Raistlin sat before him at the carved wooden table, one hand resting upon a thick nightblue-bound spellbook. The archmage’s fingers absently caressed the book, running over the silver runes upon the cover. Raistlin’s eyes stared fixedly at Dalamar. The dark elf did not stir or shift beneath that intense, penetrating gaze.
“You were very young, to have taken the Test,” Raistlin said abruptly in his soft voice.
Dalamar blinked. This was not what he had expected.
“Not so young as you, Shalafi,” the dark elf replied. “I am in my nineties, which figures to about twenty-five of your human years. You, I believe, were only twenty-one when you took the Test.”
“Yes,” Raistlin murmured, and a shadow passed across the mage’s golden-tinted skin. “I was... twenty-one.”
Dalamar saw the hand that rested upon the spellbook clench in swift, sudden pain; he saw the golden eyes flare. The young apprentice was not surprised at this show of emotion. The Test is required of any mage seeking to practice the arts of magic at an advanced level. Administered in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, it is conducted by the leaders of all three Robes. For, long ago, the magic-users of Krynn realized what had escaped the clerics—if the balance of the world is to be maintained, the pendulum must swing freely back and forth among all three—Good, Evil, Neutrality. Let one grow too powerful—any one—and the world would begin to tilt toward its destruction.
The Test is brutal. The higher levels of magic, where true power is obtained, are no place for inept bunglers. The Test was designed to get rid of those—permanently; death being the penalty for failure. Dalamar still had nightmares about his own testing, so he could well understand Raistlin’s reaction.
“I passed,” Raistlin whispered, his eyes staring back to that time. “But when I came out of that terrible place I was as you see me now. My skin had this golden tint, my hair was white, and my eyes...” He came back to the present, to look fixedly at Dalamar. “Do you know what I see with these hourglass eyes’?”
“No, Shalafi.”
“I see time as it affects all things,” Raistlin replied. “Human flesh withers before these eyes, flowers wilt and die, the rocks themselves crumble as I watch. It is always winter in my sight. Even you. Dalamar”—Raistlin’s eyes caught and held the young apprentice in their horrible gaze—“even elven flesh that ages so slowly the passing of the years are as rain showers in the spring—even upon your young face, Dalamar—I see the mark of death!”
Dalamar shivered, and this time could not hide his emotion. Involuntarily, he shrank back into the cushions of the chair. A shield spell came quickly to his mind, as did—unbidden—a spell designed to injure, not defend. Fool! he sneered at himself, quickly regaining control, what puny spell of mine could kill him?
“True, true,” Raistlin murmured, answering Dalamar’s thoughts, as he often did. “There live none upon Krynn who has the power to harm me. Certainly not you, apprentice. But you are brave. You have courage. Often you have stood beside me in the laboratory, facing those I have dragged from the planes of their existence. You knew that if I but drew a breath at the wrong time, they would rip the living hearts from our bodies and devour them while we writhed before them in torment.”
“It was my privilege,” Dalamar murmured.
“Yes,” Raistlin replied absently, his thoughts abstracted. Then he raised an eyebrow. “And you knew, didn’t you, that if such an event occurred, I would save myself but not you?”
“Of course, Shalafi,” Dalamar answered steadily. “I understand and I take the risk”—the dark elf’s eyes glowed. His fears forgotten, he sat forward eagerly in his chair—“no, Shalafi, I invite the risks! I would sacrifice anything for the sake of—”
“The magic,” Raistlin finished.
“Yes! The sake of the magic!” Dalamar cried.
“And the power it confers.” Raistlin nodded. “You are ambitious. But—how ambitious, I wonder? Do you, perhaps, seek rulership of your kinsmen? Or possibly a kingdom somewhere, holding a monarch in thrall while you enjoy the wealth of his lands? Or perhaps an alliance with some dark lord, as was done in the days of the dragons not far back. My sister, Kitiara, for example, found you quite attractive. She would enjoy having you about. Particularly if you have any magic arts you practice in the bedroom—”
“Shalafi, I would not desecrate—”
Raistlin waved a hand. “I joke, apprentice. But you take my meaning. Does one of those reflect your dreams?”
“Well, certainly, Shalafi.” Dalamar hesitated, confused. Where was all this leading? To some information he could use and pass on, he hoped, but how much of himself to reveal? “I—”
Raistlin cut him off. “Yes, I see I have come close to the mark. I have discovered the heights of your ambition. Have you never guessed at mine?”
Dalamar felt a thrill of joy surge through his body. This is what he had been sent to discover. The young mage answered slowly, “I have often wondered, Shalafi. You are so powerful”—Dalamar motioned at the window where the lights of Palanthas could be seen, shining in the night—“this city, this land of Solamnia, this continent of Ansalon could be yours.”
“This world could be mine!” Raistlin smiled, his thin lips parting slightly. “We have seen the lands beyond the seas, haven’t we, apprentice. When we look into the flaming water, we can see them and those who dwell there. To control them would be simplicity itself—”
Raistlin rose to his feet. Walking to the window, he stared out over the sparkling city spread out before him. Feeling his master’s excitement, Dalamar left his chair and followed him.
“I could give you that kingdom, Dalamar,” Raistlin said softly. His hand drew back the curtain, his eyes lingered upon the lights that gleamed more warmly than the stars above. “I could give you not only rulership of your miserable kinsmen, but control of the elves everywhere in Krynn.” Raistlin shrugged. “I could give you my sister.”
Turning from the window, Raistlin faced Dalamar, who watched him eagerly.
“But I care nothing for that”—Raistlin gestured, letting the curtain fall—“nothing. My ambition goes further.”
“But, Shalafi, there is not much left if you turn down the world.” Dalamar,faltered, not understanding. “Unless you have seen worlds beyond this one that are hidden from my eyes...”
“Worlds beyond?” Raistlin pondered. “Interesting thought. Perhaps someday I should consider that possibility. But, no, that is not what I meant.” The mage paused and, with a motion of his hand, beckoned Dalamar closer. “You have seen the great door in the very back of the laboratory? The door of steel, with runes of silver and of gold set within? The door without a lock?”
“Yes, Shalafi,” Dalamar replied, feeling a chill creep over him that not even the strange heat of Raistlin’s body so near him could dispell.
“Do you know where that door leads?”
“Yes... Shalafi.” A whisper.
“And you know why it is not opened?”
“You cannot open it, Shalafi. Only one of great and powerful magic and one of true holy powers may together open—” Dalamar stopped, his throat closing in fear, choking him.
“Yes,” Raistlin murmured, “you understand. ‘One of true holy powers.’ Now you know why I need her! Now you understand the heights—and the depths—of my ambition.”
“This is madness!” Dalamar gasped, then lowered his eyes in shame. “Forgive me, Shalafi, I meant no disrespect.”
“No, and you are right. It is madness, with my limited powers.” A trace of bitterness tinged the mage’s voice. “That is why I am about to undertake a journey.”
“Journey?” Dalamar looked up. “Where?”
“Not where—when,” Raistlin corrected. “You have heard me speak of Fistandantilus?”