“Many times, Shalafi,” Dalamar said, his voice almost reverent. “The greatest of our Order. Those are his spellbooks, the ones with the nightblue binding.”
“Inadequate,” Raistlin muttered, dismissing the entire library with a gesture. “I have read them all, many times in these past years, ever since I obtained the Key to their secrets from the Queen of Darkness herself. But they only frustrate me!” Raistlin clenched his thin hand. “I read these spellbooks and I find great gaps—entire volumes missing! Perhaps they were destroyed in the Cataclysm or, later, in the Dwarfgate Wars that proved Fistandantilus’s undoing. These missing volumes, this knowledge of his that has been lost, will give me the power I need!”
“And so your journey will take you—” Dalamar stopped in disbelief.
“Back in time,” Raistlin finished calmly. “Back to the days just prior to the Cataclysm, when Fistandantilus was at the height of his power.”
Dalamar felt dizzy, his thoughts swirled in confusion. What would They say? Amidst all Their speculation, They had certainly not foreseen this!
“Steady, my apprentice.” Raistlin’s soft voice seemed to come to Dalamar from far away. “This has unnerved you. Some wine?”
The mage walked over to a table. Lifting a carafe, he poured a small glass of blood-red liquid and handed it to the dark elf. Dalamar took it gratefully, startled to see his hand shaking. Raistlin poured a small glass for himself.
“I do not drink this strong wine often, but tonight it seems we should have a small celebration. A toast to—how did you put it?—one of true holy powers. This, then, to Lady Crysania!”
Raistlin drank his wine in small sips. Dalamar gulped his down. The fiery liquid bit into his throat. He coughed.
“Shalafi, if the Live One reported correctly, Lord Soth cast a death spell upon Lady Crysania, yet she still lives. Did you restore her life?”
Raistlin shook his head. “No, I simply gave her visible signs of life so that my dear brother would not bury her. I cannot be certain what happened, but it is not difficult to guess. Seeing the death knight before her and knowing her fate, the Revered Daughter fought the spell with the only weapon she had, and a powerful one it was—the holy medallion of Paladine. The god protected her, transporting her soul to the realms where the gods dwell, leaving her body a shell upon the ground. There are none—not even I—who can bring her soul and body back together again. Only a high cleric of Paladine has that power.”
“Elistan?”
“Bah, the man is sick, dying...”
“Then she is lost to you!”
“No,” said Raistlin gently. “You fail to understand, apprentice. Through inattention, I lost control. But I have regained it quickly. Not only that, I will make this work to my advantage.
Even now, they approach the Tower of High Sorcery. Crysania was going there, seeking the help of the mages. When she arrives, she will find that help, and so will my brother.”
“You want them to help her?” Dalamar asked in confusion. “She plots to destroy you!”
Raistlin quietly sipped his wine, watching the young apprentice intently. “Think about it, Dalamar,” he said softly, “think about it, and you will come to understand. But”—the mage set down his empty glass—“I have kept you long enough.”
Dalamar glanced out the window. The red moon, Lunitari, was starting to sink out of sight behind the black jagged edges of the mountains. The night was nearing its midpoint.
“You must make your journey and be back before I leave in the morning,” Raistlin continued. “There will undoubtedly be some last-minute instructions, besides many things I must leave in your care. You will be in charge here, of course, while I am gone.”
Dalamar nodded, then frowned. “You spoke of my journey, Shalafi? I am not going anywhere—” The dark elf stopped, choking as he remembered that he did, indeed, have somewhere to go, a report to make.
Raistlin stood regarding the young elf in silence, the look of horrified realization dawning on Dalamar’s face reflected in the mage’s mirrorlike eyes. Then, slowly, Raistlin advanced upon the young apprentice, his black robes rustling gently about his ankles. Stricken with terror, Dalamar could not move. Spells of protection slipped from his grasp. His mind could think of nothing, see nothing, except two flat, emotionless, golden eyes.
Slowly, Raistlin lifted his hand and laid it gently upon Dalamar’s chest, touching the young man’s black robes with the tips of five fingers.
The pain was excruciating. Dalamar’s face turned white, his eyes widened, he gasped in agony. But the dark elf could not withdraw from that terrible touch. Held fast by Raistlin’s gaze, Dalamar could not even scream.
“Relate to them accurately both what I have told you,” Raistlin whispered, “and what you may have guessed. And give the great Par-Salian my regards... apprentice!”
The mage withdrew his hand.
Dalamar collapsed upon the floor, clutching his chest, moaning. Raistlin walked around him without even a glance. The dark elf could hear him leave the room, the soft swish of the black robes, the door opening and closing.
In a frenzy of pain, Dalamar ripped open his robes. Five red, glistening trails of blood streamed down his breast, soaking into the black cloth, welling from five holes that had been burned into his flesh.
10
Caramon! Get up! Wake up!”
No. I’m in my grave. It’s warm here beneath the ground, warm and safe. You can’t wake me, you can’t reach me. I’m hidden in the clay, you can’t find me.
“Caramon, you’ve got to see this! Wake up!”
A hand shoved aside the darkness, tugged at him.
No, Tika, go away! You brought me back to life once, back to pain and suffering. You should have left me in the sweet realm of darkness below the Blood Sea of Istar. But I’ve found peace now at last. I dug my grave and I buried myself.
“Hey, Caramon, you better wake up and take a look at this!”
Those words! They were familiar. Of course, I said them! I said them to Raistlin long ago, when he and I first came to this forest. So how can I be hearing them? Unless I am Raistlin... Ah, that’s—
There was a hand on his eyelid! Two fingers were prying it open! At the touch, fear ran prickling through Caramon’s bloodstream, starting his heart beating with a jolt.
“Arghhhh!” Caramon roared in alarm, trying to crawl into the dirt as that one, forcibly opened eye saw a gigantic face hovering over him—the face of a gully dwarf!
“Him awake,” Bupu reported. “Here,” she said to Tasslehoff, “you hold this eye. I open other one.”
“No!” Tas cried hastily. Dragging Bupu off the warrior, Tas shoved her behind him. “Uh... you go get some water.”
“Good idea,” Bupu remarked and scuttled off.
“It—it’s all right, Caramon,” Tas said, kneeling beside the big man and patting him reassuringly. “It was only Bupu. I’m sorry, but I was—uh—looking at the... well, you’ll see... and I forgot to watch her.”
Groaning, Caramon covered his face with his hand. With Tas’s help, he struggled to sit up. “I dreamed I was dead,” he said heavily. “Then I saw that face—I knew it was all over. I was in the Abyss.”
“You may wish you were,” Tas said somberly.
Caramon looked up at the sound of the kender’s unusually serious tone. “Why? What do you mean?” he asked harshly.
Instead of answering, Tas asked, “How do you feel?”
Caramon scowled. “I’m sober, if that’s what you want to know,” the big man muttered. “And I wish to the gods I wasn’t. So there.”
Tasslehoff regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then, slowly, he reached into a pouch and drew forth a small leather-bound bottle. “Here, Caramon,” he said quietly, “if you really think you need it.”
The big man’s eyes flashed. Eagerly, he stretched out a trembling hand and snatched the bottle. Uncorking the top, he sniffed at it, smiled, and raised it to his lips.