They all got to their feet. Tears shone in Wentha’s eyes as her sons-clad in plain Istaran garb-each clasped hands with Cathan.
“Soido ti, Aumo,” the brothers told him. Luck to you. Uncle.
Their farewells with their mother were wordless. As each embraced Wentha in turn, their faces betrayed their fears. There was a chance one-or both of them-would not return. Wentha kissed her sons on the brow, then turned her back, waiting until they were gone before slumping against the table and start to cry.
Cathan caught his sister and held her as she sobbed into his arms. “It’ll be all right, Blossom,” he reassured her, smoothing her silver hair as he’d done when they were children. “You’ll see. We’ve made it through this much.”
She nodded, but when she looked up, her eyes red and swollen, he saw that she didn’t expect to see him again either. It made him tremble, suddenly.
They held each other for a while, then she raised her head and kissed him on the lips. “I must go to bed,” she said. “Farewell, Cathan. I won’t see you off.”
That hurt him, but his emotions were now in check. “Farewell, Blossom,” he said, touching her cheek.
Then she was gone, a billow of gray slipping into the shadows of her manor. Cathan poured himself another cup of wine-and drank it down unwatered.
“That was a touching scene.”
He nearly laughed at the sound of the voice, so frigid a voice cutting through the warm spring air. He felt the chill, heard the water dock make a tormented sound as its contents turned abruptly to ice. Turning, he watched as several of Wentha’s prize flowers withered and died. A shape stirred in the shadows.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Cathan said. “You must be very pleased with all this.”
Fistandantilus didn’t budge. “Not at all,” he stated. “In fact, I’ve come to ask you not to go through with it.”
“What?” Cathan stared at the wizard. “But we’re trying to stop Beldinas from destroying evil….”
“And no one lives who is more evil than I,” the Dark One replied, proudly. “But still, the fact remains, the Kingpriest must remain on the throne.”’
Cathan frowned, puzzled. Then understanding dawned. “It’s because he made you part of his court, isn’t it? And Revando won’t keep you around.”
“No, no, Revando will take no action against me. What choice does he have? I’m too powerful to banish. But I need the Kingpriest around, just a little while longer.”
“Why?”
Fistandantilus paused, considering, then stepped forward. “Very well-I will show you.”
He moved too quickly for a man so old and withered. He moved too quickly for any kind of man. Swift as a scorpion’s tail, his hand lashed out, touched Cathan’s forehead. He spoke a spidery word. The world flashed away.
They were elsewhere now, a place Cathan thought oddly familiar, though he knew he had never been there before. It was a massive chamber, vast and dark, appointed with all sorts of magical accouterments. Beakers of viscous fluids smoldered on workbenches. Crystals and skulls lay scattered on stone tables. Shelves upon shelves of night-blue spellbooks lined the walls, their magic strong enough to make the air around them writhe and throb like a living thing. Cathan’s eyes slid past all of it, however, the moment he saw what stood at the room’s far end.
It was a door made of steel, large enough that an ogre could have walked through without having to stoop his head. It stood on a dais of black marble, shimmering with light. Around it twisted a framework of gold, formed into the shape of five leering dragon heads. They were the faces of the Enemy, Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness. Cathan averted his eyes, signing the triangle.
Fistandantilus chuckled. “Your god will not protect you here, Twice-Born. Only the powers of darkness hold sway in this place now. Look upon the Portal.”
Cathan didn’t want to look, but his gaze rose anyway. The dragons’ eyes were glowing, each a different color, the five hues of evil wyrms that had once darkened Krynn’s skies: white and black, red and blue, venomous green. They seemed to be staring at him, each as malevolent as the Dark One himself.
“The Orders of High Sorcery built this Portal, long ago,” Fistandantilus said. They had hoped to forge a way to commune with one another-a permanent gateway through which they could speak and travel. They failed, and instead the result was a door leading to the Abyss.
“Many great wizards died before they were able to shut it again. Try as they might, however, they could not destroy it as they hoped, so they laid a geas on it instead, hoping it would make the Portal impossible to open. Only the blackest wizard could work its magic, they declared… but even then, he would need help-a cleric of true goodness. Such an alliance, they believed, would never happen.
“Many years ago, I decided to test that belief. Since that day, I have dedicated my life to this goal. First, I corrupted Kurnos to usurp the throne and give himself over to darkness, paving the way for Beldinas’s rise. Then I tricked the church into going to war with the Orders of High Sorcery, so my brethren would be forced into hiding-and leave this place, the Tower of Palanthas, free for my experimentation …for years I have had the freedom to come and go in the Temple, as part of the court.
“Now the time has come to enter the Abyss, and Beldinas Lightbringer will be at my side. Together… together, we will face Takhisis herself, and I will lay her low and take her place!”
Cathan stared at the dark-robed, hooded sorcerer. “And you expect me to help you in this? I’m not Kurnos, Dark One-I’m no puppet to prance for your pleasure.”
The black-robed shoulders shook. “I know, Twice-Born. You are god-touched, and your own man. But I don’t have to compel you, Cathan MarSevrin. You will fail, in the end.”
… and suddenly the Portal was gone, and the vast chamber with it Cathan found himself back in the manor, huddled and shuddering against the table. The Dark One still stood beside him, croaking with laughter.
“Very good, my brave friend,” rasped the wizard. “Now we are done, you and I. Farewell… and forget.”
A wave of darkness crashed down on Cathan, smothering him. When it lifted, Fistandantilus was gone. Cathan reached for the memory of what he’d just seen, what the wizard had told him, and felt it slipping away, like a dream upon waking. The harder he tried to hold on, the faster it receded, vanishing until it was gone from his mind. All he could recall was the wizard telling him not to go through with his plans. Why? Not knowing only strengthened his resolve.
Nodding to himself, Cathan walked away, into the manor and his waiting bed, where he dreamt of the burning hammer.
The Kingpriest’s entourage gathered at the western edge of the city the next morning, cloaked in rain and mist. The city’s gates, topped with statues of lapis and sard and chalcedony-each an image of the Lightbringer, replacing the heroes and clerics who had stood there before-towered over them. The crowds had gathered early, chanting Pilofiro and swaying on their knees. As Revando had promised, the Kingpriest’s armed escort numbered twenty: eight knights and a dozen Scatas, each armed with crossbow, spear, and sword. There was not a horse among them: this was a sacred pilgrimage, and they would make the journey on foot. Looking the party over, Cathan thought of his nephews, already well on their way, and prayed to Paladine for their safety.
Wentha was missing. If they failed, she would be in danger too. And that, more than anything, bolstered Cathan’s determination to go through with it and succeed.