Hurt and ashamed, Crysania turned away. “You must work your evil without me,” she said, her voice choked with her tears. “I will not go with you.”

“Then you will die,” Raistlin said grimly.

“Do you dare threaten me!” Crysania cried, whirling around to face him, shock and fury drying her eyes.

“Oh, not by my hand,” Raistlin said with a strange smile. “You will die by the hands of those who sent you here.”

Crysania blinked, stunned. Then she quickly regained her composure. “Another trick?” she asked coldly, backing away from him, the pain in her heart at his deception almost more than she could bear. She wanted only to leave before he saw how much he had been able to hurt her—

“No trick, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said simply. He gestured to a book with red binding that lay open upon his desk. “See for yourself. Long I studied—” He swept his hand about the rows and rows of books that lined the wall. Crysania gasped. These had not been here the last time. Looking at her, he nodded. “Yes, I brought them from far-off places. I traveled far in search of many of them. This one I finally found in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, as I suspected all along I might. Come, look at it.”

“What is it?” Crysania stared at the volume as if it might have been a coiled, poisonous serpent.

“A book, nothing more.” Raistlin smiled wearily. “I assure you it will not change into a dragon and carry you off at my command. I repeat—it is a book, an encyclopedia, if you will. A very ancient one, written during the Age of Dreams.”

“Why do you want me to see this? What does it have to do with me?” Crysania asked suspiciously. But she had ceased edging her way toward the door. Raistlin’s calm demeanor reassured her. She had even ceased to notice, for the moment, the lightning and cracking of the storm outside.

“It is an encyclopedia of magical devices produced during the Age of Dreams,” Raistlin continued imperturbably, never taking his eyes from Crysania, seeming to draw her nearer with his gaze as he stood beside the desk. “Read—”

“I cannot read the language of magic,” Crysania said, frowning, then her brow cleared. “Or are you going to ‘translate’ for me?” she inquired haughtily.

Raistlin’s eyes flared in swift anger, but the anger was almost instantly replaced by a look of sadness and exhaustion that went straight to Crysania’s heart. “It is not written in the language of magic,” he said softly. “I would not have asked you here otherwise.” Glancing down at the black robes he wore, he smiled the twisted, bitter smile. “Long ago, I willingly paid the penalty. I do not know why I should have hoped you would trust me.”

Biting her lip, feeling deeply ashamed, though she had no idea why, Crysania crossed around to the other side of the desk. She stood there, hesitantly. Sitting down, Raistlin beckoned to her, and she took a step forward to stand beside the open book. The mage spoke a word of command, and the staff that leaned up against the wall near Crysania burst into a flood of yellow light, startling her nearly as much as the lightning.

“Read,” Raistlin said, indicating the page.

Trying to compose herself, Crysania glanced down, scanning the page, though she had no idea what she sought. Then, her attention was captured. Device of Time Journeying read one of the entries and, beside it, was pictured a device similar to the one the kender had described.

“This is it?” she asked, looking up at Raistlin. “The device Par-Salian gave Caramon to get us back?”

The mage nodded, his eyes reflecting the yellow light of the staff.

“Read,” he repeated softly.

Curious, Crysania scanned the text. There was little more than a paragraph, describing the device, the great mage—now long forgotten—who had designed and built it—the requirements for its use. Much of the description was beyond her understanding, dealing with things arcane. She grasped at bits and pieces—

...will carry the person already under a time spell forward or backward... must be assembled correctly and the facets turned in the prescribed order... will transport one person only, the person to whom it is given at the time the spell is cast... device’s use is restricted to elves, humans, ogres... no spell word required...

Crysania came to the end and glanced up at Raistlin uncertainly. He was watching her with a strange, expectant look. There was something there he was waiting for her to find. And, deep within, she felt a disquiet, a fear, a numbness, as if her heart understood the text more quickly than her brain.

“Again,” Raistlin said.

Trying to concentrate, though she was now once more aware of the storm outside that seemed to be growing in intensity,Crysania looked back at the text.

And there it was. The words leaped out at her, reaching for her throat, choking her.

Transport one person only...

Transport one person only!

Crysania’s legs gave way. Fortunately, Raistlin moved a chair behind her or she might have fallen to the floor.

For long moments she stared into the room. Though lit by lightning and the magical light of the staff, it had, for her, grown suddenly dark.

“Does he know?” she asked finally, through numb lips.

“Caramon?” Raistlin snorted. “Of course not. If they had told him, he would have broken his fool neck trying to get it to you and would beg you on his knees to use it and give him the privilege of dying in your stead. I can think of little else that would make him happier.

“No, Lady Crysania, he would have used it confidently, with you standing beside him as well as the kender, no doubt. And he would have been devastated when they explained to him why he returned alone. I wonder how Par-Salian would have managed that,” Raistlin added with a grim smile. “Caramon is quite capable of tearing that Tower down around their ears. But that is neither here nor there.”

His gaze caught hers, though she would have avoided it. He compelled her, by the force of his will, to look into his eyes. And, once again, she saw herself, but this time alone and terribly frightened.

“They sent you back here to die, Crysania,” Raistlin said in a voice that was little more than a breath, yet it penetrated to Crysania’s very core, echoing louder in her mind than the thunder. “This is the good you tell me about? Bah! They live in fear, as does the Kingpriest! They fear you as they fear me. The only path to good, Crysania, is my path! Help me defeat the evil. I need you...”

Crysania closed her eyes. She could see once again, vividly, Par-Salian’s handwriting on the note she had found—your life or your soul—gain one and you will lose the other! There are many ways back for you, one of which is through Caramon. He had purposely misled her! What other way existed, besides Raistlin’s? Is this what—the mage meant? Who could answer her? Was there anyone, anyone in this bleak and desolate world she could trust?

Her muscles twitching, contracting, Crysania pushed herself up from her chair. She did not look at Raistlin, she stared ahead at nothing. “I must go...” she muttered brokenly, “I must think...”

Raistlin did not try to stop her. He did not even stand. He spoke no word—until she reached the door.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “Tomorrow...”

15

It took all of Caramon’s strength, plus that of two of the Temple guards, to force the great doors of the Temple open and let him out into the storm. The wind hit him full force, driving the big man back against the stone wall and pinning him there for an instant, as if he were no bigger than Tas. Struggling, Caramon fought against it and finally won, the gale force relenting enough to allow him to continue down the stairs.

The fury of the storm was somewhat lessened as he walked among the tall buildings of the city, but it was still difficult going. Water ran a foot deep in some places, swirling about his legs, threatening more than once to sweep him off his feet. The lightning half-blinded him, the thunder was deafening.

Needless to say, he saw few other people. The inhabitants of Istar cowered indoors, alternately cursing or calling upon the gods. The occasional traveler he passed, driven out into the storm by who knows what desperate reason, clung to the sides of the buildings or stood huddled miserably in doorways.

But Caramon trudged on, anxious to get back to the arena. His heart was filled with hope, his spirits were high, despite the storm. Or perhaps because of the storm. Surely now Kiiri and Pheragas would listen to him instead of giving him strange, cold looks when he tried to persuade them to flee Istar.

“I can’t tell you how I know, I just know!” he pleaded. “There’s disaster coming, I can smell it!”

“And miss the final tournament?” Kiiri said coolly.

“They won’t hold it in this weather!” Caramon waved his arms.

“No storm this fierce ever lasts long!” Pheragas said. “It will blow itself out, and we’ll have a beautiful day. Besides”—his eyes narrowed—“what would you do without us in the arena?”

“Why, fight alone, if need be,” Caramon said, somewhat flustered. He planned to be long gone by that time—he and Tas, Crysania and perhaps... perhaps...

“If need be... ” Kiiri had repeated in an odd, harsh tone, exchanging glances with Pheragas. “Thanks for thinking of us, friend,” she said with a scathing glance at the iron collar Caramon wore, the collar that matched her own, “but no thanks. Our lives would be forfeit—runaway slaves! How long do you think we’d live out there?”

“It won’t matter, not after... after...” Caramon sighed and shook his head miserably. What could he say? How could he make them understand? But they had not given him the chance. They walked off without another word, leaving him sitting alone in the mess hall.

But, surely, now they would listen! They would see that this was no ordinary storm. Would they have time to get away safely? Caramon frowned and wished, for the first time, he had paid more attention to books. He had no idea how wide an area the devastating effect of the fall of the fiery mountain encompassed. He shook his head. Maybe it was already too late.

Well, he had tried, he told himself, slogging along through the water. Wrenching his mind from the plight of his friends, he forced himself to think more cheerful thoughts. Soon he would be gone from this terrible place. Soon this would all seem like a bad dream.

He would be back home with Tika. Maybe with Raistlin! “I’ll finish building the new house,” he said, thinking regretfully of all the time he had wasted. A picture came into his mind. He could see himself, sitting by the fire in their new home, Tika’s head resting in his lap. He’d tell her all about their adventures. Raistlin would sit with them, in the evenings; reading, studying, dressed in white robes...

“Tika won’t believe a word of this,” Caramon said to himself. “But it won’t matter. She’ll have the man she fell in love with home again. And this time, he won’t leave her, ever, for anything!” He sighed, feeling her crisp red curls wrap around his fingers, seeing them shine in the firelight.

These thoughts carried Caramon through the storm and to the arena. Pulling out the block in the wall that was used by all the gladiators on their nocturnal rambles. (Arack was aware of its existence but, by tacit arrangement, turned a blind eye to it as long as the privilege wasn’t abused.) No one was in the arena, of course. Practice sessions had all been cancelled. Everyone was huddled inside, cursing the foul weather and making bets on whether or not they would fight tomorrow.

Arack was in a mood nearly as foul as the elements, counting over and over the pieces of gold that would slip through his fingers if he had to cancel the Final Bout—the sporting event of the year in Istar. He tried to cheer himself up with the thought that he had promised him fine weather and he, if anyone, should know. Still, the dwarf stared gloomily outside.

From his vantage point, a window high above the grounds in the tower of the arena, he saw Caramon creep through the stone wall. “Raag!” He pointed. Looking down, Raag nodded in understanding and, grabbing the huge club, waited for the dwarf to put away his account books.

Caramon hurried to the cell he shared with the kender, eager to tell him about Crysania and Raistlin. But when he entered, the small room was empty.

“Tas?” he said, glancing around to make certain he hadn’t overlooked him in the shadows. But a flash of lightning illuminated the room more brightly than daylight. There was no sign of the kender.

“Tas, come out! This is no time for games!” Caramon ordered sternly. Tasslehoff had nearly frightened him out of six years’ growth one day by hiding under the bed, then leaping out when Caramon’s back was turned. Lighting a torch, the big man got down, grumbling, on his hands and knees and flashed the light under the bed. No Tas.

“I hope the little fool didn’t try to go out in this storm!” Caramon said to himself, his irritation changing to sudden concern. “He’d get blown back to Solace. Or maybe he’s in the mess hall, waiting for me. Maybe he’s with Kiiri and Pheragas. That’s it! I’ll just grab the device, then join him—”

Talking to himself, Caramon went over to the small, wooden chest where he kept his armor. Opening it, he took out the fancy, gold costume. Giving it a scornful glance, he tossed the pieces on the floor. “At least I won’t have to wear that get-up again,” he said thankfully. “Though”—he grinned somewhat shamefacedly—“it’d be fun to see Tika’s reaction when I put that on! Wouldn’t she laugh? But I’ll bet she’d like it, just the same.” Whistling cheerfully, Caramon quickly took everything out of the chest and, using the edge of one of the collapsible daggers, carefully prized up the false bottom he had built into it.

The whistle died on his lips.

The chest was empty.

Frantically, Caramon felt all over the inside of the chest, though it was quite obvious that a pendant as large as the magical device wouldn’t have been likely to slip through a crack. His heart beating wildly with fear, Caramon scrambled to his feet and began to search the room, flashing the torchlight into every corner, peering once more under the beds. He even ripped up his straw mattress and was starting to work on Tas’s when he suddenly noticed something.

Not only was the kender gone, but so were his pouches, all his beloved possessions. And so was his cloak.

And then Caramon knew. Tas had taken the device.

But why?... Caramon felt for a moment as if lightning had struck him, the sudden understanding sizzling his way from his brain to his body with a shock that paralyzed him.

Tas had seen Raistlin—he had told Caramon about that. But what had Tas been doing there? Why had he gone to see Raistlin? Caramon suddenly realized that the kender had skillfully steered the conversation away from that point.

Caramon groaned. The curious kender had, of course, questioned him about the device, but Tas had always seemed satisfied with Caramon’s answers. Certainly, he had never bothered it. Caramon checked, occasionally, to make sure it was still there—one did that as a matter of habit when living with a kender. But, if Tas had been curious enough about it, he would have taken it to Raistlin... He did that often in the old days, when he found something magical.

Or maybe Raistlin tricked Tas into bringing it to him! Once he had the device, Raistlin could force them to go with him. Had he been plotting this all along? Had he tricked Tas and deceived Crysania? Caramon’s mind stumbled about his head in confusion. Or maybe—

“Tas!” Caramon cried, suddenly latching onto firm, positive action. “I have to find Tas! I have to stop him!”

Feverishly, the big man grabbed up his soaking wet cloak. He was barreling out the door when a huge dark shadow blocked his path.

“Out of my way, Raag,” Caramon growled, completely forgetting, in his anxiety, where he was.

Raag reminded him instantly, his giant hand closing over Caramon’s huge shoulder. “Where go, slave?”

Caramon tried to shake off the ogre’s grip, but Raag’s hand simply tightened its grip. There was a crunching sound, and Caramon gasped in pain.

“Don’t hurt him, Raag,” came a voice from somewhere around Caramon’s kneecaps. “He’s got to fight tomorrow. What’s more, he’s got to win!”

Raag pushed Caramon back into the cell with as little effort as a grown man playfully tosses a child. The big warrior stumbled backward, falling heavily on the stone floor.

“You sure are busy today,” Arack said conversationally, entering the cell and plopping down on the bed.

Sitting up, Caramon rubbed his bruised shoulder. He cast a quick glance at Raag, who was still standing, blocking the door. Arack continued.

“You’ve already been out once in this foul weather, and now you’re heading out again?” The dwarf shook his head. “No, no. I can’t allow it. You might catch cold...”

“Hey,” Caramon said, grinning weakly and licking his dry lips. “I was just going to the mess hall to find Tas—” He cringed involuntarily as a bolt of lightning exploded outside. There was a cracking sound and a sudden odor of burning wood.

“Forget it. The kender left,” Arack said, shrugging, “and it looked to me like he left for good—had his stuff all packed.”

Caramon swallowed, clearing his throat. “Let me go find him then—” he began.

Arack’s grin twisted suddenly into a vicious scowl. “I don’t give a damn about the little bastard! I got my money’s worth outta him, I figure, in what he stole for me already. But you—I’ve got quite an investment in you. Your little escape plan’s failed, slave.”

“Escape?” Caramon laughed hollowly. “I never—You don’t understand—”

“So I don’t understand?” Arack snarled. “I don’t understand that you’ve been trying to get two of my best fighters to leave? Trying to ruin me, are you?” The dwarf’s voice rose to a shrill shriek above the howl of the wind outside. “Who put you up to this?” Arack’s expression became suddenly shrewd and cunning. “It wasn’t your master, so don’t lie. He’s been to see me.”

“Raist—er—Fist—Fistandantil—” Caramon stammered, his jaw dropping.

The dwarf smiled smugly. “Yeah. And Fistandantilus warned me you might try something like this. Said I should watch you carefully. He even suggested a fitting punishment for you. The final fight tomorrow will not be between your team and the minotaurs. It will be you against Kiiri and Pheragas and the Red Minotaur!” The dwarf leaned over, leering into Caramon’s face. “And their weapons will be real!”

Caramon stared at Arack uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then, “Why?” he murmured bleakly. “Why does he want to kill me?”

“Kill you?” The dwarf cackled. “He doesn’t want to kill you! He thinks you’ll win! ‘It’s a test,’ he says to me, ‘I don’t want a slave who isn’t the best! And this will prove it. Caramon showed me what he could do against the Barbarian. That was his first test. Let’s make this test harder on him,’ he says. Oh, he’s a rare one, your master!”

The dwarf chuckled, slapping his knees at the thought, and even Raag gave a grunt that might have been indicative of amusement.

“I won’t fight,” Caramon said, his face hardening into firm, grim lines. “Kill me! I won’t fight my friends. And they won’t fight me!”

“He said you’d say that!” The dwarf roared. “Didn’t he, Raag! The very words. By gar, he knows you! You’d think you two was kin! ‘So,’ he says to me, ‘if he refuses to fight, and he will, I have no doubt, then you tell him that his friends will fight in his stead, only they will fight the Red Minotaur and it will be the minotaur who has the real weapons.’”

Caramon remembered vividly the young man writhing in agony on the stone floor as the poison from the minotaur’s trident coursed through his body.

“As for your friends fighting you”—the dwarf sneered—“Fistandantilus took care of that, too. After what he told them, I think they’re gonna be real eager to get in the arena!”

Caramon’s head sank to his chest. He began to shake. His body convulsed with chills, his stomach wrenched. The enormity of his brother’s evil overwhelmed him, his mind filled with darkness and despair.

Raistlin has deceived us all, deceived Crysania, Tas, me! It was Raistlin who made me kill the Barbarian. He lied to me! And he’s lied to Crysania, too. He’s no more capable of loving her than the dark moon is capable of lighting the night skies. He’s using her! And Tas? Tas! Caramon closed his eyes. He remembered Raistlin’s look when he discovered the kender, his words—“kender can alter time... is this how they plan to stop me?” Tas was a danger to him, a threat! He had no doubt, now, where Tas had gone...

The wind outside howled and shrieked, but not as loudly as the pain and anguish in Caramon’s soul. Sick and nauseous, wracked by icy spasms of needle-sharp pain, the big warrior completely lost any comprehension of what was going on around him. He didn’t see Arack’s gesture, nor feel Raag’s huge hands grab hold of him. He didn’t even feel the bindings on his wrists...

It was only later, when the awful feelings of sickness and horror passed, that he woke to a realization of his surroundings. He was in tiny, windowless cell far underground, probably beneath the arena. Raag was fastening a chain to the iron collar around his neck and was bolting that chain to a ring in the stone wall. Then the ogre shoved him to the floor and checked the leather thongs that bound Caramon’s wrists.

“Not too tight,” Caramon heard the dwarf’s voice warn, “he’s got to fight tomorrow...”

There was a distant rumble of thunder, audible even this far beneath the ground. At the sound, Caramon looked up hopefully. We can’t fight in this weather—

The dwarf grinned as he followed Raag out the wooden door. He started to slam it shut, then poked his head around the corner, his beard wagging in glee as he saw the look on Caramon’s face.

“Oh, by the way. Fistandantilus says it’s going to be a beautiful day tomorrow. A day that everyone on Krynn will long remember...”

The door slammed shut and locked.

Caramon sat alone in the dense, damp darkness. His mind was calm, the sickness and shock having wiped it clean as slate of any feeling, any emotion. He was alone. Even Tas was gone. There was no one he could turn to for advice, no one to make his decisions for him anymore. And then, he realized, he didn’t need anyone. Not to make this decision.

Now he knew, now he understood. This is why the mages had sent him back. They knew the truth. They wanted him to learn it for himself. His twin was lost, never to be reclaimed. Raistlin must die.

16

None slept in Istar that night.

The storm increased in fury until it seemed it must destroy everything in its path. The wind’s keening was like the deadly wail of the banshee, piercing even the continuous crashing of the thunder. Splintered lightning danced among the streets, trees exploded at its fiery touch. Hail rattled and bounced among the streets, knocking bricks and stones from houses, shattering the thickest glass, allowing the wind and rain to rush into homes like savage conquerors. Flood waters roared through the streets, carrying away the market stalls, the slave pens, carts and carriages.

Yet, no one was hurt.

It was as if the gods, in this last hour, held their hands cupped protectively over the living; hoping, begging them to heed the warnings.

At dawn, the storm ceased. The world was suddenly filled with a profound silence. The gods waited, not even daring to breathe, lest they miss the one small cry that might yet save the world.

The sun rose in a pale blue, watery sky. No bird sang to welcome it, no leaves rustled in the morning breeze, for there was no morning breeze. The air was still and deathly calm. Smoke rose from the smoldering trees in straight lines to the heavens, the flood waters dwindled away rapidly as though whisked down a huge drain. The people crept outdoors, staring around in disbelief that there was not more damage and then, exhausted from sleepless nights preceding, went back to their beds.

But there was, after all, one person in Istar who slept peacefully through the night. The sudden silence, in fact, woke him up.

As Tasslehoff Burrfoot was fond of recounting—he had talked to spooks in Darken Wood, met several dragons (flown on two), come very near the accursed Shoikan Grove (how near improved with each telling), broke a dragon orb, and had been personally responsible for the defeat of the Queen of Darkness (with some help). A mere thunderstorm, even the likes of a thunderstorm such as this one, wasn’t likely to frighten him, much less disturb his sleep.

It had been a simple matter to retrieve the magical device. Tas shook his head over Caramon’s naive pride in the cleverness of his hiding place. Tas had refrained from telling the big man, but that false bottom could have been detected by any kender over the age of three.

Tas lifted the magical device out of the box eagerly, staring at it with wonder and delight. He had forgotten how charming and lovely it was, folded down into an oval pendant. It seemed impossible that his hands would transform it into a device that would perform such a miracle!

Hurriedly, Tas went over Raistlin’s instructions in his mind. The mage had given them to him only a few days before and had made him memorize them—figuring that Tas would promptly lose written instructions, as Raistlin had told him caustically.

They were not difficult, and Tas had them in moments.

The device was so beautiful, Tas could have lingered, admiring it, for long moments. But he didn’t have long moments, so he hastily thrust it into one of his pouches, grabbed his other pouches (just in case he found anything worth carrying along—or anything found him), put on his cloak and hurried out. On the way, he thought about his last conversation with the mage just a few days previous.

“‘Borrow’ the object the night before,” Raistlin had counseled him. “The storm will be frightening, and Caramon might take it into his head to leave. Besides, it will be easiest for you to slip into the room known as the Sacred Chamber of the Temple unnoticed while the storm rages. The storm will end in the morning, and then the Kingpriest and his ministers will begin the processional. They will be going to the Sacred Chamber, and it is there that the Kingpriest will make his demands of the gods.

“You must be in the chamber and you must activate the device at the very moment the Kingpriest ceases to speak—”

“How will it stop it?” Tas interrupted eagerly. “Will I see it shoot a ray of light up to heaven or something? Will it knock the Kingpriest flat?”

“No,” Raistlin answered, coughing softly, “it will not—um—knock the Kingpriest flat. But you are right about the light.”

“I am?” Tas’s mouth gaped open. “I just guessed! That’s fantastic! I must be getting good at this magic stuff.”

“Yes,” Raistlin replied dryly, “now, to continue before I was interrupted—”

“Sorry, it won’t happen again,” Tas apologized, then shut his mouth as Raistlin glared at him.

“You must sneak into the Sacred Chamber during the night. The area behind the altar is lined with curtains. Hide there and you will not be discovered.”

“Then I’ll stop the Cataclysm, go back to Caramon, and tell him all about it 1 I’ll be a hero—” Tas stopped, a sudden thought crossing his mind. “But, how can I be a hero if I stop something that never started? I mean, how will they know I did anything if I didn’t—”

“Oh, they’ll know...” said Raistlin softly.

“They will? But I still don’t see—Oh, you’re busy, I guess. I suppose I should go? All right. Say, well, you’re leaving after this is all over,” Tas said, being rather firmly propelled toward the door by Raistlin’s hand on his shoulder. “Where are you going?”

“Where I choose,” said Raistlin;

“Could I come with you?” Tas asked eagerly.

“No, you’ll be needed back in your own time,” Raistlin answered, staring at the kender very strangely—or so Tas thought at the time. “To look after Caramon...”

“Yes, I guess you’re right.” The kender sighed. “He does take a lot of looking after.” They reached the door. Tas regarded it for a moment, then looked up wistfully at Raistlin. “I don’t suppose you could... sort of swoosh me somewhere, like you did the last time? It’s great fun...”

Checking a sigh, Raistlin obligingly “swooshed” the kender into a duck pond, to Tas’s vast amusement. The kender couldn’t recall, in fact, when Raistlin had been so nice to him.

It must be because of my ending the Cataclysm, Tas decided. He’s probably really grateful, just doesn’t know how to express it properly. Or maybe he’s not allowed to be grateful since he’s evil.

That was an interesting thought and one Tas considered as he waded out of the pond and went, dripping, back to the arena.

Tas recalled it again as he left the arena the night before the Cataclysm that wasn’t going to happen, but his thoughts about Raistlin were rudely interrupted. He hadn’t realized quite how bad the storm had grown and was somewhat amazed at the ferocity of the wind that literally picked him up and slammed him back against the stone wall of the arena when he first darted outside. After pausing a moment to recover his breath and check to see if anything was broken, the kender picked himself up and started off toward the Temple again, the magical device firmly in hand.

This time, he had presence of mind enough to hug the buildings, finding that the wind didn’t buffet him so there. Walking through the storm proved to be rather an exhilarating experience, in fact. Once lightning struck a tree next to him, smashing it to smithereens. (He had often wondered, what exactly was a smithereen?) Another time he misjudged the depth of the water running in the street and found himself being washed down the block at a rapid rate. This was amusing and would have been even more fun if he had been able to breathe. Finally, the water dumped him rather abruptly in an alley, where he was able to get back onto his feet and continue his journey.

Tas was almost sorry to reach the Temple after so many adventures, but—reminding himself of his Important Mission—he crept through the garden and made his way inside. Once there, it was, as Raistlin had predicted, easy to lose himself in the confusion created by the storm. Clerics were running everywhere, trying to mop up water and broken glass from shattered windows, relighting blown out torches, comforting those who could no longer stand the strain.

He had no idea where the Sacred Chamber was, but there was nothing he enjoyed more than wandering around strange places. Two or three hours (and several bulging pouches later), he ran across a room that precisely matched Raistlin’s description.

No torches lit the room; it was not being used at present, but flashes of lightning illuminated it brightly enough for the kender to see the altar and the curtains Raistlin had described. By this time, being rather fatigued, Tas was glad to rest. After investigating the room and finding it boringly empty, he made his way past the altar (empty as well) and ducked behind the curtains, rather hoping (even if he was tired) to find some kind of secret cave where the Kingpriest performed holy rites forbid den to the eyes of mortal men.

Looking around, he sighed. Nothing. Just a wall, covered by curtains. Sitting down behind the curtains, Tas spread out his cloak to dry, wrung the water out of his topknot, and—by the flashes of lightning coming through the stained glass windows—began to sort through the interesting objects that had made their way into his pouches.

After a while, his eyes grew too heavy to keep open and his yawns were beginning to hurt his jaws. Curling up on the floor, he drifted off to sleep, only mildly annoyed by the booming of the thunder. His last thought was to wonder if Caramon had missed him yet and, if so, was he very angry?...

The next thing Tas knew, it was quiet. Now, why that should have startled him out of perfectly sound sleep was at first a complete mystery. It was also somewhat of a mystery as to where he was, exactly, but then he remembered.

Oh, yes. He was in the Sacred Chamber of the Temple of the Kingpriest of Istar. Today was the day of the Cataclysm, or it would have been. Perhaps, more accurately, today wasn’t the day of the Cataclysm. Or today had been the day of the Cataclysm. Finding this all very confusing—altering time was such a bother—Tas decided not to think about it and to try to figure out, instead, why it was so quiet.

Then, it occurred to him. The storm had stopped! Just like Raistlin said it would. Rising to his feet, he peeked out from between the curtains into the Sacred Chamber. Through the windows, he could see bright sunlight. Tas gulped in excitement.

He had no idea what time it was but, from the brilliance of the sunlight, it must be close to midmorning. The processional would start soon, he remembered, and would take a while to wind through the Temple. The Kingpriest had called upon the gods at High Watch, when the sun reached its zenith in the sky.

Sure enough, just as Tas was thinking about it, bells pealed out, right above him, it seemed, their clanging startling him more than the thunder. For a moment he wondered if he might be doomed to go through life hearing nothing but bonging sounds ring in his ears. Then the bells in the tower above stopped and, after a few moments more, so did the bells in his head. Heaving a sigh of relief, he peeked out between the curtains into the Chamber again and was just wondering if there was a chance someone might come back here to clean when he saw a shadowy figure slip into the room.

Tas drew back. Keeping the curtains open only a crack, he peered through with one eye. The figure’s head was bowed, its steps were slow and uncertain. It paused a moment to lean against one of the stone benches that flanked the altar as if too tired to continue further, then it sank down to its knees. Though it was dressed in white robes like nearly everyone in the Temple, Tas thought this figure looked familiar, so, when he was fairly certain the figure’s attention wasn’t on him, he risked widening the opening.

“Crysania!” he said to himself with interest. “I wonder why she’s here so early?” Then he was seized with a sudden overwhelming disappointment. Suppose she was here to stop the Cataclysm as well! “Drat! Raistlin said I could,” Tas muttered.

Then, he realized she was talking—either to herself or praying—Tas wasn’t sure which. Crowding as close to the curtain as he dared, he listened to her soft words.

“Paladine, greatest, wisest god of eternal goodness, hear my voice on this most tragic of days. I know I cannot stop what is to come. And, perhaps it is a sign of a lack of faith that I even question what you do. All I ask is this—help me to understand! If it is true that I must die, let me know why. Let me see that my death will serve some purpose. Show me that I have not failed in all I came back here to accomplish.

“Grant that I may stay here, unseen, and listen to what no mortal ever heard and lived to relate—the words of the Kingpriest. He is a good man, too good, perhaps.” Crysania’s head sank into her hands. “My faith hangs by a thread,” she said so softly Tas could barely hear. “Show me some justification for this terrible act. If it is your capricious whim, I will die as I was intended to, perhaps, among those who long ago lost their faith in the true gods—”

“Say not that they lost their faith, Revered Daughter,” came a voice from the air that so startled the kender he nearly fell through the curtains. “Say, rather, that their faith in the true gods was replaced by their faith in false ones—money, power, ambition...”

Crysania raised her head with a gasp that Tas echoed, but it was the sight of her face, not the sight of a shimmering figure of white materializing beside her, that made the kender draw in his breath. Crysania had obviously not slept for nights, her eyes were dark and wide, sunken into her face. Her cheeks were hollow, her lips dry and cracked. She had not bothered to comb her hair—it fell down about her face like black cobwebs as she stared in fear and alarm at the strange, ghostly figure.

“Who—who are you?” she faltered.

“My name is Loralon. And I have come to take you away. You were not intended to die, Crysania. You are the last true cleric now on Krynn and you may join us, who left many days ago.”

“Loralon, the great cleric of Silvanesti,” Crysania murmured. For long moments, she looked at him, then, bowing her head, she turned away, her eyes looking toward the altar. “I cannot go,” she said firmly, her hands clasped nervously before her as she knelt. “Not yet. I must hear the Kingpriest. I must understand...”

“Don’t you understand enough already?” Loralon asked sternly. “What have you felt in your soul this night?”

Crysania swallowed, then brushed back her hair with a trembling hand. “Awe, humility,” she whispered. “Surely, all must feel that before the power of the gods...”

“Nothing else?” Loralon pursued. “Envy, perhaps? A desire to emulate them? To exist on the same level?”

“No!” Crysania answered angrily, then flushed, averting her face.

“Come with me now, Crysania,” Loralon persisted. “A true faith needs no demonstrations, no justification for believing what it knows in its heart to be right.”

“The words my heart speaks echo hollow in my mind,” Crysania returned. “They are no more than shadows. I must see the truth, shining in the clear light of day! No, I will not leave with you. I will stay and hear what he says! I will know if the gods are justified!”

Loralon regarded her with a look that was more pitying than angry. “You do not look into the light, you stand in front of it. The shadow you see cast before you is your own. The next time you will see clearly, Crysania, is when you are blinded by darkness... darkness unending. Farewell, Revered Daughter.”

Tasslehoff blinked and looked around. The old elf was gone! Had he ever really been there? the kender wondered uneasily. But he must have, because Tas could still remember his words. He felt chilled and confused. What had he meant? It all sounded so strange. And what had Crysania meant—being sent here to die?

Then the kender cheered up. Neither of them knew that the Cataclysm wasn’t going to happen. No wonder Crysania was feeling gloomy and out of sorts.

“She’ll probably perk up quite a bit when she finds out that the world isn’t going to be devastated after all,” Tas said to himself.

And then the kender heard distant voices raised in song. The processional! It was beginning. Tas almost whooped in excitement. Fearing discovery, he quickly covered his mouth with his hands. Then he took a last, quick peek out at Crysania. She sat forlornly, cringing at the sound of the music. Distorted by distance, it was shrill, harsh, and unlovely. Her face was so ashen Tas was momentarily alarmed, but then he saw her lips press together firmly, her eyes darken. She stared, unseeing, at her folded hands.

“You’ll feel better soon,” Tas told her silently, then the kender ducked back behind the curtain to remove the wonderful magical device from his pouch. Sitting down, he held the device in his hands, and waited.

The processional lasted forever, at least as far as the kender was concerned. He yawned. Important Missions were certainly dull, he decided irritably, and hoped someone would appreciate what he’d gone through when it was all over. He would have dearly loved to tinker with the magical device, but Raistlin had impressed upon him that he was to leave it alone until the time came and then follow the instructions to the letter. So intent had been the look in Raistlin’s eyes and so cold his voice that it had penetrated even the kender’s careless attitude. Tas sat holding the magical object, almost afraid to move.

Then, just as he was beginning to give up in despair (and his left foot was slowing losing all sensation), he heard a burst of beautiful voices right outside the room! A brilliant light welled through the curtains. The kender fought his curiosity, but finally couldn’t resist just one peep. He had, after all, never seen the Kingpriest. Telling himself that he needed to see what was going on, he peeked through the crack in the curtains again.

The light nearly blinded him.

“Great Reorx!” the kender muttered, covering his eyes with his hands. He recalled once looking up at the sun when a child, trying to figure out if it really was a giant gold coin and, if so, how he could get it out of the sky. He’d been forced to go to bed for three days with cold rags over his eyes.

“I wonder how he does that?” Tas asked, daring to peep through his fingers again. He stared into the heart of the light just as he had stared into the sun. And he saw the truth. The sun wasn’t a golden coin. The Kingpriest was just a man.

The kender did not experience the terrible shock felt by Crysania when she saw through the illusion to the real man. Perhaps this was because Tas had no preconceived notions of what the Kingpriest should look like. Kender hold absolutely no one and nothing in awe (though Tas had to admit he felt a bit queer around the death knight, Lord Soth). He was, therefore, only mildly surprised to see that the most holy Kingpriest was simply a middle-aged human, balding, with pale blue eyes and the terrified look of a deer caught in a thicket. Tas was surprised—and disappointed.

“I’ve gone to all this trouble for nothing,” the kender thought irritably. “There isn’t going to be a Cataclysm. I don’t think this man could make me angry enough to throw a pie at him, let alone a whole fiery mountain.”

But Tas had nothing else to do (and he was really dying to work the magical device), so he decided to stick around and watch and listen. Something might happen after all. He tried to see Crysania, wondering how she felt about this, but the halo of light surrounding the Kingpriest was so bright he couldn’t see anything else in the room.

The Kingpriest walked to the front of the altar, moving slowly, his eyes darting left and right. Tas wondered if the Kingpriest would see Crysania, but apparently he was blinded by his own light as well, for his eyes passed right over her. Arriving at the altar, he did not kneel to pray, as had Crysania. Tas thought he might have started to, but then the Kingpriest angrily shook his head and remained standing.

From his vantage point behind and slightly to the left of the altar, Tas had an excellent look at the man’s face. Once again, the kender gripped the magical device in excitement. For, the look of sheer terror in the watery eyes had been hidden by a mask of arrogance.

“Paladine,” the Kingpriest trumpeted, and Tas had the distinct impression that the man was conferring with some underling. “Paladine, you see the evil that surrounds me! You have been witness to the calamities that have been the scourge of Krynn these past days. You know that this evil is directed against me, personally, because I am the only one fighting it! Surely you must see now that this doctrine of balance will not work!”

The Kingpriest’s voice lost the harsh blare, becoming soft as a flute. “I understand, of course. You had to practice this doctrine in the old days, when you were weak. But you have me now, your right arm, your true representative upon Krynn. With our combined might, I can sweep evil from this world! Destroy the ogre races! Bring the wayward humans into line! Find new homelands far away for the dwarves and kender and gnomes, those races not of your own creation—”

How insulting! Tas thought, incensed. I’ve half a mind to let them go ahead and drop a mountain on him!

“And I will rule in glory,” the Kingpriest’s voice rose to a crescendo, “creating an age to rival even the fabled Age of Dreams!” The Kingpriest spread his arms wide. “You gave this and more to Huma, Paladine, who was nothing but a renegade knight of lowbirth! I demand that you give me, too, the power to drive away the shadows of evil that darken this land!”

The Kingpriest fell silent, waiting, his arms upraised.

Tas held his breath, waiting, too, clutching the magical device in his hands.

And then, the kender felt it—the answer. A horror crept over him, a fear he’d never experienced before, not even in the presence of Lord Soth or the Shoikan Grove. Trembling, the kender sank to his knees and bowed his head, whimpering and shaking, pleading with some unseen force for mercy, for forgiveness. Beyond the curtain, he could hear his own incoherent mumblings echoed, and he knew Crysania was there and that she, too, felt the terrible hot anger that rolled over him like the thunder from the storm.

But the Kingpriest did not speak a word. He simply remained, staring up expectantly into the heavens he could not see through the vast walls and ceilings of his Temple... the heavens he could not see because of his own light.

17

His mind firmly resolved upon a course of action, Caramon fell into an exhausted sleep and, for a few hours, was blessed with oblivion. He awakened with a start to find Raag bending over him, breaking his chains.

“What about these?” Caramon asked, raising his bound wrists.

Raag shook his head. Although Arack didn’t really think even Caramon would be foolish enough to try and overpower the ogre unarmed, the dwarf had seen enough madness in the man’s eyes last night not to risk taking chances.

Caramon sighed. He had, indeed, considered that possibility as he had considered many others last night, but had rejected it. The important thing was to stay alive—at least until he had made certain Raistlin was dead. After that, it didn’t matter anymore...

Poor Tika... She would wait and wait, until one day she would wake and realize he was never coming home.

“Move!” Raag grunted.

Caramon moved, following the ogre up the damp and twisting stairs leading from the storage rooms beneath the arena. He shook his head, clearing it of thoughts of Tika. Those might weaken his resolve, and he could not afford that. Raistlin must die. It was as if the lightning last night had illuminated a part of Caramon’s mind that had lain in darkness for years. At last he saw the true extent of his brother’s ambition, his lust for power. At last Caramon quit making excuses for him. It galled him, but he had to admit that even that dark elf, Dalamar, knew Raistlin far better than he, his twin brother.

Love had blinded him, and it had, apparently, blinded Crysania, too. Caramon recalled a saying of Tanis’s: “I’ve never seen anything done out of love come to evil.” Caramon snorted. Well, there was a first time for everything—that had been a favorite saying of old Flint’s. A first time... and a last.

Just how he was going to kill his brother, Caramon didn’t know. But he wasn’t worried. There was a strange feeling of peace within him. He was thinking with a clarity and a logic that amazed him. He knew he could do it. Raistlin wouldn’t be able to stop him either, not this time. The magic time travel spell would require the mage’s complete concentration. The only thing that could possibly stop Caramon was death itself.

And therefore, Caramon said grimly to himself, I’ll have to live.

He stood quietly without moving a muscle or speaking a word as Arack and Raag struggled to get him into his armor.

“I don’t like it,” the dwarf muttered more than once to the ogre as they dressed Caramon. The big man’s calm, emotionless expression made the dwarf more uneasy than if he had been a raging bull. The only time Arack saw a flicker of life on Caramon’s stoic face was when he buckled his shortsword onto his belt. Then the big man had glanced down at it, recognizing the useless prop for what it was. Arack saw him smile bitterly.

“Keep your eye on him,” Arack instructed, and Raag nodded. “And keep him away from the others until he goes into the arena.”

Raag nodded again, then led Caramon, hands bound, into the corridors beneath the arena where the others waited. Kiiri and Pheragas glanced over at Caramon as he entered. Kiiri’s lip curled, and she turned coldly away. Caramon met Pheragas’s gaze unflinchingly, his eyes neither begging nor pleading. This was not what Pheragas had expected, apparently. At first the black man seemed confused, then—after a few whispered words from Kiiri—he;too, turned away. But Caramon saw the man’s shoulders slump and he saw him shake his head.

There was a roar from the crowd then, and Caramon shifted his gaze to what he could see of the stands. It was nearly midday, the Games started promptly at High Watch. The sun shone in the sky, the crowd—having had some sleep—was large and in a particularly good humor. There were some preliminary fights scheduled—to whet the crowd’s appetite and to heighten the tension. But the true attraction was the Final Bout—the one that would determine the champion—the slave who wins either his freedom or—in the Red Minotaur’s case—wealth enough to last him years.

Arack wisely kept up the pacing of the first few fights, making them light, even comic. He’d imported a few gully dwarves for the occasion. Giving them real weapons (which, of course, they had no idea how to use), he sent them into the arena. The audience howled its delight, laughing until many were in tears at the sight of the gully dwarves tripping over their own swords, viciously stabbing each other with the hilts of their daggers, or turning and running, shrieking, out of the arena. Of course, the audience didn’t enjoy the event nearly as much as the gully dwarves themselves, who finally tossed aside all weapons and launched into a mud fight. They had to be forcibly removed from the ring.

The crowd applauded, but now many began to stomp their feet in good humored, if impatient, demand for the main attraction. Arack allowed this to go on for several moments, knowing—like the showman he was—that it merely heightened their excitement. He was right. Soon the stands were rocking as the crowd clapped and stomped and chanted.

And thus it was that no one in the crowd felt the first tremor.

Caramon felt it, and his stomach lurched as the ground shuddered beneath his feet. He was chilled with fear—not fear of dying, but fear that he might die without accomplishing his objective. Glancing up anxiously into the sky, he tried to recall every legend he had ever heard about the Cataclysm. It had struck near midafternoon, he thought he remembered. But there had been earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, dreadful natural disasters of all kinds throughout Krynn, even before the fiery mountain smashed the city of Istar so far beneath the ground that the seas rushed in to cover it.

Vividly, Caramon saw the wreckage of this doomed city as he had seen it after their ship had been sucked into the whirl pool of what was now known as the Blood Sea of Istar. The sea elves had rescued them then, but there would be no rescue for these people. Once more, he saw the twisted and shattered buildings. His soul recoiled in horror and he realized, with a start, that he had been keeping that terrible sight from his mind.

I never really believed it would happen, he realized, shivering with fear as the ground shivered in sympathy. I have hours only, maybe not that long. I must get out of here! I must reach Raistlin!

Then, he calmed down. Raistlin was expecting him. Raistlin needed him—or at least he needed a “trained fighter.” Raistlin would ensure that he had plenty of time—time to win and get to him. Or time to lose and be replaced.

But it was with a feeling of vast relief that Caramon felt the tremor cease. Then he heard Arack’s voice coming from the center of the arena, announcing the Final Bout.

“Once they fought as a team, ladies and gentlemen, and as all of you know, they were the best team we’ve seen here in long years. Many’s the time you saw each one risk his or her life to save a teammate. They were like brothers”—Caramon flinched at this—“but now they’re bitter enemies, ladies and gentlemen. For when it comes to freedom, to wealth, to winning this greatest of all the Games—love has to sit in the back row. They’ll give their all, you may be sure of that, ladies and gentlemen. This is a fight to the death between Kiiri the Sirine, Pheragas of Ergoth, Caramon the Victor, and the Red Minotaur. They won’t leave this arena unless it’s feet first!”

The crowd cheered and roared. Even though they knew it was fake, they loved convincing themselves it wasn’t. The roaring grew louder as the Red Minotaur entered, his bestial face disdainful as always. Kiiri and Pheragas glanced at him, then at the trident he held, then at each other. Kiiri’s hand closed tightly around her dagger.

Caramon felt the ground shake again. Then Arack called his name. It was time for the Game to begin.

Tasslehoff felt the first tremors and for a moment thought it was just his imagination, a reaction to that terrible anger rolling around them. Then he saw the curtains swaying back and forth, and he realized that this was it...

Activate the device! came a voice into Tasslehoff’s brain. His hands trembling, looking down at the pendant, Tas repeated the instructions.

“Thy time is thy own, let’s see, I turn the face toward me. There. Though across it you travel. I shift this plate from right to left. Its expanses you see—back plate drops to form two disks connected by rods... it works!” Highly excited, Tas continued. “Whirling through forever, twist top facing me counterclockwise from bottom. Obstruct not its How. Make sure the pendant chain is clear. There, that’s right. Now, Grasp firmly the end and the beginning. Hold the disks at both ends. Turn them back upon themselves, like so, and All that is loose shall be secure. The chain will wind itself into the body! Isn’t this wonderful! It’s doing it! Now, Destiny be over your own head. Hold it over my head and—Wait! Something’s not right! I don’t think this is supposed to be happening...”

A tiny jeweled piece fell off the device, hitting Tas on the nose. Then another, and another, until the distraught kender was standing in a perfect rain of small, jeweled pieces.

“What?” Tas stared wildly at the device he held up over his head. Frantically he twisted the ends again. This time the rain of jeweled pieces became a positive downpour, clattering on the floor with bright, chime-like tones.

Tasslehoff wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think it was supposed to do this. Still, one never knew, especially about wizard’s toys. He watched it, holding his breath, waiting for the light...

The ground suddenly leaped beneath his feet, hurling him through the curtains and sending him sprawling on the floor at the feet of the Kingpriest. But the man never noticed the ashen-faced kender. The Kingpriest was staring about him in magnificent unconcern, watching with detached curiosity the curtains that rippled like waves, the tiny cracks that suddenly branched through the marble altar. Smiling to himself, as if assured that this was the acquiescence of the gods, the Kingpriest turned from the crumbling altar and made his way back down the central aisle, past the shuddering benches, and out into the main part of the Temple.

“No!” Tas moaned, rattling the device. At that moment, the tubes connecting either end of the sceptre separated in his hands. The chain slipped between his fingers. Slowly, trembling nearly as much as the floor on which he lay, Tasslehoff struggled to his feet. In his hand, he held the broken pieces of the magical device.

“What have I done?” Tas wailed. “I followed Raistlin’s instructions, I’m sure I did! I—”

And suddenly the kender knew. Tears caused the glimmering, shattered pieces to blur in his gaze. “He was so nice to me,” Tas murmured. “He made me repeat the instructions over and over—to make certain you have them right, he said.” Tas squeezed shut his eyes, willing that when he opened them, this would all be a bad dream.

But when he did, it wasn’t.

“I had them right. He meant for me to break it!” Tas whimpered, shivering. “Why? To strand us all back here? To leave us all to die’? No! He wants Crysania, they said so, the mages in the Tower. That’s it!” Tas whirled around. “Crysania!”

But the cleric neither heard nor saw him. Staring straight unhead, unmoved, even though the ground shook beneath her knees as she knelt, Crysania’s gray eyes glowed with an eerie, inner light. Her hands, still folded as if in prayer, clenched each other so tightly that the fingers had turned purplish red, the knuckles white.

Her lips moved. Was she praying?

Scrambling back behind the curtains, Tas quickly picked up every tiny jeweled piece of the device, gathered up the chain that had nearly slipped down a crack in the floor, then stuck everything into one pouch, closing it securely. Giving the floor a final look, he crept out into the Sacred Chamber.

“Crysania,” he whispered. He hated to disturb her prayers, but this was too urgent to give up.

“Crysania?” he said, coming over to stand in front of her, since it was obvious she wasn’t even aware of his existence.

Watching her lips, he read their unspoken utterings.

“I know,” she was saying, “I know his mistake! Perhaps for me, the gods will grant what they denied him!”

Drawing a deep breath, she lowered her head. “Paladine, thank you! Thank you!” Tas heard her intone fervently. Then, swiftly, she rose to her feet. Glancing around in some astonishment at the objects in the room that were moving in a deadly dance, her gaze flicked, unseeing, right over the kender.

“Crysania!” Tas babbled, this time clutching at her white robes. “Crysania, I broke it! Our only way back! I broke a dragon orb once. But that was on purpose! I never meant to break this. Poor Caramon! You’ve got to help me! Come with me, talk to Raistlin, make him fix it!”

The cleric stared down at Tasslehoff blankly, as if he were a stranger accosting her on the street. “Raistlin!” she murmured, gently but firmly detaching the kender’s hands from her robes. “Of course! He tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen. And now I know, now I know the truth!”

Thrusting Tas away from her, Crysania gathered up her flowing white robes, darted out from among the benches, and ran down the center aisle without a backward glance as the Temple shook on its very foundations.

It wasn’t until Caramon started to mount the stairs leading out into the arena, that Raag finally removed the bindings from the gladiator’s wrists. Flexing his fingers, grimacing, Caramon followed Kiiri and Pheragas and the Red Minotaur out into the center of the arena. The audience cheered. Caramon, taking his place between Kiiri and Pheragas, looked up at the sky nervously. It was past High Watch, the sun was beginning its slow descent.

Istar would never live to see the sunset.

Thinking of this, and thinking that he, too, would never again see the sun’s red rays stream over a battlement, or melt into the sea, or light the tops of the vallenwoods, Caramon felt tears sting his eyes. He wept not so much for himself, but for those two who stood beside him, who must die this day, and for all those innocents who would perish without understanding why.

He wept, too, for the brother he had loved, but his tears for Raistlin were for someone who had died long ago.

“Kiiri, Pheragas,” Caramon said in a low voice when the Minotaur strode forward to take his bow alone, “I don’t know what the mage told you, but I never betrayed you.”

Kiiri refused to even look at him. He saw her lip curl. Pheragas, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, saw the stain of tears upon Caramon’s face and hesitated, frowning, before he, too, turned away.

“It doesn’t matter, really,” Caramon continued, “whether you believe me or not. You can kill each other for the key if you want, because I’m finding my freedom my own way.”

Now Kiiri looked at him, her eyes wide in disbelief. The crowd was on its feet, yelling for the Minotaur, who was walking around the arena, waving his trident above his head.

“You’re mad!” she whispered as loudly as she dared. Her gaze went meaningfully to Raag. As always, the ogre’s huge, yellowish body blocked the only exit.

Caramon’s gaze followed imperturbably, his face not changing expression.

“Our weapons are real, my friend,” Pheragas said harshly. “Yours are not!”

Caramon nodded, but did not answer.

“Don’t do this!” Kiiri edged closer. “We’ll help you fake it in the arena today. I-I guess neither of us really believed the black-robed one. You must admit, it seemed weird—you trying to get us to leave the city! We thought, like he said, that you wanted the prize all to yourself. Look, pretend you’re injured real early. Get yourself carried off. We’ll help you escape tonight—”

“There will be no tonight,” Caramon said softly. “Not for me, not for any of us. I haven’t got much time. I can’t explain. All I ask is this—just don’t try to stop me.”

Pheragas took a breath, but the words died on his lips as another tremor, this one more severe, shook the ground.

Now, everyone noticed. The arena swayed on its stilts, the bridges over the Death Pits creaked, the floor rose and fell, nearly knocking the Red Minotaur to his feet. Kiiri grabbed hold of Caramon. Pheragas braced his legs like a sailor on board a heaving vessel. The crowd in the stands fell suddenly silent as their seats rocked beneath them. Hearing the cracking of the wood, some screamed. Several even rose to their feet. But the tremor stopped as quickly as it had begun.

Everything was quiet, too quiet. Caramon felt the hair rise on his neck and his skin prickle. No birds sang, not a dog barked. The crowd was silent, waiting in fear. I have to get out of here! Caramon resolved. His friends didn’t matter anymore, nothing mattered. He had just one fixed objective—to stop Raistlin.

And he must act now, before the next shock hit and before people recovered from this one. Glancing quickly around, Caramon saw Raag standing beside the exit, the ogre’s yellow, mottled face creased in puzzlement, his slow brain trying to figure out what was going on. Arack had appeared suddenly beside him, staring around, probably hoping he wouldn’t be forced to refund his customers’ money. Already the crowd was starting to settle down, though many glanced about uneasily.

Caramon drew a deep breath, then, gripping Kiiri in his arms, he heaved with all his strength, hurling the startled woman right into Pheragas, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

Seeing them fall, Caramon whirled around and propelled his massive body straight at the ogre, driving his shoulder into Raag’s gut with all the strength his months of training had given him. It was a blow that would have killed a human, but it only knocked the wind out of the ogre. The force of Caramon’s charge sent them both crashing backward into the wall.

Desperately, while Raag was gasping for breath, Caramon grappled for the ogre’s stout club. But just as he yanked it out of Raag’s grip, the ogre recovered. Howling in anger, Raag brought both massive hands up under Caramon’s chin with a blow that sent the big warrior flying back into the arena.

Landing heavily, Caramon could see nothing for a moment except sky and arena whirling around and around him. Groggy from the blow his warrior’s instincts took over. Catching a glimpse of movement to his left, Caramon rolled over just as the minotaur’s trident came down where his sword arm had been. He could hear the minotaur snarling and growling in bestial fury.

Caramon struggled to regain his feet, shaking his head to clear it, but he knew he could never hope to avoid the minotaur’s second strike. And then a black body was between him and the Red Minotaur. There was a flash of steel as Pheragas’s sword blocked the trident blow that would have finished Caramon. Staggering, Caramon backed up to catch his breath and felt Kiiri’s cool hands helping to support him.

“Are you all right?” she muttered.

“Weapon!” Caramon managed to gasp, his head still ringing from the ogre’s blow.

“Take mine,” Kiiri said, thrusting her shortsword into Caramon’s hands. “Then rest a moment. I’ll handle Raag.”

The ogre, wild with rage and the excitement of battle, barreled toward them, his slavering jaws wide open.

“No! You need it—” Caramon began to protest, but Kiiri only grinned at him.

“Watch!” she said lightly, then spoke strange words that reminded Caramon vaguely of the language of magic. These, however, had a faint accent, almost elvish.

And, suddenly Kiiri was gone. In her place stood a gigantic she-bear. Caramon gasped, unable—for a moment—to comprehend what had happened. Then he remembered—Kiiri was a Sirine, gifted with the power to change her shape!

Rearing up on her hind legs, the she-bear towered over the huge ogre. Raag came to a halt, his eyes wide open in alarm at the sight. Kiiri roared in rage, her sharp teeth gleamed. The sunlight glinted off her claws as one of her giant paws lashed out and caught Raag across his mottled face.

The ogre howled in pain, streams of yellowish blood oozed from the claw marks, one eye disappeared in a mass of bleeding jelly. The bear leaped on the ogre. Watching in awe, Caramon could see nothing but yellow skin and blood and brown fur.

The crowd, too, although they had yelled in delight at the beginning, suddenly became aware that this fight wasn’t faked. This was for real. People were going to die. There was a moment of shocked silence, then—here and there—someone cheered. Soon the applause and wild yells were deafening.

Caramon quickly forgot the people in the stands, however. He saw his chance. Only the dwarf stood blocking the exit now, and Arack’s face, though twisted in anger, was twisted in fear as well. Caramon could easily get past him...

At that moment, he heard a grunt of pleasure from the minotaur. Turning, Caramon saw Pheragas slump over in pain, catching the butt end of the trident in his solar plexus. The minotaur reversed the stroke, raising the weapon to kill, but Caramon yelled loudly, distracting the minotaur long enough to throw him off stride.

The Red Minotaur turned to face this new challenge, a grin on his red-furred face. Seeing Caramon armed only with a shortsword, the minotaur’s grin broadened. Lunging at Caramon, the minotaur sought to end the fight quickly. But Caramon sidestepped deftly. Raising his foot, he kicked, shattering the minotaur’s kneecap. It was a painful, crippling blow, and sent the minotaur stumbling to the ground.

Knowing his enemy was out for at least a few moments, Caramon ran over to Pheragas. The black man remained huddled over, grasping his stomach.

“C’mon,” Caramon grunted, putting his arm around him.

“I’ve seen you take a hit like that, get up, and eat a five-course meal. What’s the matter!”

But there was no answer. Caramon felt the man’s body shiver convulsively, and he saw that the shining black skin was wet with sweat. Then Caramon saw the three bleeding slashes the trident had cut in the man’s arm...

Pheragas looked up at his friend. Seeing Caramon’s horrified gaze, he realized he understood. Shuddering in pain from the poison that was coursing through his veins, Pheragas sank to his knees. Caramon’s big arms closed around him.

“Take... take my sword.” Pheragas choked. “Quickly, fool!” Hearing from the sounds his enemy was making that the minotaur was back on his feet, Caramon hesitated only a second, then took the large sword from Pheragas’s shaking hand.

Pheragas pitched over, writhing in pain.

Gripping the sword, tears blinding his eyes, Caramon rose and whirled, blocking the Red Minotaur’s sudden thrust. Even though limping on one leg, the minotaur’s strength was such that he easily compensated for the painful injury. Then, too, the minotaur knew that all it took was a scratch to kill his victim, and Caramon would have to come inside the trident’s range to use his sword.

Slowly the two stalked each other, circling round and round. Caramon no longer heard the crowd that was stamping and whistling and cheering madly at the sight of real blood. He no longer thought of escape, he had no idea—even—where he was. His warrior’s instincts had taken over. He knew one thing. He had to kill.

And so he waited. Minotaurs had one major fault, Pheragas taught him. Believing themselves to be superior to all other races, minotaurs generally underestimate an opponent. They make mistakes, if you wait them out. The Red Minotaur was no exception. The minotaur’s thoughts became clear to Caramon—pain and anger, outrage at the insult, an eagerness to end the life of this dull-witted, puny human.

The two edged nearer and nearer the spot where Kiiri was still locked in a vicious battle with Raag, as Caramon could tell by the sounds of growling and shrieking from the ogre. Suddenly, apparently preoccupied with watching Kiiri, Caramon slipped in a pool of yellow, slimy blood. The Red Minotaur, howling in delight, lunged forward to impale the human’s body on the trident.

But the slip had been feigned. Caramon’s sword flashed in the sunlight. The minotaur, seeing he had been fooled, tried to recover from this forward lunge. But he had forgotten his crippled knee. It would not bear his weight, and the Red Minotaur fell to the arena floor, Caramon’s sword cleaving cleanly through the bestial head.

Jerking his sword free, Caramon heard a horrible snarling behind him and turned just in time to see the great she-bear’s jaws clamp over Raag’s huge neck. With a shake of her head, Kiiri bit deeply into the jugular vein. The ogre’s mouth opened wide in a scream none would ever hear.

Caramon started toward them when he caught sudden movement to his right. Quickly he turned, every sense alert as Arack hurtled past him, the dwarf’s face an ugly mask of grief and fury. Caramon saw the dagger flash in the dwarf’s hand and he hurled himself forward, but he was too late. He could not stop the blade that buried itself in the bear’s chest. Instantly, the dwarf’s hand was awash in red, warm blood. The great she-bear roared in pain and anger. One huge paw lashed out. Catching hold of the dwarf, with her last convulsive strength, Kiiri lifted Arack and threw him across the arena. The dwarf’s body smashed against the Freedom Spire where hung the golden key, impaling it upon one of the countless ornate protrusions. The dwarf gave a fearsome shriek, then the entire pinnacle collapsed, crashing into the flame-filled pits below.

Kiiri fell, blood pouring from the gash in her breast. The crowd was going wild, screaming and yelling Caramon’s name. The big man did not hear. Bending down, he took Kiiri in his arms. The magical spell she had woven unraveled. The bear was gone, and he held Kiiri close to his chest.

“You’ve won, Kiiri,” Caramon whispered. “You’re free.”

Kiiri looked up at him and smiled. Then her eyes widened, the life left them. Their dying gaze remained fixed upon the sky, almost—it seemed to Caramon—expectantly, as if now she knew what was coming.

Gently laying her body down upon the blood-soaked arena floor, Caramon rose to his feet. He saw Pheragas’s body frozen in its last, agonized throes. He saw Kiiri’s sightless, staring eyes.

“You will answer for this, my brother,” Caramon said softly.

There was a noise behind him, a murmuring like the angry roar of the sea before the storm. Grimly, Caramon gripped his sword and turned, preparing to face whatever new enemy awaited him. But there was no enemy, only the other gladiators. At the sight of Caramon’s, tear-streaked and blood-stained face, one by one, they stood aside, making way for him to pass.

Looking at them, Caramon realized that—at last—he was free. Free to find his brother, free to put an end to this evil forever. He felt his soul soar, death held little meaning and no fear for him anymore. The smell of blood was in his nostrils, and he was filled with the sweet madness of battle.

Thirsting now with the desire for revenge, Caramon ran to the edge of the arena, preparing to descend the stairs that led down to the tunnels beneath it, when the first of the earth-quakes shattered the doomed city of Istar.

18

Crysania neither saw nor heard Tasslehoff. Her mind was blinded by a myriad colors that swirled within its depths, sparkling like splendid jewels, for suddenly she understood. This was why Paladine had brought her back here—not to redeem the memory of the Kingpriest—but to learn from his mistakes. And she knew, she knew in her soul, that she had learned. She could call upon the gods and they would answer—not with anger—but with power! The cold darkness within her broke open, and the freed creature sprang from its shell, bursting into the sunlight.

In a vision, she saw herself—one hand holding high the medallion of Paladine, its platinum flashing in the sun. With her other hand, she called forth legions of believers, and they swarmed around her with adoring, rapt expressions as she led them to lands of beauty beyond imagining.

She didn’t have the Key yet to unlock the door, she knew. And it could not happen here, the wrath of the gods was too great for her to penetrate. But where to find the Key, where to find the door, even? The dancing colors made her dizzy, she could not see or think. And then she heard a voice, a small voice, and felt hands clutching at her robes. “Raistlin...” she heard the voice say, the rest of the words were lost. But suddenly her mind cleared. The colors vanished, as did the light, leaving her alone in the darkness that was calm and soothing to her soul.

“Raistlin,” she murmured. “He tried to tell me...”

Still the hands clutched at her. Absently, she disengaged them and thrust them aside. Raistlin would take her to the Portal, he would help her find the Key. Evil turns in upon itself, Elistan said. So Raistlin would unwittingly help her. Crysania’s soul sang in a joyous anthem to Paladine. When I return in my glory, with goodness in my hand, when all the evil in the world is vanquished, then Raistlin himself will see my might, he will come to understand and believe.

“Crysania!”

The ground shook beneath Crysania’s feet, but she did not notice the tremor. She heard a voice call her name, a soft voice, broken by coughing.

“Crysania.” It spoke again. “There is not much time. Hurry!”

Raistlin’s voice! Looking around wildly, Crysania searched for him, but she saw no one. And then she realized, he was speaking to her mind, guiding her. “Raistlin,” she murmured, “I hear you. I am coming.”

Turning, she ran down the aisle and out into the Temple. The kender’s cry behind her fell on deaf ears.

“Raistlin?” said Tas, puzzled, glancing around. Then he understood. Crysania was going to Raistlin! Somehow, magically, he was calling to her and she was going to find him! Tasslehoff dashed out into the corridor of the Temple after Crysania. Surely, she would make Raistlin fix the device...

Once in the corridor, Tas glanced up and down and spotted Crysania quickly. But his heart nearly jumped out on the floor—she was running so swiftly she had nearly reached the end of the hall.

Making certain the broken pieces of the magical device were secure in his pouch, Tas ran grimly after Crysania, keeping her fluttering white robes in his sight for as long as possible.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t very long. She immediately vanished around a corner.

The kender ran as he had never run before, not even when the imagined terrors of Shoikan Grove had been chasing him. His topknot of hair streamed out behind him, his pouches bounced around wildly, spilling their contents, leaving behind a glittering trail of rings and baubles.

Keeping a firm grip on the pouch with the magical device, Tas reached the end of the hall and skidded around it, slamming up against the opposite wall in his haste. Oh, no! His heart went from jumping around in his chest to land with a thud at his feet. He began to wish irritably that his heart would stay put. Its gyrations were making him nauseous.

The hall was filled with clerics, all dressed in white robes! How was he ever to spot Crysania? Then he saw her, about half-way down the hall, her black hair shining in the torchlight. He saw, too, that clerics swirled about in her wake, shouting or glowering after her as she ran by.

Tas leaped to the pursuit, hope rising again; Crysania had been necessarily slowed in her wild flight by the crowd of people in the Temple. The kender sped past them, ignoring cries of outrage, skipping out the way of grasping hands.

“Crysania,” he yelled desperately.

The crowd of clerics in the hall became thicker, everyone hurrying out to wonder about the strange trembling of the ground, trying to guess what this portended.

Tas saw Crysania halt more than once, pushing her way through the crowd. She had freed herself when Quarath came around the corner, calling for the Kingpriest. Not watching where she was going, Crysania ran into him, and he caught hold of her.

“Stop! My dear,” Quarath cried, shaking her, thinking her hysterical. “Calm yourself!”

“Let me go!” Crysania struggled in his grasp.

“She’s gone mad with terror! Help me hold her!” Quarath called to several clerics standing nearby.

It suddenly occurred to Tas that Crysania did look mad. He could see her face as he drew near her, now. Her black hair was a tangled mess, her eyes were deep, deep gray, the color of the storm clouds, and her face was flushed with exertion. She seemed to hear nothing, no voices penetrated her consciousness, except, perhaps, one.

Other clerics caught hold of her at Quarath’s command. Screaming incoherently, Crysania fought them, too. Desperation gave her strength, she came close to escaping more than once. Her white robes tore in their hands as they tried to hold her, Tas thought he saw blood on more than one cleric’s face. Running up, he was about to leap on the back of the nearest cleric and bop him over the head when he was blinded by a brilliant light that brought everyone—even Crysania—to a halt.

No one moved. All Tas could hear for a moment were Crysania’s gasps for breath and the heavy breathing of those who had tried to stop her. Then a voice spoke.

“The gods come,” said the musical voice from out the center of the light, “at my command—“

The ground beneath Tasslehoff’s feet leaped high in the air, tossing the kender up like a feather. It sank rapidly as Tas was going up, then flew up to meet him as he was coming down. The kender slammed into the floor, the impact knocking the breath from his small body.

The air exploded with dust and glass and splinters, screams and shrieks and crashes. Tas could do nothing except fight to try to breathe. Lying on the marble floor as it jumped and rocked and shook beneath him, walls split, pillars fell, and people died.

The Temple of Istar was collapsing.

Crawling forward on his hands and knees, Tas tried desperately to keep Crysania in sight. She seemed oblivious to what was happening around her. Those who had been holding her let go in their terror, and Crysania, still hearing only Raistlin’s voice, started on her way again. Tas yelled. Quarath was lunging at her, but, even as the cleric hurtled towards her, a huge marble column next to her toppled and fell.

Tas caught his breath. He couldn’t see a thing for an instant, then the marble dust settled. Quarath was nothing but a bloody mass on the floor. Crysania, apparently unhurt, stood staring dazedly down at the elf, whose blood had spattered all over her white robes.

“Crysania!” Tasslehoff shouted hoarsely. But she didn’t notice him. Turning away, she stumbled through the wreckage, unseeing, hearing nothing but the voice that called to her more urgently now than ever.

Staggering to his feet, his body bruised and aching, Tas ran after her. Nearing the end of the hall, he saw Crysania make a turn to her right and go down a flight of stairs. Before he followed her, Tas risked a quick look behind him, drawn by a terrible curiosity. The brilliant light still filled the corridor, illuminating the bodies of the dead and dying. Cracks gaped in the Temple walls, the ceiling sagged, dust choked the air. And within that light, Tas could still hear the voice, only now its lovely music had faded. It sounded harsh, shrill, and off-key.

“The gods come...”

Outside the great arena, running through Istar, Caramon fought his way through death-choked streets. Much like Crysania’s, his mind, too, heard Raistlin’s voice. But it was not calling to him. No, Caramon heard it as he had heard it in their mother’s womb, he heard the voice of his twin, the voice of the blood they shared.

And so Caramon paid no heed to the screams of the dying, or the pleas for help from those trapped beneath the wreckage. He paid no heed to what was happening around him. Buildings tumbled down practically on top of him, stones plummeted into the streets, narrowly missing him. His arms and upper body were soon bleeding from small, jagged cuts. His legs were gashed in a hundred places.

But he did not stop. He did not even feel the pain. Climbing over debris, lifting giant beams of wood and hurling them out of his way, Caramon slowly made his way through the dying streets of Istar to the Temple that gleamed in the sun before him. In his hand, he carried a bloodstained sword.

Tasslehoff followed Crysania down, down, down into the very bowels of the ground—or so it seemed to the kender. He hadn’t even known such places in the Temple existed, and he wondered how he had come to miss all these hidden staircases in his many ramblings. He wondered, too, how Crysania came to know of their existence. She passed through secret doors that were not visible even to Tas’s kender eyes.

The earthquake ended, the Temple shook a moment longer in horrified memory, then shivered and was still once more. Outside was death and chaos, but inside all was still and silent. It seemed to Tas as if everything in the world was holding its breath, waiting...

Down here—wherever here was—Tas saw little damage, perhaps because it was so far beneath the ground. Dust clouded the air, making it hard to breathe or see and occasionally a crack appeared in a wall, or a torch fell to the floor. But most of the torches were still in their sconces on the wall, still burning, casting an eerie glow in the drifting dust.

Crysania never paused or hesitated, but pressed on rapidly, though Tas soon lost all sense of direction or of where he was. He had managed to keep up with her fairly easily, but he was growing more and more tired and hoped that they would get to wherever they were going soon. His ribs hurt dreadfully. Each breath he drew burned like fire, and his legs felt like they must belong to a thick-legged, iron-shod dwarf.

He followed Crysania down another flight of marble stairs, forcing his aching muscles to keep moving. Once at the bottom, Tas looked up wearily and his heart rose for a change. They were in a dark, narrow hallway that ended, thankfully, in a wall, not another staircase!

Here, a single torch burned in a sconce above a darkened doorway.

With a glad cry, Crysania hurried through the doorway, van ishing into the darkness beyond.

“Of course!” Tas realized thankfully. “Raistlin’s laboratory! It must be down here.”

Hurrying forward, he was very near the door when a great, dark shape bore down on him from him behind, tripping him. Tas tumbled to the floor, the pain in his ribs making him catch his breath.

Looking up, fighting the pain, the kender saw the flash of golden armor and the torchlight glisten upon the blade of a sword. He recognized the man’s bronze, muscular body, but the man’s face—the face that should have been so familiar—was the face of someone Tas had never seen before.

“Caramon?” he whispered as the man surged past him. But Caramon neither saw him nor heard him. Frantically, Tas tried to stand up.

Then the aftershock hit and the ground rocked out from beneath Tas’s feet. Lurching back against a wall, he heard a cracking sound above him and saw the ceiling start to give way.

“Caramon!” he cried, but his voice was lost in the sound of wood tumbling down on top of him, knocking him in the head. Tas struggled to stay conscious, despite the pain. But his brain, as if stubbornly refusing to have anything more to do with this mess, snuffed out the lights. Tas sank into darkness.

19

Hearing in her mind Raistlin’s calm voice drawing her past death and destruction, Crysania ran without hesitation into the room that lay far below the Temple. But, on entering, her eager steps faltered. Hesitantly, she glanced around, her pulse beating achingly in her throat.

She had been blind to the horrors of the stricken Temple. Even now, she glanced at the blood on her dress and could not remember how it got there. But here, in this room, things stood out with vivid clarity, though the laboratory was lit only by light streaming from a crystal atop a magical staff. Staring around, overawed by a sense of evil, she could not make herself walk beyond the door.

Suddenly, she heard a sound and felt a touch on her arm. Whirling in alarm, she saw dark, living, shapeless creatures, trapped and held in cages. Smelling her warm blood, they stirred in the staff’s light, and it was the touch of one of their grasping hands she had felt. Shuddering, Crysania backed out of their way and bumped into something solid.

It was an open casket containing the body of what might have once been a young man. But the skin was stretched like parchment across his bones, his mouth was open in a ghastly, silent scream. The ground lurched beneath her feet, and the body in the casket bounced up wildly, staring at her from empty eye sockets.

Crysania gasped, no sound came from her throat, her body was chilled by cold sweat. Clutching her head in shaking hands, she squeezed her eyes shut to blot out the horrible sight. The world started to slip away, then she heard a soft voice.

“Come, my dear,” said the voice that had been in her mind. “Come. You are safe with me, now. The creatures of Fistandantilus’s evil cannot harm you while I am here.”

Crysania felt life return to her body. Raistlin’s voice brought comfort. The sickness passed, the ground quit shaking, the dust settled. The world lapsed into deathly silence.

Thankfully, Crysania opened her eyes. She saw Raistlin standing some distance from her, watching her from the shadows of his hooded head, his eyes glittering in the light of his staff. But, even as Crysania looked at him, she caught a glimpse of the writhing, caged shapes. Shuddering, she kept her gaze on Raistlin’s pale face.

“Fistandantilus?” she asked through dry lips. “He built this?”

“Yes, this laboratory is his,” Raistlin replied coolly. “It is one he created years and years ago. Unbeknownst to any of the clerics, he used his great magic to burrow beneath the Temple like a worm, eating away solid rock, forming it into stairs and secret doors, casting his spells upon them so that few knew of their existence.”

Crysania saw a thin-lipped sardonic smile cross Raistlin’s face as he turned to the light.

“He showed it to few, over the years. Only a handful of apprentices were ever allowed to share the secret.” Raistlin shrugged. “And none of these lived to tell about it.” His voice softened. “But then Fistandantilus made a mistake. He showed it to one young apprentice. A frail, brilliant, sharp-tongued young man, who observed and memorized every turn and twist of the hidden corridors, who studied every word of every spell that revealed secret doorways, reciting them over and over, committing them to memory, before he slept, night after night. And thus, we stand here, you and I, safe—for the moment—from the anger of the gods.”

Making a motion with his hand, he gestured for Crysania to come to the back part of the room where he stood at a large, ornately carved, wooden desk. On it rested a silverbound spellbook he had been reading. A circle of silver powder was spread around the desk. “That’s right. Keep your eyes on me. The darkness is not so terrifying then, is it?”

Crysania could not answer. She realized that, once again, she had allowed him, in her weakness, to read more in her eyes than she had intended him to see. Flushing, she looked quickly away.

“I-I was only startled, that’s all,” she said. But she could not repress a shudder as she glanced back at the casket. “What is—or was—that?” she whispered in horror.

“One of the Fistandantilus’s apprentices, no doubt,” Raistlin answered. “The mage sucked the life force from him to extend his own life. It was something he did... frequently.”

Raistlin coughed, his eyes grew shadowed and dark with some terrible memory, and Crysania saw a spasm of fear and pain pass over his usually impassive face. But before she could ask more, there was the sound of a crash in the doorway. The black-robed mage quickly regained his composure. He looked up, his gaze going past Crysania.

“Ah, enter, my brother. I was just thinking of the Test, which naturally brought you to mind.”

Caramon! Faint with relief, Crysania turned to welcome the big man with his solid, reassuring presence, his jovial, good-natured face. But her words of greeting died on her lips, swallowed up by the darkness that only seemed to grow deeper with the warrior’s arrival.

“Speaking of tests, I am pleased you survived yours, brother,” Raistlin said, his sardonic smile returned. “This lady”—he glanced at Crysania—“will have need of a body-guard where we go. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have someone along I know and trust.”

Crysania shrank from the terrible sarcasm, and she saw Caramon flinch as though Raistlin’s words had been tiny, poisoned barbs, shooting in his flesh. The mage seemed neither to notice nor care, however. He was reading his spellbook, murmuring soft words and tracing symbols in the air with his delicate hands.

“Yes, I survived your test,” Caramon said quietly. Entering the room, he came into the light of the staff. Crysania caught her breath in fear.

“Raistlin!” she cried, backing away from Caramon as the big man came slowly forward, the bloody sword in his hand. “Raistlin, look!” Crysania said, stumbling into the desk near where the mage was standing, unknowingly stepping into the circle of silver powder. Grains of it clung to the bottom of her robe, shimmering in the staff’s light.

Irritated at the interruption, the mage glanced up.

“I survived your test,” Caramon repeated, “as you survived the Test in the Tower. There, they shattered your body. Here, you shattered my heart. In its place is nothing now, just a cold emptiness as black as your robes. And, like this swordblade, it is stained with blood. A poor wretch of a minotaur died upon this blade. A friend gave his life for me, another died in my arms. You’ve sent the kender to his death, haven’t you? And how many more have died to further your evil designs?” Caramon’s voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “This ends it, my brother. No more will die because of you. Except one—myself. It’s fitting, isn’t it, Raist? We came into this world together; together, we’ll leave it.”

He took another step forward. Raistlin seemed about to speak, but Caramon interrupted.

“You cannot use your magic to stop me, not this time. I know about this spell you plan to cast. I know it will take all of your power, all of your concentration. If you use even the smallest bit of magic against me, you will not have the strength to leave this place, and my end will be accomplished all the same. If you do not die at my hands, you will die at the hands of the gods.”

Raistlin gazed at his brother without comment, then, shrugging, he turned back to read in his book. It was only when Caramon took one more step forward, and Raistlin heard the man’s golden armor clank, that the mage sighed in exasperation and glanced up at his twin. His eyes, glittering from the depths of his hood, seemed the only points of light in the room.

“You are wrong, my brother,” Raistlin said softly. “There is one other who will die.” His mirrorlike gaze went to Crysania, who stood alone, her white robes shimmering in the darkness, between the two brothers.

Caramon’s eyes were soft with pity as he, too, looked at Crysania, but the resolution on his face did not waver. “The gods will take her to them,” he said gently. “She is a true cleric. None of the true clerics died in the Cataclysm. That is why Par-Salian sent her back.” Holding out his hand, he pointed. “Look, there stands one, waiting.”

Crysania had no need to turn and look, she felt Loralon’s presence.

“Go to him, Revered Daughter,” Caramon told her. “Your place is in the light, not here in the darkness.”

Raistlin said nothing, he made no motion of any kind, just stood quietly at the desk, his slender hand resting upon the spellbook.

Crysania did not move. Caramon’s words beat in her mind like the wings of the evil creatures who fluttered about the Tower of High Sorcery. She heard the words, yet they held no meaning for her. All she could see was herself, holding the shining light in her hand, leading the people. The Key... the Portal... She saw Raistlin holding the Key in his hand, she saw him beckoning to her. Once more, she felt the touch of Raistlin’s lips, burning, upon her forehead.

A light flickered and died. Loralon was gone.

“I cannot,” Crysania tried to say, but no voice came. None was needed. Caramon understood. He hesitated, looking at her for one, long moment, then he sighed.

“So be it,” Caramon said coolly, as he, too, advanced into the silver circle. “Another death will not matter much to either of us now, will it, my brother?”

Crysania stared, fascinated, at the bloodstained sword shining in the staff’s light. Vividly, she pictured it piercing her body and, looking up into Caramon’s eyes, she saw that he pictured the same thing, and that even this would not deter him. She was nothing to him, not even a living, breathing human. She was merely an obstacle in his path, keeping him from his true objective—his brother.

What terrible hatred, Crysania thought, and then, looking deep into the eyes that were so near her own now, she had a sudden flash of insight—what terrible love!

Caramon lunged at her with an outstretched hand, thinking to catch her and hurl her aside. Acting out of panic, Crysania dodged his grasp, stumbling back up against Raistlin, who made no move to touch her. Caramon’s hand gripped nothing but a sleeve of her robe, ripping and tearing it. In a fury, he cast the white cloth to the ground, and now Crysania knew she must die. Still, she kept her body between him and his brother.

Caramon’s sword flashed.

In desperation, Crysania clutched the medallion of Paladine she wore around her throat.

“Halt!” She cried the word of command even as she shut her eyes in fear. Her body cringed, waiting for the terrible pain as the steel tore through her flesh. Then, she heard a moan and the clatter of a sword falling to the stone. Relief surged through her body, making her weak and faint. Sobbing, she felt herself falling.

But slender hands caught and held her; thin, muscular arms gathered her near, a soft voice spoke her name in triumph. She was enveloped in warm blackness, drowning in warm blackness, sinking down and down. And in her ear, she heard whispered the words of the strange language of magic.

Like spiders or caressing hands, the words crawled over her body. The chanting of the words grew louder and louder, Raistlin’s voice stronger and stronger. Silver light flared, then vanished. The grip of Raistlin’s arms around Crysania tightened in ecstasy, and she was spinning around and around, caught up in that ecstasy, whirling away with him into the blackness.

She put her arms about him and laid her head on his chest and let herself sink into the darkness. As she fell, the words of magic mingled with the singing of her blood and the singing of the stones in the Temple...

And through it all, one discordant note—a harsh, heartbroken moan.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot heard the stones singing, and he smiled dreamily. He was a mouse, he remembered, scampering forward through the silver powder while the stones sang...

Tas woke up suddenly. He was lying on a cold stone floor, covered with dust and debris. The ground beneath him was beginning to shiver and shake once more. Tas knew, from the strange and unfamiliar feeling of fear building up inside of him that this time the gods meant business. This time, the earth-quake would not end.

“Crysania! Caramon!” Tas shouted, but he heard only the echo of his shrill voice come back, bouncing hollowly off the shivering walls.

Staggering to his feet, ignoring the pain in his head, Tas saw that the torch still shone above that darkened room Crysania had entered, that part of the building seemingly the only part untouched by the convulsive heaving of the ground. Magic, Tas thought vaguely, making his way inside and recognizing wizardly things. He looked for signs of life, but all he saw were the horrible caged creatures, hurling themselves upon their cell doors, knowing the end of their tortured existence was near, yet unwilling to give up life, no matter how painful.

Tas stared around wildly. Where had everyone gone? “Caramon?” he said in a small voice. But there was no answer, only a distant rumbling as the shaking of the ground grew worse and worse. Then, in the dim light of the torch outside, Tas caught a glimpse of metal shining on the floor near a desk. Staggering across the floor, Tas managed to reach it.

His hand closed about the golden hilt of a gladiator’s sword. Leaning back against the desk for support, he stared at the silver blade, stained black with blood. Then he lifted something else that had been lying on the floor beneath the sword—a remnant of white cloth. He saw golden embroidery portraying the symbol of Paladine shine dully in the torchlight. There was a circle of powder on the floor, powder that once might have been silver but was now burned black.

“They’ve gone,” Tas said softly to the caged, gibbering creatures. “They’ve gone... I’m all alone.”

A sudden heaving of the ground sent the kender to the floor on his hands and knees. There was a snapping and rending sound, so loud it nearly deafened him, causing Tas to raise his head. As he stared up at the ceiling in awe, it split wide open. The rock cracked. The foundation of the Temple parted.

And then the Temple itself shattered. The walls flew asunder. The marble separated. Floor after floor burst open, like the petals of a rose spreading in the morning’s light, a rose that would die by nightfall. The kender’s gaze followed the dreadful progress until, finally, he saw the very tower of the Temple itself split wide, falling to the ground with a crash that was more devastating than the earthquake.

Unable to move, protected by the powerful dark spells cast by an evil mage long dead, Tas stood in the laboratory of Fistandantilus, looking up into the heavens.

And he saw the sky begin to rain fire.