Vividly, Caramon saw the wreckage of this doomed city as he had seen it after their ship had been sucked into the whirl pool of what was now known as the Blood Sea of Istar. The sea elves had rescued them then, but there would be no rescue for these people. Once more, he saw the twisted and shattered buildings. His soul recoiled in horror and he realized, with a start, that he had been keeping that terrible sight from his mind.
I never really believed it would happen, he realized, shivering with fear as the ground shivered in sympathy. I have hours only, maybe not that long. I must get out of here! I must reach Raistlin!
Then, he calmed down. Raistlin was expecting him. Raistlin needed him—or at least he needed a “trained fighter.” Raistlin would ensure that he had plenty of time—time to win and get to him. Or time to lose and be replaced.
But it was with a feeling of vast relief that Caramon felt the tremor cease. Then he heard Arack’s voice coming from the center of the arena, announcing the Final Bout.
“Once they fought as a team, ladies and gentlemen, and as all of you know, they were the best team we’ve seen here in long years. Many’s the time you saw each one risk his or her life to save a teammate. They were like brothers”—Caramon flinched at this—“but now they’re bitter enemies, ladies and gentlemen. For when it comes to freedom, to wealth, to winning this greatest of all the Games—love has to sit in the back row. They’ll give their all, you may be sure of that, ladies and gentlemen. This is a fight to the death between Kiiri the Sirine, Pheragas of Ergoth, Caramon the Victor, and the Red Minotaur. They won’t leave this arena unless it’s feet first!”
The crowd cheered and roared. Even though they knew it was fake, they loved convincing themselves it wasn’t. The roaring grew louder as the Red Minotaur entered, his bestial face disdainful as always. Kiiri and Pheragas glanced at him, then at the trident he held, then at each other. Kiiri’s hand closed tightly around her dagger.
Caramon felt the ground shake again. Then Arack called his name. It was time for the Game to begin.
Tasslehoff felt the first tremors and for a moment thought it was just his imagination, a reaction to that terrible anger rolling around them. Then he saw the curtains swaying back and forth, and he realized that this was it...
Activate the device! came a voice into Tasslehoff’s brain. His hands trembling, looking down at the pendant, Tas repeated the instructions.
“Thy time is thy own, let’s see, I turn the face toward me. There. Though across it you travel. I shift this plate from right to left. Its expanses you see—back plate drops to form two disks connected by rods... it works!” Highly excited, Tas continued. “Whirling through forever, twist top facing me counterclockwise from bottom. Obstruct not its How. Make sure the pendant chain is clear. There, that’s right. Now, Grasp firmly the end and the beginning. Hold the disks at both ends. Turn them back upon themselves, like so, and All that is loose shall be secure. The chain will wind itself into the body! Isn’t this wonderful! It’s doing it! Now, Destiny be over your own head. Hold it over my head and—Wait! Something’s not right! I don’t think this is supposed to be happening...”
A tiny jeweled piece fell off the device, hitting Tas on the nose. Then another, and another, until the distraught kender was standing in a perfect rain of small, jeweled pieces.
“What?” Tas stared wildly at the device he held up over his head. Frantically he twisted the ends again. This time the rain of jeweled pieces became a positive downpour, clattering on the floor with bright, chime-like tones.
Tasslehoff wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think it was supposed to do this. Still, one never knew, especially about wizard’s toys. He watched it, holding his breath, waiting for the light...
The ground suddenly leaped beneath his feet, hurling him through the curtains and sending him sprawling on the floor at the feet of the Kingpriest. But the man never noticed the ashen-faced kender. The Kingpriest was staring about him in magnificent unconcern, watching with detached curiosity the curtains that rippled like waves, the tiny cracks that suddenly branched through the marble altar. Smiling to himself, as if assured that this was the acquiescence of the gods, the Kingpriest turned from the crumbling altar and made his way back down the central aisle, past the shuddering benches, and out into the main part of the Temple.
“No!” Tas moaned, rattling the device. At that moment, the tubes connecting either end of the sceptre separated in his hands. The chain slipped between his fingers. Slowly, trembling nearly as much as the floor on which he lay, Tasslehoff struggled to his feet. In his hand, he held the broken pieces of the magical device.
“What have I done?” Tas wailed. “I followed Raistlin’s instructions, I’m sure I did! I—”
And suddenly the kender knew. Tears caused the glimmering, shattered pieces to blur in his gaze. “He was so nice to me,” Tas murmured. “He made me repeat the instructions over and over—to make certain you have them right, he said.” Tas squeezed shut his eyes, willing that when he opened them, this would all be a bad dream.
But when he did, it wasn’t.
“I had them right. He meant for me to break it!” Tas whimpered, shivering. “Why? To strand us all back here? To leave us all to die’? No! He wants Crysania, they said so, the mages in the Tower. That’s it!” Tas whirled around. “Crysania!”
But the cleric neither heard nor saw him. Staring straight unhead, unmoved, even though the ground shook beneath her knees as she knelt, Crysania’s gray eyes glowed with an eerie, inner light. Her hands, still folded as if in prayer, clenched each other so tightly that the fingers had turned purplish red, the knuckles white.
Her lips moved. Was she praying?
Scrambling back behind the curtains, Tas quickly picked up every tiny jeweled piece of the device, gathered up the chain that had nearly slipped down a crack in the floor, then stuck everything into one pouch, closing it securely. Giving the floor a final look, he crept out into the Sacred Chamber.
“Crysania,” he whispered. He hated to disturb her prayers, but this was too urgent to give up.
“Crysania?” he said, coming over to stand in front of her, since it was obvious she wasn’t even aware of his existence.
Watching her lips, he read their unspoken utterings.
“I know,” she was saying, “I know his mistake! Perhaps for me, the gods will grant what they denied him!”
Drawing a deep breath, she lowered her head. “Paladine, thank you! Thank you!” Tas heard her intone fervently. Then, swiftly, she rose to her feet. Glancing around in some astonishment at the objects in the room that were moving in a deadly dance, her gaze flicked, unseeing, right over the kender.
“Crysania!” Tas babbled, this time clutching at her white robes. “Crysania, I broke it! Our only way back! I broke a dragon orb once. But that was on purpose! I never meant to break this. Poor Caramon! You’ve got to help me! Come with me, talk to Raistlin, make him fix it!”
The cleric stared down at Tasslehoff blankly, as if he were a stranger accosting her on the street. “Raistlin!” she murmured, gently but firmly detaching the kender’s hands from her robes. “Of course! He tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen. And now I know, now I know the truth!”
Thrusting Tas away from her, Crysania gathered up her flowing white robes, darted out from among the benches, and ran down the center aisle without a backward glance as the Temple shook on its very foundations.