The mages had been forced to abandon this Tower, carrying their spellbooks and other paraphernalia to the Tower of High Sorcery, hidden deep within the magical Forest of Wayreth. It was when they abandoned this Tower that the curse had been cast upon it. The Shoikan Grove had grown to guard it from all comers until—as foretold—“the master of past and present shall return with power.”
And the master had returned. Now he sat in the ancient laboratory, crouched over the stone table that had been dragged, long ago, from the bottom of the sea. Carved with runes that ward off all enchantments, it was kept free of any outside influences that might affect the mage’s work. The table’s surface was ground smooth and polished to an almost mirrorlike finish. Dalamar could see the nightblue bindings of the spellbooks that sat upon it reflected in the candlelight.
Scattered about on its surface were other objects, too—objects hideous and curious, horrible and lovely: the mage’s spell components. It was on these Raistlin was working now, scanning a spellbook, murmuring soft words as he crushed something between his delicate fingers, letting it trickle into a phial he held.
“Shalafi,” Dalamar said quietly, using the elven word for “master.”
Raistlin looked up.
Dalamar felt the stare of those golden eyes pierce his heart with an indefinable pain. A shiver of fear swept over the dark elf, the words, He knows! seethed in his brain. But none of this emotion was outwardly visible. The dark elf’s handsome features remained fixed, unchanged, cool. His eyes returned Raistlin’s gaze steadily. His hands remained folded within his robes as was proper.
So dangerous was this job that—when They had deemed it necessary to plant a spy inside the mage’s household—They had asked for volunteers, none of them willing to take responsibility for cold-bloodedly commanding anyone to accept this deadly assignment. Dalamar had stepped forward immediately.
Magic was Dalamar’s only home. Originally from Silvanesti, he now neither claimed nor was claimed by that noble race of elves. Born to a low caste, he had been taught only the most rudimentary of the magical arts, higher learning being for those of royal blood. But Dalamar had tasted the power, and it became his obsession. Secretly he worked, studying the forbidden, learning wonders reserved for only the high-ranking elven mages. The dark arts impressed him most, and thus, when he was discovered wearing the Black Robes that no true elf could even bear to look upon, Dalamar was cast out of his home and his nation. And he became known as a “dark elf,” one who is outside of the light. This suited Dalamar well for, early on, he had learned that there is power in darkness.
And so Dalamar had accepted the assignment. When asked to give his reasons why he would willingly risk his life performing this task, he had answered coldly, “I would risk my soul for the chance to study with the greatest and most powerful of our order who has ever lived!”
“You may well be doing just that,” a sad voice had answered him.
The memory of that voice returned to Dalamar at odd moments, generally in the darkness of the night—which was so very dark inside the Tower. It returned to him now. Dalamar forced it out of his mind.
“What is it?” Raistlin asked gently.
The mage always spoke gently and softly, sometimes not even raising his voice above a whisper. Dalamar had seen fearful storms rage in this chamber. The blazing lightning and crashing thunder had left him partially deaf for days. He had been present when the mage summoned creatures from the planes above and below to do his bidding; their screams and wails and curses still sounded in his dreams at night. Yet, through it all, he had never heard Raistlin raise his voice. Always that soft, sibilant whisper penetrated the chaos and brought it under control.
“Events are transpiring in the outside world, Shalafi, that demand your attention.”
“Indeed?” Raistlin looked down again, absorbed in his work.
“Lady Crysania—”
Raistlin’s hooded head lifted quickly. Dalamar, reminded forcibly of a striking snake, involuntarily fell back a step before that intense gaze.
“What? Speak!” Raistlin hissed the word.
“You—you should come, Shalafi,” Dalamar faltered. “The Live Ones report...”
The dark elf spoke to empty air. Raistlin had vanished.
Heaving a trembling sigh, the dark elf pronounced the words that would take him instantly to his master’s side.
Far below the Tower of High Sorcery, deep beneath the ground, was a small round room magically carved from the rock that supported the Tower. This room had not been in the Tower originally. Known as the Chamber of Seeing, it was Raistlin’s creation.
Within the center of the small room of cold stone was a perfectly round pool of still, dark water. From the center of the strange, unnatural pond spurted a jet of blue flame. Rising to the ceiling of the chamber, it burned eternally, day and night. And around it, eternally, sat the Live Ones.
Though the most powerful mage living upon Krynn, Raistlin’s power was far from complete, and no one realized that more than the mage himself. He was always forcibly reminded of his weaknesses when he came into this room—one reason he avoided it, if possible. For here were the visible, outward symbols of his failures—the Live Ones.
Wretched creatures mistakenly created by magic gone awry, they were held in thrall in this chamber, serving their creator. Here they lived out their tortured lives, writhing in a larva-like, bleeding mass about the flaming pool. Their shining wet bodies made a horrible carpet for the floor, whose stones, made slick with their oozings, could be seen only when they parted to make room for their creator.
Yet, despite their lives of constant, twisted pain, the Live Ones spoke no word of complaint. Far better their lot than those who roamed the Tower, those known as the Dead Ones.
Raistlin materialized within the Chamber of Seeing, a dark shadow emerging out of darkness. The blue flame sparkled off the silver threads that decorated his robes, shimmered within the black cloth. Dalamar appeared beside him, and the two walked over to stand beside the surface of the still, black water.
“Where?” Raistlin asked.
“Here, M-master,” blurbled one of the Live Ones, pointing a misshapen appendage.
Raistlin hurried to stand beside it, Dalamar walking by his side, their black robes making a soft, whispering sound upon the slimy stone floor. Staring into the water, Raistlin motioned Dalamar to do the same. The dark elf looked into the still surface, seeing for an instant only the reflection of the jet of blue flame. Then the flame and the water merged, then parted, and he was in a forest. A big human male, clad in ill-fitting armor, stood staring down at the body of a young human female, dressed in white robes. A kender knelt beside the body of the woman, holding her hand in his. Dalamar heard the big man speak as clearly as if he had been standing by his side.
“She’s dead...”
“I—I’m not sure, Caramon. I think—”
“I’ve seen death often enough, believe me. She’s dead. And it’s all my fault... my fault...”
“Caramon, you imbecile!” Raistlin snarled with a curse. “What happened? What went wrong?”
As the mage spoke, Dalamar saw the kender look up quickly.
“Did you say something?” the kender asked the big human, who was working in the soil.
“No. It was just the wind.”
“What are you doing?”
“Digging a grave. We’ve got to bury her.”
“Bury her?” Raistlin gave a brief, bitter laugh. “Oh, of course, you bumbling idiot! That’s all you can think of to do!” The mage fumed. ” Bury her! I must know what happened!” He turned to the Live One. “What did you see?”