“You see the mark of his hand upon me,” Dalamar hissed. “Even now, the pain is almost more than I can bear.” The young elf paused, then added through clenched teeth. “He said to give you his regards, Par-Salian!”
The great mage’s head bent. The hand rising to support it shook as with a palsy. He seemed old, feeble, weary. For a moment, the mage sat with his eyes covered, then he raised his head and looked intently at Dalamar.
“So—our worst fears are realized.” Par-Salian’s eyes narrowed questioningly. “He knows, then, that we sent you—”
“To spy on him?” Dalamar laughed, bitterly. “Yes, he knows!” The dark elf spit the words. “He’s known all along. He’s been using me—using all of us—to further his own ends.”
“I find this all very difficult to believe,” stated the red-robed mage in a mild voice. “We all admit that young Raistlin is certainly powerful, but I find this talk of challenging a goddess quite ridiculous... quite ridiculous indeed.”
There were murmured assents from both halves of the semicircle.
“Oh, do you?” Dalamar asked, and there was a lethal softness in his voice. “Then, let me tell you fools that you have no idea of the meaning of the word power. Not as it relates to him! You cannot begin to fathom the depths of his power or to soar the heights! I can! I have seen”—for a moment Dalamar paused, his voice lost its anger and was filled with wonder—“I have seen such things as none of you have dared imagine! I have walked the realms of dreams with my eyes open! I have seen beauty to make the heart burst with pain. I have descended into nightmares—I have witnessed horrors”—he shuddered—“horrors so nameless and terrible that I begged to be struck dead rather than look upon them!” Dalamar glanced around the semi-circle, gathering them all together with his flashing, dark-eyed gaze. “And all these wonders he summoned, he created, he brought to life with his magic.”
There was no sound, no one moved.
“You are wise to be afraid, Great One,” Dalamar’s voice sank to a whisper. “But no matter how great your fear, you do not fear him enough. Oh, yes, he lacks power to cross that dread threshold. But that power he goes to find. Even as we speak, he is preparing himself for the long journey. Upon my return tomorrow, he will leave.”
Par-Salian raised his head. “Your return?” he asked, shocked. “But he knows you for what you are—a spy, sent by us, the Conclave, his fellows.” The great mage’s glance went to the chair that stood empty amidst the Black Robes, then he rose to his feet. “No, young Dalamar. You are very courageous, but I cannot allow you to return to what would undoubtedly he tortured death at his hands.”
“You cannot stop me,” Dalamar said, and there was no emotion in his voice. “I said before—I would give my soul to study with such as he. And now, though it costs me my life, I will stay with him. He expects me back. He leaves me in charge of the Tower of High Sorcery in his absence.”
“He leaves you to guard?” the red-robed mage said dubiously. “You, who have betrayed him?”
“He knows me,” Dalamar said bitterly. “He knows he has ensnared me. He has stung my body and sucked my soul dry, yet I will return to the web. Nor will I be the first.” Dalamar motioned down at the still, white form lying on the pallet before him. Then, half-turning, the dark elf glanced at Caramon. “Will I, brother?” he said with a sneer.
At last, Caramon seemed driven to action. Angrily shaking Bupu loose from his foot, the warrior took a step forward, both the kender and the gully dwarf crowding close behind him.
“Who is this?” Caramon demanded, scowling at the dark elf. “What’s going on? Who are you talking about?”
Before Par-Salian could answer, Dalamar turned to face the big warrior.
“I am called Dalamar,” the dark elf said coldly. “And I speak of your twin brother, Raistlin. He is my master. I am his apprentice. I am, in addition, a spy, sent by this august company you see before you to report on the doings of your brother.”
Caramon did not answer. He may not have even heard. His eyes—wide with horror—were fixed on the dark elf’s chest. Following Caramon’s gaze, Tas saw five burned and bloody holes in Dalamar’s flesh. The kender swallowed, feeling suddenly queasy.
“Yes, your brother’s hand did this,” Dalamar remarked, guessing Caramon’s thoughts. Smiling grimly, the dark elf gripped the torn edges of his black robes with his hand and pulled them together, hiding the wounds. “It is no matter,” he muttered, “it was no more than I deserved.”
Caramon turned away, his face so pale Tas slipped his hand in the big man’s hand, fearing he might collapse. Dalamar regarded Caramon with scorn.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Didn’t you believe him capable of this’?” The dark elf shook his head in disbelief, his eyes swept the assemblage before him. “No, you are like the rest of them. Fools... all of you, fools!”
The mages murmured together, some voices angry, some fearful, most questioning. Finally, Par-Salian raised his hand for silence.
“Tell us, Dalamar, what he plans. Unless, of course, he has forbidden you to speak of it.” There was a note of irony in the mage’s voice that the dark elf did not miss.
“No,” Dalamar smiled grimly. “I know his plans. Enough of them, that is. He even asked that I be certain and report them to you accurately.”
There were muttered words and snorts of derision at this.
But Par-Salian only looked more concerned, if that were possible. “Continue,” he said, almost without voice.
Dalamar drew a breath.
“He journeys back in time, to the days just prior to the Cataclysm, when the great Fistandantilus was at the height of his power. It is my Shalafi’s intention to meet this great mage, to study with him, and to recover those works of Fistandantilus we know were lost during the Cataclysm. For my Shalafi believes, from what he has read in the spellbooks he took from the Great Library at Palanthas, that Fistandantilus learned how to cross the threshold that exists between god and men. Thus, the great wizard was able to prolong his life after the Cataclysm to fight the Dwarven Wars. Thus, he was able to survive the terrible explosion that devastated the lands of Dergoth. Thus, was he able to live until he found a new receptacle for his soul.”
“I don’t understand any of this! Tell me what’s going on!” Caramon demanded, striding forward angrily. “Or I’ll tear this place down around your miserable heads! Who is this Fistandantilus? What does he have to do with my brother?”
“Shhh,” Tas said, glancing apprehensively at the mages.
“We understand, kenderken,” Par-Salian said, smiling at Tas gently. “We understand his anger and his sorrow. And he is right—we owe him an explanation.” The old mage sighed. “Perhaps what I did was wrong. And yet—did I have a choice? Where would we be today if I had not made the decision I made?”
Tas saw Par-Salian turn to look at the mages who sat on either side of him, and suddenly the kender realized Par-Salian’s answer was for them as much as for Caramon. Many had cast back their hoods and Tas could see their faces now. Anger marked the faces of those wearing the black robes, sadness and fear were reflected in the pale faces of those wearing white. Of the red robes, one man in particular caught Tas’s attention, mainly because his face was smooth, impassive, yet the eyes were dark and stirring. It was the mage who had doubted Raistlin’s power. It seemed to Tas that it was to this man in particular that Par-Salian directed his words.
“Over seven years ago, Paladine appeared to me.” Par-Salian’s eyes stared into the shadows. “The great god warned me that a time of terror was going to engulf the world. The Queen of Darkness had awakened the evil dragons and was planning to wage war upon the people in an effort to conquer them. ‘One among your Order you will choose to help fight this evil,’ Paladine told me. ‘Choose well, for this person shall be as a sword to cleave the darkness. You may tell him nothing of what the future holds, for by his decisions, and the decisions of others, will your world stand or fall forever into eternal night.’”