“M—my lord?” the guard stammered in some confusion. The archmage rarely spoke to anyone, let alone a mere guard.
“Where is Lady Crysania?”
The guard could not suppress a curl of his lip as he answered that the “witch” was, he believed, in General Caramon’s tent, having retired for the evening.
“Shall I send someone for her, my lord?” he asked Raistlin with such obvious reluctance that the mage could not help but smile, though it was hidden in the shadows of his black hood.
“No,” Raistlin replied, nodding as if pleased at this information. “And my brother, have you word of him? When is his return expected?”
“General Caramon sent word that he arrives tomorrow, my lord,” the guard continued in a mystified tone, certain that the mage knew this already. “We are to await his arrival here and let the supply train catch up with us at the same time. The first wagons rolled in this afternoon, my lord.” A sudden thought struck the guard. “If—if you’re thinking of changing these orders, my lord, I should call the Captain of the Watch—”
“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Raistlin replied soothingly. “I merely wanted to make certain that I would not be disturbed this night—for anything or by anyone. Is that clear, uh—what is your name?”
“M—michael, lordship,” the guard answered. “Certainly, my lord. If such are your orders, I will carry them out.”
“Good,” Raistlin said. The archmage was silent for a moment, staring out into the night which was cold but bright with the light from Lunitari and the stars. Solinari, waning, was nothing but a silver scratch across the sky. More important, to Raistlin’s eyes, was the moon he alone could see. Nuitari, the Black Moon, was full and round, a hole of darkness amid the stars.
Raistlin took a step nearer the guard. Casting his hood back slightly from his face, he let the light of the red moon strike his eyes. The guard, startled, involuntarily stepped backward, but his strict training as a Knight of Solamnia made him catch himself.
Raistlin felt the man’s body stiffen. He saw the reaction and smiled again. Raising a slender hand, he laid it upon the guard’s armored chest.
“No one is to enter my tent for any reason,” the archmage repeated in the soft, sibilant whisper he knew how to use so effectively. “No matter what happens! No one—Lady Crysania, my brother, you yourself... no one!”
“I—I understand, my lord,” Michael stammered.
“You may hear or see strange things this night,” Raistlin continued, his eyes holding the guard’s in their entrancing gaze. “Ignore them. Any who enters this tent does so at the risk of his own life... and mine!”
“Y—yes, lord!” Michael said, swallowing. A trickle of sweat rolled down his face, though the night air was exceedingly cool for autumn.
“You are—or were—a Knight of Solamnia?” Raistlin asked abruptly.
Michael seemed uncomfortable, his gaze wavered. His mouth opened, but Raistlin shook his head. “Never mind. You do not have to tell me. Though you have shaved your moustaches, I can tell it by your face. I knew a Knight once, you see. Therefore, swear to me, by the Code and the Measure, that you will do as I ask.”
“I swear, by the Code and... the Measure...” Michael whispered.
The mage nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned to reenter his tent. Michael, free of those eyes in which he saw only himself reflected, returned to his post, shivering beneath his heavy, woolen cloak. At the last moment, however, Raistlin paused, his robes rustling softly around him.
“Sir Knight,” he whispered. Michael turned.
“If anyone enters this tent,” the mage said in a gentle, pleasant voice, “and disturbs my spellcasting and—if I survive— I will expect to find nothing but your corpse upon the ground. That is the only excuse I will accept for failure.”
“Yes, my lord,” Michael said, more firmly, though he kept his voice low. “Est Sularas oth Mithas. My Honor is My Life.”
“Yes.” Raistlin shrugged. “So it generally ends.”
The archmage entered his tent, leaving Michael to stand in the darkness, waiting for the new-gods-knew-what to happen in the tent behind him. He wished his cousin, Garic, were here to share this strange and forbidding duty. But Garic was with Caramon. Michael hunched his shoulders deeper into his cloak and looked longingly out into the camp. There were bonfires, warm spiced wine, good fellowship, the sounds of laughter. Here, all was wrapped in thick, red-tinged, starlit darkness. The only sound Michael could hear was the sound of his armor jingling as he began to shake uncontrollably.
Crossing the tent floor, Raistlin came to a large, wooden chest that sat upon the floor beside his bed. Carved with magical runes, the chest was the only one of Raistlin’s possessions beside the Staff of Magius—that the mage allowed no one but himself to touch. Not that any sought to try. Not after the report of one of the guards, who had mistakenly attempted to lift it.
Raistlin had not said a word, he simply watched as the guard dropped it with a gasp.
The chest was bitterly cold to the touch, the guard reported in a shaken voice to his friends around the fire that night. Not only that, but he was overcome by a feeling of horror so great it was a wonder he didn’t go mad.
Since that time, only Raistlin himself moved it, though how, no one could say. It was always present in his tent, yet no one could ever recall seeing it on any of the pack horses.
Lifting the lid of the chest, Raistlin calmly studied the contents—the nightblue-bound spellbooks, the jars and bottles and pouches of spell components, his own black-bound spellbooks, an assortment of scrolls, and several black robes folded at the bottom. There were no magical rings or pendants, such as might have been found in the possession of lesser mages. These Raistlin scorned as being fit only for weaklings.
His gaze passed quickly over all the items, including one slim, well-worn book that might have made the casual observer pause and stare, wondering that such a mundane item was kept with objects of arcane value. The title—written in flamboyant letters to attract the attention of the buyer—was Sleight-of-Hand Techniques Designed to Amaze and Delight! Below that was written Astound Your Friends! Trick the Gullible! There might have been more but the rest had been worn away long ago by young, eager, loving hands.
Passing over this book that, even now, brought a thin smile of remembrance to the mage’s lips, Raistlin reached down among his robes, uncovered a small box, and drew it forth. This, too, was guarded by runes carved upon its surface. Muttering magical words to nullify their effects, the mage opened the box reverently. There was only one thing inside—an ornate, silver stand. Carefully, Raistlin removed the stand and rising to his feet, carried it to the table he had placed in the center of the tent.
Settling himself into a chair, the mage put his hand into one of the secret pockets of his robes and pulled forth a small crystal object. Swirling with colors, it resembled at first glance nothing more sinister than a child’s marble. Yet, looking at the object closely, one saw that the colors trapped within were alive. They could be seen constantly moving and shifting, as though seeking escape.
Raistlin placed the marble upon the stand. It looked ludicrous perched there, much too small. And then, suddenly, as always, it was perfectly right. The marble had grown, the stand had shrunk… perhaps Raistlin himself had shrunk, for now the mage felt himself to be the one that appeared ludicrous.
It was a common feeling and he was accustomed to it, knowing that the dragon orb—for such was the shimmering, swirling-colored crystal globe—sought always to put its user at a disadvantage. But, long ago (no—in time to come!), Raistlin had mastered the dragon orb. He had learned to control the essence of dragonkind that inhabited it.
Relaxing his body, Raistlin closed his eyes and gave himself up to his magic. Reaching out, he placed his fingers upon the cold crystal of the dragon orb and spoke the ancient words.