“You’ve been putting us off for days,” added Palin, standing beside his brother. “We at least want a look at it before you take it back to your forge or wherever.”
“Let me loose!” Dougan swore an oath. “Or you’ll see nothing ever again!”
Sturm, at a nod from Tanin, let go of the dwarf’s arms. Dougan glanced around at them uncomfortably.
“The Graygem?” the brothers said, gathering around.
“Well, now, lads.” The dwarf appeared highly uncomfortable. “That’s going to be a bit of a problem.”
“What do you mean?” Palin asked nervously, not liking the expression on the dwarf’s face. “Is it so powerful that we can’t look at it?”
“Nooo ...” said Dougan slowly, his face flushing in the red light of Lunitari. “That's not it, exactly....”
“Well, then, let's see it!” Tanin demanded.
“The... uh... the fact is, lads,” stammered Dougan, winding his black beard around his finger, “that I’ve... I’ve misplaced it ”
“Misplaced it!” Sturm said in amazement.
“The Graygem?” Palin glanced around the boat in alarm, fearing to see its gray light beaming out at them.
“Perhaps, 'misplaced' isn’t quite the word,” the dwarf mumbled. “You see, I got into this bones game, the night before we left the island and...” His voice trailed off miserably.
“You lost it!” Tanin groaned.
Palin and Sturm stared at the dwarf, too stunned to speak.
“Aye, lad.” Dougan sighed heavily. “It was a sure thing, too....”
“So the Graygem’s loose in the world again,” Palin murmured.
“I’m afraid so. After all, I did lose the original wager, if you will remember. But don’t worry, laddie,” said the dwarf, laying his hand on Palin’s arm. “We’ll get it back! Someday, we’ll get it back!”
“What do you mean we? ” Tanin growled.
“I swear by Paladine and by Gilean and by the Dark Queen and by all the gods in the heavens that if I ever in my life see you even looking my direction, dwarf, I will turn around and walk—no, run—the opposite way!"
Sturm vowed devoutly.
“The same goes for me,” said Palin.
“And me!” said Tanin.
Dougan looked at them, downcast for a moment. Then, a grin split the dwarf’s face. His beady eyes glittered.
“Wanna bet?"
Book 4: Raistlin’s Daughter
I first heard the legend of Raistlin’s Daughter about five years after my twin’s death. As you can imagine, I was extremely intrigued and disturbed by the rumors and did what I could to investigate. In this I was assisted by my friends—the old Companions—who had by this time scattered over most of Ansalon. We found versions of the legend in almost every part of Ansalon. It is being told among the elves of Silvanesti, the people of Solamnia, and the Plainsmen who have returned to Que-shu. But we could find no verification of it.
Even the kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot, who goes everywhere and hears everything (as kender do), could discover no firsthand information regarding it. The story is always told by a person who heard it from his aunt who had a cousin who was midwife to the girl... and so forth.
I even went so far as to contact Astinus the Historian, who records history as it passes before his all-seeing eyes. In this, my hope to hear anything useful was slim, for the Historian is notoriously close-mouthed, especially when something he has seen in the past might affect the future.
Knowing this, I asked only for him to tell me whether or not the legend was true. Did my twin father a child? Does he or she live still on this world?
His response was typical of that enigmatic man, whom some whisper is the god Gilean himself. “If it is true, it will become known. If not, it won’t.”
I have agreed to allow the inclusion of the legend in this volume as a curiosity and because it might, in the distant future, have some bearing upon the history ofKrynn. The reader should before—warned, however, that my friends and I regard it as veritable gossip.
Twilight touched the Wayward Inn with its gentle hand, making even that shabby and ill-reputed place seem a restful haven to those who walked or rode the path that led by its door. Its weather-beaten wood—rotting and worm-ridden when seen in broad daylight—appeared rustic in the golden-tinged evening.
Its cracked and broken windowpanes actually sparkled as they caught the last rays of dying light, and the shadows hit the roof just right, so that no one could see the patches. Perhaps this was one reason that the inn was so busy this night—either that or the masses of gray, lowering clouds gathering in the eastern sky like a ghostly, silent army.
The Wayward Inn was located on the outskirts—if the magical trees deemed it so—of the Forest of Wayreth. If the magical trees chose otherwise, as they frequently did, the inn was located on the outskirts of a barren field where nothing anyone planted grew. Not that any farmer cared to try his luck. Who would want anything from land controlled, so it was believed by the archmages of the Tower of High Sorcery; by the strange, uncanny forest?
Some thought it peculiar that the Wayward Inn was built so close to the Forest of Wayreth (when the forest was in appearance), but then the owner—Slegart Havenswood—was a peculiar man. His only care in the world, seemingly, was profit—as he would say to anyone who asked. And there was always profit to be made from those who found themselves on the fringes of wizards' lands when night was closing in.
There were many this evening who found themselves in those straits, apparently, for almost every room in the inn was taken. For the most part, the travelers were human, since this was in the days before the War of the Lance, when elves and dwarves kept to themselves and rarely walked this world. But there were a few gully dwarves around; Slegart hired them to cook and clean up, and he was not averse to allowing goblins to stay in his place as long as they behaved themselves. There were no goblins this night, however, though there were some humans who might have been taken for goblins—so twisted and crafty were their faces. It was this large party that had taken several of Slegart’s rooms (and there weren’t many in the small, shabby place), leaving only two empty.