_Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman. Time of the Twins_
---------------------------------------------------------------
Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman. Time of the Twins (1986)
("DragonLance Legends Time of the Twins " #1).
---------------------------------------------------------------

DRAGONLANCE LEGENDS
Volume 1

Margaret  Weis  was   born  and   grew  up   in  Independence,
Missouri.  Her  first  book,  a biography  of Frank  and Jesse
James, was inspired  by her  childhood fascination  with their
graves at a local cemetery. She graduated in  creative writing
from the  University of  Missouri and  worked for  a publisher
for  fourteen  years,  during  which  time  she   advanced  to
the position of  editor. She  then accepted  a job  as fiction
editor  with  TSR,  Inc.,  where  she  now works.  Besides the
Dragonlance  Chronicles,  the  Dragonlance  Legends   and  the
Dragonlance  Tales,  she  has  published  a  great  many books
for  younger  readers  and  is  working  on  her  own  science
fantasy  trilogy  as  well  as a  fantasy trilogy,  with Tracy
Hickman,  entitled  The  Necroclast.  She  lives  in Wisconsin
with her two children and three cats.

Tracy  Hickman  was  born in  Salt Lake  City, Utah,  in 1955.
He served as a missionary  in Indonesia  for nearly  two years
before  returning  home  to  marry  his  childhood sweetheart.
He  now  combines  being   an  author   with  being   a  games
designer with TSR, Inc., and  is the  creator of  the complete
Dragonlance(TM)  package,  including  games,  books   and  minia-
tures. The Dragonlance  Chronicles were  his first  novels. He
lives in Wisconsin with his wife and their two children.

LEGENDS

Volume 1

TIME OF THE TWINS

Poetry by Michael Williams

Illustrations by Valerie Valusek

Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

To Samuel G. and Alta Hickman

My grandpa who tossed me into bed in his own special way
and my grandma nanny who is always so very wise. Thank
you all for the bedtime stories, life, love, and history. You
will live forever - Tracy Raye Hickman

This book about the physical and spiritual bonds binding
brothers together could be dedicated to only one
person - my sister. To Terry Lynn Weis Wilhelm, with love
- Margaret Weis

_ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS_

We wish to gratefully acknowledge the work of the follow-
ing:

Michael Williams - for splendid poetry and warm friendship.

Steve Sullivan - for his wonderful maps. (Now you know
where you are, Steve!)

Patrick Price - for his helpful advice and thoughtful criticism.

Jean Black - our editor, who had faith in us from the begin-
ning.

Valerie Valusek - for her exquisite pen and ink drawings.

Ruth Hoyer - for cover and interior design.

Roger Moore - for DRAGON(R) articles and the story of Tas-
slehoff and the woolly mammoth.

The DRAGONLANCE(TM) team: Harold Johnson, Laura Hick-
man, Douglas Niles, Jeff Grubb, Michael Dobson, Michael
Breault, Bruce Heard.

The 1987 DRAGONLANCE CALENDAR artists: Clyde
Caldwell, Larry Elmore, Keith Parkinson, and Jeff Easley.

_ * BOOK 1 * _

_The Meeting_

A lone figure trod softly
toward  the  distant  light.  Walking  unheard, his  footfalls were
sucked  into  the vast  darkness all  around him.  Bertrem indulged
in a rare flight of fancy as  he glanced  at the  seemingly endless
rows  of  books and  scrolls that  were part  of the  Chronicles of
Astinus  and detailed  the history  of this  world, the  history of
Krynn.
"It's  like being  sucked into  time," he  thought, sighing  as he
glanced at the still, silent rows. He wished, briefly, that he were
being  sucked  away  somewhere,  so that  he did  not have  to face
the difficult task ahead of him.
"All the knowledge of the  world is  in these  books," he  said to
himself wistfully. "And  I've never  found one  thing to  help make
the intrusion upon their author any easier."
Bertrem  came  to  a  halt outside  the door  to summon  his cour-
age.  His  flowing  Aesthetic's  robes  settled   themselves  about
him,  falling  into correct  and orderly  folds. His  stomach, how-
ever,  refused  to  follow  the  robes'  example and  lurched about
wildly. Bertrem ran his hand  across his  scalp, a  nervous gesture
left  over from  a younger  age, before  his chosen  profession had
cost him his hair.
What  was  bothering  him?  he  wondered  bleakly  -   other  than
going  in  to  see  the  Master,  of course,  something he  had not
done  since...  since...  He  shuddered.   Yes,  since   the  young
mage had nearly died upon their doorstep during the last war.
War...  change,  that  was  what  it  was.  Like  his  robes,  the
world  had  finally  seemed  to  settle  around  him,  but  he felt
change coming once again, just  as he  had felt  it two  years ago.
He wished he could stop it....
Bertrem  sighed.  "I'm  certainly  not going  to stop  anything by
standing out here  in the  darkness," he  muttered. He  felt uncom-
fortable  anyway,  as  though  surrounded   by  ghosts.   A  bright
light  shone from  under the  door, beaming  out into  the hallway.
Giving  a  quick  glance  backward  at  the  shadows of  the books,
peaceful  corpses  resting  in their  tombs, the  Aesthetic quietly
opened  the door  and entered  the study  of Astinus  of Palanthas.

Though the  man was  within, he  did not  speak, nor  even look
up.
Walking  with  gentle, measured  tread across  the rich  rug of
lamb's  wool  that  lay  upon  the  marble floor,  Bertrem paused
before  the  great,  polished  wooden desk.  For long  moments he
said  nothing,  absorbed in  watching the  hand of  the historian
guide the quill across the parchment in firm, even strokes.
"Well, Bertrem?" Astinus did not cease his writing.
Bertrem, facing Astinus, read  the letters  that -  even upside
down - were crisp and clear and easily decipherable.
This  day,  as above  Darkwatch rising  29, Bertrem  entered my
study.
"Crysania of the House  of Tarinius  is here  to see  you, Master.
She  says  she  is expected...."  Bertrem's voice  trailed off  in a
whisper, it having  taken a  great deal  of the  Aesthetic's courage
to get that far.
Astinus continued writing.
"Master,"  Bertrem  began faintly,  shivering with  his daring.
"I - we are at a loss. She is, after all, a Revered Daughter of Pal-
adine  and  I -  we found  it impossible  to refuse  her admittance.
What sh -"
"Take  her  to  my  private  chambers,"  Astinus  said  without
ceasing to write or looking up.
Bertrem's  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth, rendering
him  momentarily  speechless.  The  letters  flowed  from  the quill
pen to the white parchment.
This  day,  as above  Afterwatch rising  28, Crysania  of Tari-
nius arrived for her appointment with Raistlin Majere.
"Raistlin  Majere!"  Bertrem  gasped,  shock and  horror prying
his tongue loose. "Are we to admit hi -"
Astinus  looked   up  now,   annoyance  and   irritation  creasing
his brow. As his  pen ceased  its eternal  scratching on  the parch-
ment,  a  deep  unnatural  silence  settled  upon the  room. Bertrem
paled.  The  historian's  face  might   have  been   reckoned  hand-
some  in  a timeless,  ageless fashion.  But none  who saw  his face
ever  remembered  it.  They  simply  remembered  the  eyes  -  dark,
intent,   aware,   constantly   moving,  seeing   everything.  Those
eyes   could   also   communicate   vast   worlds   of   impatience,
reminding  Bertrem  that  time   was  passing.   Even  as   the  two
spoke,  whole  minutes  of  history  were  ticking  by,  unrecorded.

"Forgive   me,   Master!"  Bertrem   bowed  in   profound  rever-
ence,  then  backed precipitately  out of  the study,  closing the
door  quietly  on  his  way.  Once  outside,  he mopped  his shaved
head  that  was  glistening  with  perspiration, then  hurried down
the silent,  marble corridors  of the  Great Library  of Palanthas.

Astinus  paused  in  the  doorway to  his private  residence, his
gaze on the woman who sat within.
Located  in  the  western wing  of the  Great Library,  the resi-
dence of the historian was small and, like all  other rooms  in the
library, was filled with books  of every  type and  binding, lining
the shelves on the walls and giving the central living area a faint
musty  odor,  like  a  mausoleum  that had  been sealed  for centu-
ries.  The  furniture  was  sparse,  pristine.  The  chairs, wooden
and  handsomely  carved,  were  hard   and  uncomfortable   to  sit
upon.  A  low  table,  standing  by a  window, was  absolutely free
of any ornament or object,  reflecting the  light from  the setting
sun  upon  its  smooth black  surface. Everything  in the  room was
in the most perfect order.  Even the  wood for  the evening  fire -
the  late  spring  nights  were  cool,  even this  far north  - was
stacked in such orderly rows it resembled a funeral pyre.
And yet, cool and  pristine and  pure as  was this  private cham-
ber of the historian,  the room  itself seemed  only to  mirror the
cold,  pristine,  pure  beauty  of  the  woman  who sat,  her hands
folded in her lap, waiting.
Crysania  of  Tarinius waited  patiently. She  did not  fidget or
sigh or glance often  at the  water-run timing  device in  the cor-
ner.  She  did  not  read  -  though  Astinus  was  certain Bertrem
would  have  her  offered  a  book. She  did not  pace the  room or
examine  the  few  rare  ornaments  that  stood  in  shadowed nooks
within  the  bookcases.  She  sat  in the  straight, uncomfortable,
wooden chair,  her clear,  bright eyes  fixed upon  the red-stained
fringes of the clouds  above the  mountains as  if she  were watch-
ing  the  sun set  for possibly  the first  - or  last -  time upon
Krynn.
So  intent  was  she  upon  the  sight  beyond  the  window  that
Astinus  entered  without  attracting  her  attention.  He regarded
her  with intense  interest. This  was not  unusual for  the histo-
rian,  who  scrutinized  all  beings  living  upon  Krynn  with the
same   fathomless,   penetrating   gaze.   What  was   unusual  was
that,  for  a  moment,  a  look  of pity  and of  profound sorrow
passed across the historian's face.
Astinus recorded history. He had recorded  it since  the begin-
ning of time, watching  it pass  before his  eyes and  setting it
down in his books.  He could  not foretell  the future,  that was
the province of the gods.  But he  could sense  all the  signs of
change, those same signs  that had  so disturbed  Bertrem. Stand-
ing there, he could hear the drops of water falling in the timing
device.  By placing  his hand  beneath them,  he could  cease the
flow of the drops, but time would go on.
Sighing,  Astinus  turned  his  attention  to  the  woman, whom
he had heard of but never met.
Her hair was black, blue-black, black  as the  water of  a calm
sea at night. She  wore it  combed straight  back from  a central
part, fastened at the back of her head  with a  plain, unadorned,
wooden  comb.  The  severe style  was not  becoming to  her pale,
delicate features, emphasizing their pallor.  There was  no color
at all in her face.  Her eyes  were gray  and seemingly  much too
large. Even her lips were bloodless.
Some  years  ago,  when  she  had  been  young,   servants  had
braided and coiled that thick, black hair into the  latest, fash-
ionable styles, tucking in pins of silver and of gold, decorating
the  somber  hues  with  sparkling  jewels.  They had  tinted her
cheeks  with  the  juice of  crushed berries  and dressed  her in
sumptuous  gowns  of  palest  pinks and  powdery blues.  Once she
had been beautiful. Once her suitors had waited in lines.
The gown she wore now was white, as befitted  a cleric  of Pal-
adine,  and  plain  though   made  of   fine  material.   It  was
unadorned  save  for  the belt  of gold  that encircled  her slim
waist. Her only ornament was  Paladine's -  the medallion  of the
Platinum  Dragon.  Her  hair was  covered by  a loose  white hood
that  enhanced  the marble  smoothness and  coldness of  her com-
plexion.
She  might  have  been  made of  marble, Astinus  thought, with
one difference - marble could be warmed by the sun.
"Greetings, Revered Daughter of Paladine," Astinus said,
entering and shutting the door behind him.
"Greetings, Astinus," Crysania of Tarinius said, rising  to her
feet.
As  she  walked  across  the  small  room  toward  him, Astinus
was  somewhat  startled  to  note the  swiftness and  almost mascu-
line length of  her stride.  It seemed  oddly incongruous  with her
delicate features.  Her handshake,  too, was  firm and  strong, not
typical   of  Palanthian   women,  who   rarely  shook   hands  and
then did so only by extending their fingertips.
"I must thank you for giving up your  valuable time  to act  as a
neutral  party  in  this  meeting," Crysania  said coolly.  "I know
how you dislike taking time from your studies."
"As  long  as  it is  not wasted  time, I  do not  mind," Astinus
replied,  holding  her  hand  and regarding  her intently.  "I must
admit, however, that I resent this."
"Why?"  Crysania  searched the  man's ageless  face in  true per-
plexity.  Then  -  in  sudden  understanding -  she smiled,  a cold
smile that  brought no  more life  to her  face than  the moonlight
upon snow. "You don't believe he will come, do you?"
Astinus  snorted,  dropping  the  woman's   hand  as   though  he
had  completely  lost  interest  in  her  very  existence.  Turning
away,  he walked  to the  window and  looked out  over the  city of
Palanthas,  whose  gleaming  white  buildings  glowed in  the sun's
radiance  with  a  breathtaking  beauty,  with  one  exception. One
building  remained  untouched  by  the   sun,  even   in  brightest
noontime.
And  it  was  upon  this  building  that  Astinus's  gaze  fixed.
Thrusting itself up in the center of the brilliant, beautiful city,
its  black  stone  towers  twisted  and  writhed,  its  minarets  -
newly  repaired  and  constructed   by  the   powers  of   magic  -
glistened  blood-red  in  the  sunset,  giving  the  appearance  of
rotting, skeletal  fingers clawing  their way  up from  some unhal-
lowed burial ground.
"Two  years  ago,  he  entered  the   Tower  of   High  Sorcery,"
Astinus  said  in his  calm, passionless  voice as  Crysania joined
him  at  the  window. "He  entered in  the dead  of night  in dark-
ness,  the  only  moon  in  the  sky  was  the  moon that  sheds no
light.  He  walked  through  the  Shoikan  Grove   -  a   stand  of
accursed oak trees  that no  mortal -  not even  those of  the ken-
der  race  -  dare  approach.  He made  his way  to the  gates upon
which hung still  the body  of the  evil mage  who, with  his dying
breath, cast  the curse  upon the  Tower and  leapt from  the upper
windows,  impaling  himself  upon  its  gates  - a  fearsome watch-
man.  But   when  he   came  there,   the  watchman   bowed  before

him, the gates opened  at his  touch, then  they shut  behind him.
And  they  have  not  opened again  these past  two years.  He has
not left  and, if  any have  been admitted,  none have  seen them.
And you expect him... here?"
"The  master  of past  and of  present." Crysania  shrugged. "He
came, as was foretold."
Astinus regarded her with some astonishment.
"You know his story?"
"Of course," the cleric replied calmly, glancing  up at  him for
an  instant,  then  turning  her clear  eyes back  to look  at the
Tower,   already   shrouding  itself   with  the   coming  night's
shadows.  "A  good  general  always   studies  the   enemy  before
engaging in battle. I know  Raistlin Majere  very well,  very well
indeed. And I know - he will come this night."
Crysania  continued  gazing  at  the  dreadful  Tower,  her chin
lifted, her bloodless lips set in a straight, even line, her hands
clasped behind her back.
Astinus's  face  suddenly  became  grave  and   thoughtful,  his
eyes  troubled,  though  his  voice  was cool  as ever.  "You seem
very  sure  of  yourself,  Revered  Daughter.  How  do   you  know
this?"
"Paladine  has  spoken  to me,"  Crysania replied,  never taking
her  eyes  from  the  Tower.  "In  a  dream,  the  Platinum Dragon
appeared before  me and  told me  that evil  - once  banished from
the world - had returned in  the person  of this  black-robed wiz-
ard, Raistlin Majere. We face dire peril, and it has been given to
me  to  prevent  it."  As  Crysania  spoke,  her marble  face grew
smooth, her gray eyes were clear and bright. "It will be  the test
of  my  faith I  have prayed  for!" She  glanced at  Astinus. "You
see, I  have known  since childhood  that my  destiny was  to per-
form some  great deed,  some great  service to  the world  and its
people. This is my chance."
Astinus's  face  grew  graver  as  he  listened, and  even more
stern.
"Paladine told you this?" he demanded abruptly.
Crysania,  sensing,  perhaps,  this  man's  disbelief,  pursed her
lips.  A  tiny  line  appearing  between  her brows  was, however,
the only sign of her anger, that  and an  even more  studied calm-
ness in her reply.
"I  regret  having  spoken of  it, Astinus,  forgive me.  It was

between  my  god  and myself,  and such  sacred things  should not
be discussed. I brought it  up simply  to prove  to you  that this
evil man will come. He  cannot help  himself. Paladine  will bring
him."
Astinus's  eyebrows rose  so that  they very  nearly disappeared
into his graying hair.
"This 'evil man'  as you  call him,  Revered Daughter,  serves a
goddess  as  powerful  as  Paladine  -  Takhisis,  Queen  of Dark-
ness!  Or  perhaps  I  should  not  say serves,"  Astinus remarked
with a wry smile. "Not of him...."
Crysania's  brow  cleared,  her   cool  smile   returned.  "Good
redeems  its  own,"  she  answered  gently.  "Evil  turns  in upon
itself. Good will triumph again, as it did in the War of the Lance
against Takhisis  and her  evil dragons.  With Paladine's  help, I
shall triumph over this evil as the  hero, Tanis  Half-Elven, tri-
umphed over the Queen of Darkness herself."
"Tanis   Half-Elven   triumphed  with   the  help   of  Raistlin
Majere," Astinus said  imperturbably. "Or  is that  a part  of the
legend you choose to ignore?"
Not  a ripple  of emotion  marred the  still, placid  surface of
Crysania's  expression.  Her  smile remained  fixed. Her  gaze was
on the street.
"Look, Astinus," she said softly. "He comes."

The  sun  sank  behind the  distant mountains,  the sky,  lit by
the  afterglow, was  a gemlike  purple. Servants  entered quietly,
lighting the fire in the small chamber of Astinus. Even  it burned
quietly, as if the flames themselves had been  taught by  the his-
torian  to  maintain  the  peaceful repose  of the  Great Library.
Crysania  sat  once  more  in the  uncomfortable chair,  her hands
folded  once  more  in  her  lap.  Her outward  mein was  calm and
cool  as  always. Inwardly,  her heart  beat with  excitement that
was visible only by a brightening of her gray eyes.
Born  to  the noble  and wealthy  Tarinius family  of Palanthas,
a  family  almost  as  ancient  as the  city itself,  Crysania had
received  every  comfort   and  benefit   money  and   rank  could
bestow. Intelligent,  strong-willed, she  might easily  have grown
into  a  stubborn  and  willful  woman. Her  wise and  loving par-
ents,  however,  had  carefully nurtured  and pruned  their daugh-
ter's  strong  spirit so  that it  had blossomed  into a  deep and

steadfast belief in herself. Crysania had done  only one  thing in
her entire life to grieve her doting parents,  but that  one thing
had  cut  them  deeply.  She  had  turned  from an  ideal marriage
with  a fine  and noble  young man  to a  life devoted  to serving
long-forgotten gods.
She first heard the cleric, Elistan, when  he came  to Palanthas
at the end of the War of  the Lance.  His new  religion -  or per-
haps it should have been called the old  religion -  was spreading
like  wildfire  through  Krynn,  because new-born  legend credited
this  belief  in  old  gods  with  having  helped defeat  the evil
dragons and their masters, the Dragon Highlords.
On first going to hear Elistan talk,  Crysania had  been skepti-
cal.  The  young  woman  -  she  was  in  her  mid-twenties  - had
been raised on stories  of how  the gods  had inflicted  the Cata-
clysm  upon  Krynn,  hurling  down  the  fiery mountain  that rent
the lands  asunder and  plunged the  holy city  of Istar  into the
Blood Sea. After  this, so  people related,  the gods  turned from
men,  refusing  to have  any more  to do  with them.  Crysania was
prepared  to  listen  politely  to Elistan,  but had  arguments at
hand to refute his claims.
She was  favorably impressed  on meeting  him. Elistan,  at that
time, was in  the fullness  of his  power. Handsome,  strong, even
in his middle years, he seemed like one of the clerics of old, who
had ridden to  battle -  so some  legends said  - with  the mighty
knight,  Huma.  Crysania  began  the  evening  finding   cause  to
admire  him.  She  ended  on  her  knees at  his feet,  weeping in
humility and joy, her soul at last having found the anchor  it had
been missing.
The  gods  had  not  turned from  men, was  the message.  It was
men  who  had  turned  from  the  gods,  demanding in  their pride
what  Huma had  sought in  humility. The  next day,  Crysania left
her  home,  her  wealth,  her  servants,  her  parents,   and  her
betrothed to move into the small, chill house  that was  the fore-
runner of the new Temple Elistan planned to build in Palanthas.
Now,  two  years  later,  Crysania  was  a  Revered  Daughter of
Paladine,  one  of  a  select  few  who had  been found  worthy to
lead the church through its  youthful growing  pangs. It  was well
the  church  had  this  strong,  young  blood.  Elistan  had given
unstintingly of his life and his energy. Now,  it seemed,  the god
he  served so  faithfully would  soon be  summoning his  cleric to
his side. And when that sorrowful event occurred, many
believed Crysania would carry on his work.
Certainly Crysania  knew that  she was  prepared to  accept the
leadership of  the church,  but was  it enough?  As she  had told
Astinus, the young cleric had long felt her  destiny was  to per-
form  some  great  service  for  the  world.  Guiding  the church
through its daily  routines, now  that the  war was  over, seemed
dull  and mundane.  Daily she  had prayed  to Paladine  to assign
her  some  hard task.  She would  sacrifice anything,  she vowed,
even life itself, in the service of her beloved god.
And then had come her answer.
Now, she waited, in an eagerness she could barely restrain.
She was not frightened,  not even  of meeting  this man,  said to
be the most powerful force  for evil  now living  on the  face of
Krynn.  Had  her  breeding  permitted  it,  her  lip  would  have
curled  in  a  disdainful  sneer. What  evil could  withstand the
mighty sword of her faith?  What evil  could penetrate  her shin-
ing armor?
Like a knight riding to a joust, wreathed with the  garlands of
his love, knowing that he cannot possibly  lose with  such tokens
fluttering in the wind, Crysania kept her eyes fixed on the door,
eagerly  awaiting  the  tourney's  first  blows.  When  t-he door
opened,  her  hands  -   until  now   calmly  folded   -  clasped
together in excitement.
Bertrem  entered.  His  eyes  went to  Astinus, who  sat immov-
able as a pillar of stone in a hard, uncomfortable chair near the
fire.
"The mage, Raistlin  Majere," Bertrem  said. His  voice cracked
on the last syllable. Perhaps he was thinking about the last time
he  had  announced  this  visitor  - the  time Raistlin  had been
dying,  vomiting  blood  on  the  steps  of  the  Great  Library.
Astinus frowned at Bertrem's lack of  self-control, and  the Aes-
thetic disappeared back through the door as rapidly as  his flut-
tering robes permitted.
Unconsciously,  Crysania  held  her  breath.  At first  she saw
nothing, only a shadow of darkness  in the  doorway, as  if night
itself had taken form and  shape within  the entrance.  The dark-
ness paused there.
"Come in, old friend,"  Astinus said  in his  deep, passionless
voice.

The  shadow  was  lit  by  a  shimmer of  warmth -  the firelight
gleamed  on  velvety soft,  black robes  - and  then by  tiny spar-
kles, as the light  glinted off  silver threads,  embroidered runes
around  a  velvet  cowl.   The  shadow   became  a   figure,  black
robes completely draping  the body.  For a  brief moment,  the fig-
ure's  only  human  appendage  that  could  be  seen  was  a  thin,
almost skeletal  hand clutching  a wooden  staff. The  staff itself
was topped by a crystal ball,  held fast  in the  grip of  a carved
golden dragon's claw.
As the figure entered the room, Crysania felt  the cold  chill of
disappointment.  She   had  asked   Paladine  for   some  difficult
task! What great  evil was  there to  fight in  this? Now  that she
could  see  him  clearly,  she  saw  a  frail, thin  man, shoulders
slightly stooped, who leaned  upon his  staff as  he walked,  as if
too  weak  to  move without  its aid.  She knew  his age,  he would
be  about  twenty-eight  now.  Yet  he  moved   like  a   human  of
ninety - his steps slow and deliberate, even faltering.
What  test of  my faith  lies in  conquering this  wretched crea-
ture?  Crysania  demanded  of  Paladine  bitterly.  I have  no need
to fight him. He is being devoured from within by his own evil!
Facing  Astinus, keeping  his back  to Crysania,  Raistlin folded
back his black hood.
"Greetings again, Deathless One," he  said to  Astinus in  a soft
voice.
"Greetings, Raistlin  Majere," Astinus  said without  rising. His
voice had a faint sardonic note,  as if  sharing some  private joke
with  the  mage.  Astinus  gestured.  "May  I  present  Crysania of
the House of Tarinius."
Raistlin turned.
Crysania gasped, a terrible ache in her chest caused her
throat to close,  and for  a moment  she could  not draw  a breath.
Sharp, tingling pins jabbed her fingertips,  a chill  convulsed her
body.  Unconsciously,  she  shrank  back  in  her chair,  her hands
clenching, her nails digging into her numb flesh.
All  she  could  see  before  her  were  two golden  eyes shining
from the  depths of  darkness. The  eyes were  like a  gilt mirror,
flat,  reflective,  revealing  nothing  of  the  soul  within.  The
pupils - Crysania stared  at the  dark pupils  in rapt  horror. The
pupils  within  the  golden  eyes  were  the shape  of hourglasses!
And  the  face  -  Drawn with  suffering, marked  with the  pain of

the  tortured  existence  the young  man had  led for  seven years,
ever since the cruel Tests in the  Tower of  High Sorcery  left his
body shattered  and his  skin tinged  gold, the  mage's face  was a
metallic  mask,  impenetrable,  unfeeling  as  the  golden dragon's
claw upon his staff.
"Revered  Daughter  of  Paladine,"  he  said in  a soft  voice, a
voice filled with respect and - even reverence.
Crysania  started,  staring  at  him  in  astonishment. Certainly
that was not what she had expected.
Still,  she  could  not  move. His  gaze held  her, and  she won-
dered in panic if he had cast a  spell upon  her. Seeming  to sense
her  fear, he  walked across  the room  to stand  before her  in an
attitude  that  was  both patronizing  and reassuring.  Looking up,
she could see the firelight flickering in his golden eyes.
"Revered  Daughter of  Paladine," Raistlin  said again,  his soft
voice  enfolding  Crysania  like  the  velvety  blackness   of  his
robes. "I hope I find you well?"  But now  she heard  bitter, cyni-
cal sarcasm  in that  voice. This  she had  expected, this  she was
prepared for. His earlier  tone of  respect had  taken her  by sur-
prise,  she  admitted to  herself angrily,  but her  first weakness
was past. Rising to her feet, bringing her eyes level with his, she
unconsciously   clasped   the  medallion   of  Paladine   with  her
hand. The touch of the cool metal gave her courage.
"I  do  not  believe  we  need  to  exchange  meaningless  social
amenities,"  Crysania  stated  crisply, her  face once  more smooth
and  cold.  "We  are  keeping  Astinus  from  his studies.  He will
appreciate our completing our business with alacrity."
"I  could  not  agree  more,"  the black-robed  mage said  with a
slight twist of his thin lip that might have been a smile.  "I have
come in response to your request. What is it you want of me?"
Crysania  sensed  he  was  laughing  at  her. Accustomed  only to
the highest  respect, this  increased her  anger. She  regarded him
with  cold  gray  eyes.  "I  have  come   to  warn   you,  Raistlin
Majere,  that  your  evil  designs are  known to  Paladine. Beware,
or he will destroy you -"
"How'?"  Raistlin  asked  suddenly, and  his strange  eyes flared
with  a  strange,  intense  light.  "How  will  he destroy  me?" he
repeated.  "Lightning  bolts?  Flood  and  fire?   Perhaps  another
fiery mountain?"
He took another step toward her. Crysania moved coolly
away  from  him,  only  to back  into her  chair. Gripping  the hard
wooden  back  firmly,  she  walked  around it,  then turned  to face
him.
"It is your own doom you mock," she replied quietly.
Raistlin's lip twisted further still, but he continued talking, as
if  he had  not heard  her words.  "Elistan?" Raistlin's  voice sank
to a  hissing whisper.  "He will  send Elistan  to destroy  me?" The
mage  shrugged.  "But  no,  surely  not. By  all reports,  the great
and holy cleric of Paladine is tired, feeble, dying...."
"No!"  Crysania  cried,  then  bit  her lip,  angry that  this man
had  goaded  her  into  showing  her  feelings. She  paused, drawing
a  deep  breath.  "Paladine's  ways  are  not  to  be  questioned or
mocked," she  said with  icelike calm,  but she  could not  help her
voice   from   softening   almost   imperceptibly.   "And  Elistan's
health is no concern of yours."
"Perhaps I take a greater interest  in his  health than  you real-
ize,"  Raistlin  replied  with  what  was,  to Crysania,  a sneering
smile.
Crysania  felt  blood  pound  in  her  temples.  Even  as  he  had
spoken,  the  mage  moved  around  the  chair,  coming   nearer  the
young  woman.  He  was  so  close  to  her  now that  Crysania could
feel a strange,  unnatural heat  radiate from  his body  through his
black  robes.  She  could  smell  a  faintly  cloying  but  pleasant
scent  about  him.  A spiciness  - His  spell components,  she real-
ized  suddenly.  The  thought  sickened  and  disgusted  her.  Hold-
ing  the medallion  of Paladine  in her  hand, feeling  its smoothly
chiseled  edges  bite  into  her  flesh,  she  moved  away  from him
again.
"Paladine came to me in a dream -" she said haughtily.
Raistlin laughed.
Few  there  were  who  had   ever  heard   the  mage   laugh,  and
those   who   had   heard  it   remembered  it   always,  resounding
through  their  darkest  dreams.  It  was  thin,  high-pitched,  and
sharp  as  a  blade.  It  denied  all  goodness,  mocked  everything
right and true, and it pierced Crysania's soul.
"Very well," Crysania  said, staring  at him  with a  disdain that
hardened  her  bright,  gray  eyes to  steel blue,  "I have  done my
best to divert you from  this course.  I have  given you  fair warn-
ing. Your destruction is now in the hands of the gods."
Suddenly, perhaps realizing the fearlessness with which she
confronted   him,   Raistlin's   laughter  ceased.   Regarding  her
intently,  his  golden  eyes  narrowed.  Then  he smiled,  a secret
inner  smile  of  such  strange  joy  that  Astinus,  watching  the
exchange  between  the  two,  rose  to  his  feet.  The historian's
body blocked the light  of the  fire. His  shadow fell  across them
both.  Raistlin   started,  almost   in  alarm.   Half-turning,  he
regarded Astinus with a burning, menacing stare.
"Beware,  old  friend,"  the  mage  warned,  "or would  you med-
dle with history?"
"I  do  not meddle,"  Astinus replied,  "as you  well know.  I am
an observer, a recorder. In all things, I am  neutral. I  know your
schemes, your plans  as I  know the  schemes and  plans of  all who
draw  breath  this day.  Therefore, hear  me, Raistlin  Majere, and
heed  this  warning.  This  one  is beloved  of the  gods -  as her
name implies."
"Beloved  of  the  gods?  So  are  we  all,  are we  not, Revered
Daughter?"  Raistlin  asked,  turning to  face Crysania  once more.
His voice was soft as the velvet of his robes. "Is that not written
in  the  Disks  of  Mishakall Is  that not  what the  godly Elistan
teaches?"
"Yes,"  Crysania  said  slowly,  regarding  him  with  suspicion,
expecting  more  mockery.  But  his metallic  face was  serious, he
had the  appearance, suddenly,  of a  scholar -  intelligent, wise.
"So it is written." She smiled coldly.  "I am  pleased to  find you
have  read  the  sacred  Disks,  though  you  obviously   have  not
learned from them. Do you not recall what is said in the -"
She was interrupted by Astinus, snorting.
"I  have  been  kept from  my studies  long enough."  The histo-
rian  crossed  the  marble floor  to the  door of  the antechamber.
"Ring  for  Bertrem  when  you  are  ready  to   depart.  Farewell,
Revered Daughter. Farewell... old friend."
Astinus  opened  the door.  The peaceful  silence of  the library
flowed  into  the  room, bathing  Crysania in  refreshing coolness.
She felt herself in control and she relaxed. Her hand let  loose of
the  medallion.  Formally  and gracefully,  she bowed  her farewell
to Astinus,  as did  Raistlin. And  then the  door shut  behind the
historian. The two were alone.
For long moments, neither spoke. Then Crysania, feeling
Paladine's power flowing through her, turned to face Raistlin.
"I had forgotten  that it  was you  and those  with you  who recov-
ered  the  sacred Disks.  Of course,  you would  have read  them. I
would like to  discuss them  with you  further but,  henceforth, in
any future dealings we might  have, Raistlin  Majere," she  said in
her cool voice, "I will ask you to speak  of Elistan  more respect-
fully. He -"
She  stopped  amazed,  watching  in alarm  as the  mage's slender
body seemed to crumble before her eyes.
Wracked  by  spasms  of coughing,  clutching his  chest, Raistlin
gasped for breath. He staggered. If it had not  been for  the staff
he  leaned  upon,  he would  have fallen  to the  floor. Forgetting
her  aversion  and  her  disgust, reacting  instinctively, Crysania
reached  out  and,  putting  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders, mur-
mured  a  healing  prayer.  Beneath  her  hands,  the  black  robes
were  soft  and warm.  She could  feel Raistlin's  muscles twisting
in spasms, sense his pain and suffering. Pity filled her heart.
Raistlin jerked away  from her  touch, shoving  her to  one side.
His  coughing  gradually  eased.  Able   to  breathe   freely  once
more, he regarded her with scorn.
"Do  not  waste  your  prayers  on  me,  Revered   Daughter,"  he
said bitterly. Pulling a soft cloth from his  robes, he  dabbed his
lips  and  Crysania  saw  that  it  came  away stained  with blood.
"There is no cure for my malady. This is the sacrifice, the price I
paid for my magic."
"I  don't  understand,"  she  murmured.  Her  hands  twitched, as
she  remembered  vividly  the  velvety   soft  smoothness   of  the
black  robes,  and  she  unconsciously  clasped her  fingers behind
her back.
"Don't you'?"  Raistlin asked,  staring deep  into her  soul with
his  strange, golden  eyes. "What  was the  sacrifice you  made for
your power?"
A faint  flush, barely  visible in  the dying  firelight, stained
Crysania  cheeks  with  blood,  much  as   the  mage's   lips  were
stained. Alarmed at  this invasion  of her  being, she  averted her
face,  her  eyes  looking  once  more  out  the  window.  Night had
fallen  over  Palanthas. The  silver moon,  Solinari, was  a sliver
of light in the dark sky. The red moon  that was  its twin  had not
yet  risen.  The  black  moon  -  She  caught   herself  wondering,
where is it? Can he truly see it?
"I must go,"  Raistlin said,  his breath  rasping in  his throat.
"These spasms weaken me. I need rest."

"Certainly."  Crysania felt  herself calm  once more.  All the
ends of her emotions tucked back neatly  into place,  she turned
to face him again. "I thank you for coming -"
"But our business is not concluded," Raistlin said  softly. "I
would like a chance to prove to you that these fears of your god
are unfounded. I have a suggestion. Come visit  me in  the Tower
of  High  Sorcery.  There  you will  see me  among my  books and
understand  my  studies.  When  you  do,  your  mind will  be at
ease. As it teaches in  the Disks,  we fear  only that  which is
unknown." He took a step nearer her.
Astounded  at  his  proposal,  Crysania's  eyes  opened  wide.
She tried to move away from him, but  she had  inadvertently let
herself become trapped  by the  window. "I  cannot go...  to the
Tower," she faltered as  his nearness  smothered her,  stole her
breath. She tried to  walk around  him, but  he moved  his staff
slightly, blocking her path. Coldly, she continued,  "The spells
laid upon it keep out all -"
"Except those I choose to admit," Raistlin  whispered. Folding
the blood-stained cloth, he tucked it back into a  secret pocket
of his robes.  Then, reaching  out, he  took hold  of Crysania's
hand.
"How brave you are, Revered Daughter," he commented.
"You do not tremble at my evil touch."
"Paladine is with me," Crysania replied disdainfully.
Raistlin smiled, a warm  smile, dark  and secret  - a  smile for
just the two of them. It fascinated Crysania.  He drew  her near
to him. Then,  he dropped  her hand.  Resting the  staff against
the chair, he reached out  and took  hold of  her head  with his
slender  hands,  placing  his  fingers over  the white  hood she
wore. Now, Crysania  trembled at  his touch,  but she  could not
move, she  could not  speak or  do anything  more than  stare at
him in a wild fear she could neither suppress nor understand.
Holding  her  firmly,  Raistlin  leaned  down and  brushed his
blood-flecked lips across her forehead.  As he  did so,  he mut-
tered strange words. Then he released her.
Crysania stumbled, nearly  falling. She  felt weak  and dizzy.
Her  hand  went  to  her forehead  where the  touch of  his lips
burned  into  her  skin  with  a  searing  pain. "What  have you
done?" she cried  brokenly. "You  cannot cast  a spell  upon me!
My faith protects -"

"Of course." Raistlin sighed  wearily, and  there was  an expres-
sion of sorrow in  his face  and voice,  the sorrow  of one  who is
constantly  suspected,  misunderstood.  "I  have  simply  given you
a,  charm  that  will  allow  you  to  pass through  Shoikan Grove.
The  way  will  not  be  easy"  -  his  sarcasm  returned  -  "but,
undoubtedly your faith will sustain you!"
Pulling  his  hood  low over  his eyes,  the mage  bowed silently
to  Crysania,  who  could  only  stare  at  him,  then   he  walked
toward the door with slow,  faltering steps.  Reaching out  a skel-
etal  hand,  he  pulled  the  bell  rope.   The  door   opened  and
Bertrem  entered  so  swiftly  and suddenly  that Crysania  knew he
must  have  been posted  outside. Her  lips tightened.  She flashed
the  Aesthetic  such  a  furious,  imperious  glance  that  the man
paled  visibly,  though  totally  unaware  of  what  crime  he  had
committed,  and  mopped  his  shining  forehead  with the  sleeve of
his robe.
Raistlin  started  to  leave,  but  Crysania  stopped  him.  "I-I
apologize for not trusting you, Raistlin Majere," she  said softly.
"And, again, I thank you for coming."
Raistlin  turned.  "And  I  apologize  for  my sharp  tongue," he
said.  "Farewell,  Revered  Daughter.  If  you  truly  do  not fear
knowledge,  then  come  to the  Tower two  nights from  this night,
when Lunitari makes its first appearance in the sky."
"I will be there,"  Crysania answered  firmly, noting  with plea-
sure  Bertrem's  look  of  shocked  horror.  Nodding  in  good-bye,
she rested  her hand  lightly on  the back  of the  ornately carved
wooden chair.
The  mage  left  the  room, Bertrem  followed, shutting  the door
behind him.
Left  alone  in  the  warm,  silent  room,  Crysania fell  to her
knees   before   the   chair.  "Oh,   thank  you,   Paladine!"  she
breathed. "I accept your challenge. I will not fail you! I will not
fail!"

_CHAPTER 1_

Behind her, she
could  hear  the  sound  of  clawed  feet,  scrapping  through  the
leaves of the forest. Tika tensed, but tried to act as if she didn't
hear,  luring the  creature on.  Firmly, she  gripped her  sword in
her  hand.  Her  heart pounded.  Closer and  closer came  the foot-
steps,  she  could  hear  the  harsh  breathing.  The  touch  of  a
clawed  hand  fell   upon  her   shoulder.  Whirling   about,  Tika
swung  her  sword  and...  knocked  a  tray  full  of  mugs  to the
floor with a crash.
Dezra  shrieked  and  sprang  backward  in  alarm.   Patrons  sit-
ting at the bar  burst into  raucous laughter.  Tika knew  her face
must  be as  red as  her hair.  Her heart  was pounding,  her hands
shook.
"Dezra," she said coldly, "you have  all the  grace and  brains of
a  gully  dwarf.  Perhaps  you  and Raf  should switch  places. You
carry out the garbage and I'll let him wait tables!"
Dezra  looked  up  from  where  she  knelt, picking  broken pieces
of crockery up off the floor, where they floated in a sea  of beer.
"Perhaps I  should!" the  waitress cried,  tossing the  pieces back
onto the floor.  'Wait tables  yourself... or  is that  beneath you
now, Tika Majere, Heroine of the Lance?"

Flashing  Tika  a  hurt,  reproachful   glance,  Dezra   stood  up,
kicked  the  broken  crockery  out of  her way,  and flounced  out of
the Inn.
As  the  front  door  banged  open,  it  hit  sharply  against  its
frame,  making  Tika  grimace  as  she  envisioned  scratches  on the
woodwork.  Sharp  words  rose  to her  lips, but  she bit  her tongue
and  stopped  their   utterance,  knowing   she  would   regret  them
later.
The  door  remained  standing  open,  letting  the bright  light of
fading  afternoon  flood  the  Inn.  The  ruddy  glow of  the setting
sun  gleamed  in  the  bar's  freshly   polished  wood   surface  and
sparkled  off  the  glasses.  It even  danced on  the surface  of the
puddle  on  the  floor.  It  touched Tika's  flaming red  curls teas-
ingly,  like  the hand  of a  lover, causing  many of  the sniggering
patrons  to  choke  on  their  laughter  and   gaze  at   the  comely
woman with longing.
Not  that   Tika  noticed.   Now  ashamed   of  her   anger,  she
peered  out  the  window,  where  she could  see Dezra,  dabbing at
her  eyes  with  an  apron.  A  customer  entered  the  open  door,
dragging  it  shut  behind  him.  The  light vanished,  leaving the
Inn once more in cool, half-darkness.
Tika  brushed  her  hand  across  her  own   eyes.  What   kind  of
monster  am  I   turning  into?   she  asked   herself  remorsefully.
After all, it wasn't Dezra's fault. It's this horrible feeling inside
of  me!  I  almost  wish  there  were draconians  to fight  again. At
least then I knew what I feared, at least then I could fight  it with
my own hands! How can I fight something I can't even name?
Voices  broke  in  on her  thoughts, clamoring  for ale,  for food.
Laughter rose, echoing through the Inn of the Last Home.
This  is  what  I came  back to  find. Tika  sniffed and  wiped her
nose  with  the  bar  rag.  This  is  my  home.  These people  are as
right  and  beautiful  and  warm  as  the   setting  sun.   I'm  sur-
rounded  by  the  sounds  of  love  -  laughter,  good  fellowship, a
lapping dog....
Lapping  dog!  Tika  groaned  and  hurried  out  from  behind the
bar.
"Raf!" she exclaimed, staring at the gully dwarf in despair.
"Beer  spill.  Me mop  up," he  said, looking  at her  and cheer-
fully wiping his hand across his mouth.
Several  of  the  old-time  customers  laughed,  but  there  were a
few, new to the  Inn, who  were staring  at the  gully dwarf  in dis-
gust.

"Use this rag to clean it up!" Tika hissed out of the corner of
her  mouth as  she grinned  weakly at  the customers  in apology.
She tossed Raf the bar rag and the gully dwarf caught it.  But he
only held it in his hand, staring at it with a  mystified expres-
sion.
"What me do with this?"
"Clean  up  the  spill!" Tika  scolded, trying  unsuccessfully to
shield  him  from  the  customer's  view  with her  long, flowing
skirt.
"Oh! Me not need  that," Raf  said solemnly.  "Me not  get nice
rag dirty." Handing the cloth  back to  Tika, the  gully dwarf got
down on all fours again and began  to lick  up the  spilled beer,
now mingled with tracked-in mud.
Her  cheeks  burning,  Tika  reached  down  and  jerked  Raf up
by his collar, shaking him.  "Use the  rag!" she  whispered furi-
ously.  "The  customers  are  losing  their  appetites!  And when
you're finished with that, I want you to clear off that big table
near the firepit. I'm expecting friends -" Tika stopped.
Raf was staring at her,  wide-eyed, trying  to absorb  the com-
plicated instructions. He was exceptional,  as gully  dwarves go.
He'd  only been  there three  weeks and  Tika had  already taught
him to count to three (few gully dwarves ever  get past  two) and
had finally gotten rid of his stench. This new-found intellectual
prowess  combined  with  cleanliness  would   have  made   him  a
king in a gully dwarf realm, but  Raf had  no such  ambitions. He
knew no king lived like he did  - "mopping  up" spilled  beer (if
he  were  quick)  and "taking  out" the  garbage. But  there were
limits to Raf's talents, and Tika had just reached them.
"I'm  expecting  friends and  -" she  started again,  then gave
up.  "Oh,  never  mind. Just  mop this  up -  with the  rag," she
added severely, "then come to me to find out what to do next."
"Me no  drink?" Raf  began, then  caught Tika's  furious glare.
"Me do."
Sighing in disappointment, the  gully dwarf  took the  rag back
and  slopped  it  around,  muttering  about  "waste  good  beer."
Then he picked up pieces of  the broken  mugs and,  after staring
at them a moment, grinned and stuck  them in  the pockets  of his
shirt.
Tika  wondered briefly  what he  planned to  do with  them, but
knew it was wiser not to ask. Returning to  the bar,  she grabbed
some more mugs and  filled them,  trying not  to notice  that Raf
had  cut  himself  on  some  of  the sharper  pieces and  was now
leaning back on his heels, watching,  with intense  interest, the
blood drip from his hand.
"Have you... uh... seen Caramon?" Tika asked the gully
dwarf casually.
"Nope." Raf wiped his bloody hand in his hair. "But me know
where to look." He leaped up eagerly. "Me go find?"
"No!" snapped Tika, frowning. "Caramon's at home."
"Me no think so,” Raf said, shaking his head. "Not after sun
go down -"
"He’s home!"  Tika snapped so angrily that the gully dwarf
shrank away from her.
"You want to make bet?"  Raf muttered, but well under his
breath.  Tika's temper these days was as fiery as  her flaming
hair.
Fortunately for Raf, Tika didn't hear him. She finished filling
the beer mugs, then carried  the tray  over to  a large  party of
elves, seated near the door.
I'm  expecting  friends,  she repeated  to herself  dully. Dear
friends. Once she would  have been  so excited,  so eager  to see
Tanis  and  Riverwind.  Now...  She   sighed,  handing   out  the
beer  mugs  without conscious  awareness of  what she  was doing.
Name  of  the  true  gods,  she  prayed,  let  them  come  and go
quickly! Yes, above all, go  quickly! If  they stayed...  If they
found out....
Tika's heart sank at the  thought. Her  lower lip  trembled. If
they stayed, that would be the  end. Plain  and simple.  Her life
would  be  over.  The  pain  was  suddenly  more  than  she could
bear. Hurriedly setting  the last  beer mug  down, Tika  left the
elves, blinking her eyes rapidly. She did not notice  the bemused
gazes  the  elves exchanged  among themselves  as they  stared at
the  beer  mugs, and  she never  did remember  that they  had all
ordered wine.
Half blinded by her tears,  Tika's only  thought was  to escape
to  the kitchen  where she  could weep  unseen. The  elves looked
about  for  another  waitress, and  Raf, sighing  in contentment,
got back  down on  his hands  and knees,  happily lapping  up the
rest of the beer.

Tanis Half-Elven stood at the bottom of  a small  rise, staring
up the long, straight, muddy  road that  stretched ahead  of him.
The  woman  he  escorted  and their  mounts waited  some distance
behind him. The  woman had  been in  need of  rest, as  had their
horses.  Though  her  pride  had  kept  her  from  saying  a  word,
Tanis  saw  her  face  was  gray  and  drawn  with   fatigue.  Once
today, in fact,  she had  nodded off  to sleep  in the  saddle, and
would  have  fallen   but  for   Tanis's  strong   arm.  Therefore,
though  eager  to  reach  her  destination,  she had  not protested
when  Tanis  stated  that  he  wanted  to  scout  the   road  ahead
alone.  He  helped  her from  her horse  and saw  her settled  in a
hidden thicket.
He  had  misgivings   about  leaving   her  unattended,   but  he
sensed  that  the  dark  creatures  pursuing  them  had  fallen far
behind.  His  insistence  on  speed  had  paid off,  though-both he
and  the  woman  was   aching  and   exhausted.  Tanis   hoped  to
stay ahead of the  things until  he could  turn his  companion over
to the one person on Krynn who might be able to help her.
They  had  been  riding  since  dawn, fleeing  a horror  that had
followed  them  since  leaving  Palanthas.  What  it  was  exactly,
Tanis  -  with  all  his  experience  during the  wars -  could not
name.  And  that  made  it  all the  more frightening.  Never there
when  confronted,  it  was  only seen  from the  corner of  the eye
that  was  looking  for  something else.  His companion  had sensed
it, too,  he could  tell, though,  characteristically, she  was too
proud to admit to fear.
Walking   away   from   the  thicket,   Tanis  felt   guilty.  He
shouldn't  be leaving  her alone,  he knew.  He shouldn't  be wast-
ing  precious  time. All  his warrior  senses protested.  But there
was one  thing he  had to  do, and  he had  to do  it alone.  To do
otherwise would have seemed sacrilege.
And  so  Tanis stood  at the  bottom of  the hill,  summoning his
courage  to  move  forward.  Anyone  looking  at  him   might  have
supposed  he  was  advancing  to fight  an ogre.  But that  was not
the  case.  Tanis  Half-Elven  was  returning  home.  And  he  both
longed for and dreaded his first sight.
The   afternoon   sun   was   beginning   its   downward  journey
toward  night.  It would  be dark  before he  reached the  Inn, and
he  dreaded traveling  the roads  by night.  But, once  there, this
nightmarish   journey   would   be   over,   He  would   leave  the
woman  in  capable  hands  and  continue  on  to  Qualinesti.  But,
first, there was this he had to face. With a deep sigh, Tanis Half-
Elven  drew  his  green  hood  up  over  his  head  and  began  the
climb.
Topping  the  rise,  his  gaze  fell  upon a  large, moss-covered
boulder.   For  a   moment,  his   memories  overwhelmed   him.  He
closed his eyes, feeling the sting of swift tears beneath the lids.
"Stupid  quest,"  he  heard  the  dwarf's  voice  echo in  his mem-
ory. "Silliest thing I ever did!"
Flint! My old friend!
I  can't go  on, Tanis  thought. This  is too  painful. Why  did I
ever  agree  to  come  back? It  holds nothing  for me  now... noth-
ing  except  the  pain  of  old wounds.  My life  is good,  at last.
Finally  I  am  at  peace,  happy.  Why...  why  did  I tell  them I
would come?
Drawing  a  shuddering  sigh,  he  opened  his  eyes and  looked at
the boulder.  Two years  ago -  it would  be three  this autumn  - he
had  topped  this  rise  and  met  his  long-time friend,  the dwarf,
Flint  Fireforge,  sitting  on  that   boulder,  carving   wood,  and
complaining  -  as  usual.  That  meeting  had  set in  motion events
that  had  shaken  the  world,   culminating  in   the  War   of  the
Lance,  the  battle that  cast the  Queen of  Darkness back  into the
Abyss, and broke the might of the Dragon Highlords.
Now  I  am  a  hero,  Tanis  thought,  glancing  down  ruefully  at
the  gaudy  panoply  he  wore:  breastplate  of  a  Knight  of Solam-
nia;  green  silken  sash,  mark  of  the Wildrunners  of Silvanesti,
the  elves'  most  honored  legions;  the  medallion  of  Kharas, the
dwarves'   highest   honor;   plus   countless   others.  No   one  -
human, elf, or  half-elf -  had been  so honored.  It was  ironic. He
who  hated  armor,  who  hated  ceremony,  now  forced  to   wear  it
as   befitting   his   station.   How  the   old  dwarf   would  have
laughed.
"You  -  a  hero!"  He  could  almost  hear  the  dwarf  snort. But
Flint was dead.  He had  died two  years ago  this spring  in Tanis's
arms.
"Why  the  beard?"  He  could  swear  once  again  that   he  heard
Flint's voice, the first words he had said  upon seeing  the half-elf
in the road. "You were ugly enough...."
Tanis  smiled  and  scratched  the  beard  that  no  elf  on  Krynn
could  grow,  the beard  that was  the outward,  visible sign  of his
half-human  heritage.  Flint   knew  well   enough  why   the  beard,
Tanis  thought,  gazing   fondly  at   the  sun-warmed   boulder.  He
knew  me  better  than  I  knew  myself.  He knew  of the  chaos that
raged inside my soul. He knew I had a lesson to learn.
"And  I  learned  it,"  Tanis  whispered  to  the  friend  who  was
with him in spirit only. "I learned it, Flint. But... oh, it was bit-
ter!"
The  smell  of  wood  smoke  came  to  Tanis.  That and  the slant-
ing rays of the sun and the chill in the  spring air  reminded him
he still had some  distance to  travel. Turning,  Tanis Half-Elven
looked down into  the valley  where he  had spent  the bittersweet
years  of  his  young  manhood.  Turning, Tanis  Half-Elven looked
down upon Solace.
It  had  been  autumn  when  he  last  saw  the small  town. The
vallenwood  trees  in  the valley  had been  ablaze with  the sea-
son's colors, the brilliant reds and golds fading into  the purple
of the peaks  of the  Kharolis mountains  beyond, the  deep azure
of the sky mirrored in the still waters of Crystalmir  Lake. There
had  been  a  haze of  smoke over  the valley,  the smoke  of home
fires burning in the peaceful town  that had  once roosted  in the
vallenwood  trees  like   contented  birds.   He  and   Flint  had
watched the  lights flicker  on, one  by one,  in the  houses that
sheltered  among  the  leaves  of  the huge  trees. Solace  - tree
city - one of the beauties and wonders of Krynn.
For  a  moment,  Tanis  saw  the  vision  in  his mind's  eye as
clearly  as  he  had  seen it  two years  before. Then  the vision
faded.  Then  it  had  been  autumn.  Now   it  was   spring.  The
smoke was there still, the  smoke of  the home  fires. But  now it
came  mostly  from  houses  built  on  the  ground. There  was the
green of living, growing things, but it only  seemed -  in Tanis's
mind -  to emphasize  the black  scars upon  the land;  scars that
could never be totally erased, though  here and  there he  saw the
marks of the plow across them.
Tanis  shook  his   head.  Everyone   thought  that,   with  the
destruction  of the  Queen's foul  temple at  Neraka, the  war was
over.  Everyone  was  anxious to  plow over  the black  and burned
lands, scorched by dragonfire, and forget their pain.
His eyes went to a huge circle of black that stood in the center
of  town.  Here,  nothing  would  grow.  No  plow  could  turn the
soil  ravaged  by  dragonfire  and  soaked by  the blood  of inno-
cents, murdered by the troops of the Dragon Highlords.
Tanis  smiled  grimly.  He  could  imagine  how an  eyesore likes
that  must  irritate  those  who  were working  to forget.  He was
glad it was there. He hoped it would remain, forever.
Softly, he repeated  words he  had heard  Elistan speak,  as the
cleric dedicated in solemn  ceremony the  High Clerist's  Tower to
the memory of those knights who had died there.
"We must remember or we will fall into complacency - as we
did before - and the evil will come again."
If it is not already upon  us, Tanis  thought grimly.  And, with
that in mind, he turned and walked rapidly back down the hill.

The Inn of the Last Home was crowded that evening.
While the war had brought devastation and destruction to
the  residents  of Solace,  the end  of the  war had  brought such
prosperity  that  there  were  already  some  who  were  saying it
hadn't been  "such a  bad thing."  Solace had  long been  a cross-
roads for travelers through the lands of  Abanasinia. But,  in the
days  before  the  war, the  numbers of  travelers had  been rela-
tively few. The dwarves -  except,for a  few renegades  like Flint
Fireforge  -  had  shut  themselves up  in their  mountain kingdom
of Thorbardin or barricaded themselves in  the hills,  refusing to
have anything to  do with  the rest  of the  world. The  elves had
done the same, dwelling in  the beautiful  lands of  Qualinesti to
the southwest and  Silvanesti on  the eastern  edge of  the conti-
nent of Ansalon.
The  war   had  changed   all  that.   Elves  and   dwarves  and
humans  traveled  extensively  now,  their  lands and  their king-
doms open to all. But it  had taken  almost total  annihilation to
bring about this fragile state of brotherhood.
The  Inn  of  the  Last  Home  -  always popular  with travelers
because  of its  fine drink  and Otik's  famous spiced  potatoes -
became  more  popular  still.  The  drink was  still fine  and the
potatoes  as good  as ever  - though  Otik had  retired -  but the
real reason for the Inn's increase in popularity  was that  it had
become  a  place  of some  renown. The  Heroes of  the Lance  - as
they were now  called -  had been  known to  frequent this  Inn in
days gone by.
Otik had, in fact, before  his retirement,  seriously considered
putting up  a plaque  over the  table near  the firepit  - perhaps
something   like   "Tanis   Half-Elven   and    Companions   Drank
Here."  But  Tika  had  opposed  the  scheme  so  vehemently  (the
mere thought of what Tanis would say  if he  caught sight  of that
made  Tika's  cheeks  burn)  that Otik  had let  it drop.  But the
rotund barkeep never tired of telling his patrons the story of the
night  the  barbarian  woman  had  sung   her  strange   song  and
healed Hederick the Theocrat with her  blue crystal  staff, giving
the first proof of the existence of the ancient, true gods.
Tika,  who  took  over  management  of   the  Inn   upon  Otik's
retirement  and  was  hoping  to  save  enough  money  to  buy the
business,  fervently hoped  Otik would  refrain from  telling that
story again tonight. But  she might  have spent  her hope  on bet-
ter things.
There  were several  parties of  elves who  had traveled  all the
way  from  Silvanesti  to  attend  the  funeral  of   Solostaran  -
Speaker of the Suns  and ruler  of the  elven lands  of Qualinesti.
They were not only urging Otik to  tell his  story, but  were tell-
ing some of their own, about the  Heroes' visit  to their  land and
how they freed it from the evil dragon, Cyan Bloodbane.
Tika  saw  Otik  glance her  direction wistfully  at this  - Tika
had,  after  all,  been  one  of  the  members  of  the   group  in
Silvanesti. But she silenced him with  a furious  shake of  her red
curls.  That  was one  part of  their journey  she refused  ever to
relate  or  even  discuss.  In  fact, she  prayed nightly  that she
would forget the hideous nightmares of that tortured land.
Tika  closed  her  eyes  a  moment,   wishing  the   elves  would
drop  the  conversation.  She  had  her  own  nightmares  now.  She
needed  no  past  ones to  haunt her.  "Just let  them come  and go
quickly," she said softly to herself and to  whatever god  might be
listening.
It  was  just  past  sunset.  More  and  more  customers entered,
demanding  food  and  drink.  Tika  had  apologized  to  Dezra, the
two  friends  had  shed  a few  tears together,  and now  were kept
busy  running  from  kitchen to  bar to  table. Tika  started every
time  the  door  opened,  and  she   scowled  irritably   when  she
heard Otik's voice rise above the clatter of mugs and tongues.
"... beautiful autumn night, as I recall, and  I was,  of course,
busier  than  a  draconian  drill  sergeant."  That  always  got  a
laugh.  Tika  gritted  her  teeth. Otik  had an  appreciative audi-
ence  and  was  in  full  swing.  There  would  be no  stopping him
now. "The Inn was up in the  vallenwood trees  then, like  the rest
of  our  lovely  city  before  the  dragons  destroyed it.  Ah, how
beautiful it was in the  old days."  He sighed  - he  always sighed
at this point  - and  wiped away  a tear.  There was  a sympathetic
murmur  from  the  crowd.  "Where  was  I?"   He  blew   his  nose,
another part of the act.  "Ah, yes.  There I  was, behind  the bar,
when the door opened...."
The  door  opened. It  might have  been done  on cue,  so perfect
was the timing. Tika brushed  back a  strand of  red hair  from her
perspiring   forehead   and   glanced   over    nervously.   Sudden
silence filled the room. Tika stiffened, her nails digging into her
hands.
A tall man, so tall he had to duck  to enter  the door,  stood in
the  doorway.  His  hair  was  dark,  his  face  grim   and  stern.
Although  cloaked  in  furs,  it  was  obvious  from his  walk and
stance that  his body  was strong  and muscular.  He cast  a swift
glance  around  the  crowded  Inn,  sizing   up  those   who  were
present, wary and watchful of danger.
But it was an instinctive  action only,  for when  his penetrat-
ing, somber gaze rested  on Tika,  his stern  face relaxed  into a
smile and he held his arms open wide.
Tika hesitated, but the sight of her friend suddenly  filled her
with  joy  and  a strange  wave of  homesickness. Shoving  her way
through the crowd, she was caught in his embrace.
"Riverwind, my friend!" she murmured brokenly.
Grasping the  young woman  in his  arms, Riverwind  lifted her
effortlessly,  as  though  she were  a child.  The crowd  began to
cheer,  banging  their mugs  on the  table. Most  couldn't believe
their luck. Here was a Hero of  the Lance  himself, as  if carried
on the wings of Otik's story. And  he even  looked the  part! They
were enchanted.
For,  upon  releasing  Tika,  the  tall man  had thrown  his fur
cloak back  from his  shoulders, and  now all  could see  the Man-
tle of the Chieftain that  the Plainsman  wore, its  V-shaped sec-
tions of alternating  furs and  tooled leathers  each representing
one  of  the  Plains  tribes  over  which  he ruled.  His handsome
face,  though  older  and  more  careworn   than  when   Tika  had
seen  him  last, was  burned bronze  by the  sun and  weather, and
there was an inner  joy within  the man's  eyes which  showed that
he  had found  in his  life the  peace he  had been  searching for
years before.
Tika  felt  a  choking  sensation  in  her  throat  and turned
quickly away, but not quickly enough.
"Tika,"  he  said,  his  accent  thick  from  living  once  more
among his people, "it is good to see you well and beautiful still.
Where's  Caramon?  I  cannot  wait  to  see  -  Why,  Tika, what's
wrong?"
"Nothing,  nothing," Tika  said briskly,  shaking her  red curls
and blinking her  eyes. "Come,  I have  a place  saved for  you by
the fire. You must be exhausted and hungry."
She  led  him  through  the crowd,  talking nonstop,  never giv-
ing  him  a  chance  to  say  a  word.  The   crowd  inadvertently
helped   her,   keeping  Riverwind   occupied  as   they  gathered
around to touch and marvel over his fur cloak,  or tried  to shake
his  hand  (a  custom  Plainsmen  consider  barbaric)   or  thrust
drinks into his face.

Riverwind  accepted  it  all  stoically,  as  he  followed  Tika
through  the  excited  throng,  clasping  the  beautiful  sword of
elven make close to his side. His stern face grew a  shade darker,
and  he  glanced  often out  the windows  as though  already long-
ing to escape the confines of this noisy, hot  room and  return to
the outdoors he loved. But  Tika skillfully  shoved the  more exu-
berant patrons aside and  soon had  her old  friend seated  by the
fire at an isolated table near the kitchen door.
"I'll be back,"  she said,  flashing him  a smile  and vanishing
into the kitchen before he could open his mouth.
The  sound of  Otik's voice  rose once  again, accompanied  by a
loud  banging.  His  story  having  been  interrupted,   Otik  was
using his cane - one of  the most  feared weapons  in Solace  - to
restore order.  The barkeep  was crippled  in one  leg now  and he
enjoyed telling that story, too -  about how  he had  been injured
during the fall of Solace, when,  by his  own account,  he single-
handedly fought off the invading armies of draconians.
Grabbing  a  panful  of  spiced  potatoes  and hurrying  back to
Riverwind,  Tika  glared  at  Otik  irritably.  She knew  the true
story, how he had hurt  his leg  being dragged  out of  his hiding
place beneath the floor. But she never told  it. Deep  within, she
loved the old man like a father. He  had taken  her in  and raised
her,  when  her  own  father disappeared,  giving her  honest work
when  she  might have  turned to  thievery. Besides,  just remind-
ing him that she knew the truth was useful in keeping  Otik's tall
tales from stretching to new heights.
The  crowd was  fairly quiet  when Tika  returned, giving  her a
chance to talk to her old friend.
"How  is  Goldmoon  and  your son?"  she asked  brightly, seeing
Riverwind looking at her, studying her intently.
"She  is fine  and sends  her love,"  Riverwind answered  in his
deep, low baritone. "My son" - his  eyes glowed  with pride  - "is
but two, yet already stands this tall and sits a horse better than
most warriors."
"I  was  hoping  Goldmoon  would  come  with  you,"   Tika  said
with a sigh she didn't mean  Riverwind to  hear. The  tall Plains-
man ate his food for a moment in silence before he answered.
"The  gods have  blessed us  with two  more children,"  he said,
staring at Tika with a strange expression in his dark eyes.
"Two?"  Tika  looked  puzzled,  then,  "oh,  twins!"  she  cried
joyfully. "Like  Caramon and  Rais -"  She stopped  abruptly, bit-
ing her lip.

Riverwind  frowned  and  made  the sign  that wards  off evil.
Tika flushed and looked away. There was a  roaring in  her ears.
The heat and  the noise  made her  dizzy. Swallowing  the bitter
taste in her mouth, she forced herself to  ask more  about Gold-
moon  and,  after  awhile,  could  even  listen  to  Riverwind's
answer.
"... still too few clerics in  our land.  There are  many con-
verts, but the powers of the gods come  slowly. She  works hard,
too hard to my  mind, but  she grows  more beautiful  every day.
And the babies, our daughters, both have silver-golden hair -"
Babies.... Tika smiled sadly. Seeing her face,  Riverwind fell
silent, finished eating, and pushed his plate away. "I can think
of nothing I would rather do than continue this visit,"  he said
slowly, "but  I cannot  be gone  long from  my people.  You know
the urgency of my mission. Where is Cara -"
"I must  go check  on your  room," Tika  said, standing  up so
quickly she jostled the table, spilling Riverwind's drink. "That
gully dwarf is supposed to be making the bed. I'll probably find
him sound asleep -"
She hurried away. But she did  not go  upstairs to  the rooms.
Standing outside  by the  kitchen door,  feeling the  night wind
cool her fevered cheeks, she stared out into the  darkness. "Let
him go away!" she whispered. "Please...."

_CHAPTER 2_
Perhaps most of all,
Tanis feared his first sight of the Inn of the Last Home. Here it
had all started, three years ago this autumn.  Here he  and Flint
and  the  irrepressible  kender,  Tasslehoff  Burrfoot,  had come
that night to meet old friends. Here his world had  turned upside
down, never to exactly right itself again.
But,  riding toward  the Inn,  Tanis found  his fears  eased. It
had changed so much  it was  like coming  to some  place strange,
a place that held no memories.  It stood  on the  ground, instead
of in the branches of a  great vallenwood.  There were  new addi-
tions, more rooms  had been  built to  accommodate the  influx of
travelers, it had a  new roof,  much more  modern in  design. All
the scars of war had been purged, along with the memories.
Then, just as Tanis was beginning  to relax,  the front  door of
the Inn opened.  Light streamed  out, forming  a golden  path of'
welcome, the smell  of spiced  potatoes and  the sound  of laugh-
ter  came to  him on  the evening  breeze. The  memories returned
in a rush, and Tanis bowed his head, overcome.
But, perhaps fortunately, he did  not have  time to  dwell upon
the past.  As he  and his  companion approached  the Inn,  a sta-
bleboy ran out to grab the horses' reins.

"Food and water," said Tanis, sliding  wearily from  the saddle
and tossing the boy a coin. He  stretched to  ease the  cramps in
his muscles. "I sent word ahead that I was to have a  fresh horse
waiting for me here. My name is Tanis Half-Elven."
The  boy's eyes  opened wide;  he had  already been  staring at
the bright armor  and rich  cloak Tanis  wore. Now  his curiosity
was replaced by awe and admiration.
"Y-yes,  sir,"  he  stammered,  abashed  at being  addressed by
such a great hero. "T-the horse  is ready,  sh-shall I  bring him
around n-now, sir?"
"No." Tanis smiled. "I will eat first. Bring him in  two hours."
"T-two hours. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."  Bobbing his  head, the
boy took the reins Tanis  pressed into  his unfeeling  hand, then
stood  there, gaping,  completely forgetting  his task  until the
impatient horse nudged him, nearly knocking him over.
As the boy hurried off, leading Tanis's  horse away,  the half-
elf turned to assist his companion down from her saddle.
"You must be made of iron," she  said, looking  at Tanis  as he
helped her to the ground. "Do you really  intend to  ride further
tonight?"
"To tell the truth, every bone in my body aches,"  Tanis began,
then  paused,  feeling  uncomfortable.  He  was simply  unable to
feel at ease around this woman.
Tanis could see her face  reflected in  the light  beaming from
the  Inn.  He saw  fatigue and  pain. Her  eyes were  sunken into
pale,  hollow  cheeks.  She  staggered  as  she stepped  upon the
ground, and Tanis was quick  to give  her his  arm to  lean upon.
This she did, but only for  a moment.  Then, drawing  herself up,
she gently but  firmly pushed  him away  and stood  alone, glanc-
ing at her surroundings without interest.
Every  move  hurt  Tanis,  and  he   could  imagine   how  this
woman  must  feel,  unaccustomed  as  she  was to  physical exer-
tion or hardship, and he was forced to  regard her  with grudging
admiration.  She  had  not  complained  once  on  their  long and
frightening  journey.  She had  kept up  with him,  never lagging
behind and obeying his instructions without question.
Why,  then,  he wondered,  couldn't he  feel anything  for her?
What  was there  about her  that irritated  him and  annoyed him?
Looking  at  her  face,  Tanis  had his  answer. The  only warmth
there was the  warmth reflected  from the  Inn's light.  Her face
itself  - even  exhausted -  was cold,  passionless, devoid  of -
what?  Humanity?  Thus  she  had  been  all this  long, dangerous
journey. Oh, she had been coolly polite, coolly  grateful, coolly
distant  and  remote.  She  probably  would  have  coolly  buried
me, Tanis thought grimly. Then, as  if to  reprimand him  for his
irreverent  thoughts,  his gaze  was drawn  to the  medallion she
wore  around  her  neck,  the  Platinum  Dragon  of  Paladine. He
remembered  Elistan's  parting  words,  spoken  in  private  just
before their journey's beginning.
"It is fitting that you escort her, Tanis," said  the now-frail
cleric.  "In  many  ways,  she  begins a  journey much  like your
own years ago - seeking  self-knowledge. No,  you are  right, she
doesn't know this herself yet." This in answer to Tanis's dubious
look.  "She  walks  forward with  her gaze  fixed upon  the heav-
ens." Elistan smiled sadly. "She has not yet learned that,  in so
doing, one will surely stumble. Unless she  learns, her  fall may
be hard." Shaking his head, he  murmured a  soft prayer.  "But we
must put our trust in Paladine."
Tanis  had  frowned  then  and he  frowned now,  thinking about
it. Though he had  come to  a strong  belief in  the true  gods -
more  through  Laurana's  love  and faith  in them  than anything
else - he felt uncomfortable trusting  his life  to them,  and he
grew impatient  with those  like Elistan  who, it  seemed, placed
too great  a burden  upon the  gods. Let  man be  responsible for
himself for a change, Tanis thought irritably.
"What is it, Tanis?" Crysania asked coldly.
Realizing  he  had  been  staring  at her  all this  while, Tanis
coughed  in  embarrassment,  cleared   his  throat,   and  looked
away. Fortunately, the boy returned for Crysania's horse  at this
moment,  sparing Tanis  the need  to answer.  He gestured  at the
Inn, and the two walked toward it.
"Actually,"  Tanis  said  when  the  silence  grew  awkward, "I
would like nothing better  than to  stay here  and visit  with my
friends. But I have to be in Qualinesti  the day  after tomorrow,
and only by hard riding will I arrive in time. My  relations with
my brother-in-law are not such that  I can  afford to  offend him
by missing  Solostaran's funeral."  He added  with a  grim smile,
"Both politically and personally, if you take my meaning."
Crysania smiled in turn, but - Tanis saw - it  was not  a smile
of understanding. It was a smile of tolerance, as if this talk of
politics and family were beneath her.
They had reached the door to the Inn. "Besides," Tanis added
softly, "I miss Laurana. Funny, isn't it. When she is near and
we're  busy  about  our own  tasks, we'll  sometimes go  for days
with just a quick smile or a  touch and  then we  disappear into
our worlds. But when I'm far away from her, it's like I suddenly
awaken to find my right arm cut off. I may not go to  bed think-
ing of my right arm, but when it is gone...."
Tanis  stopped  abruptly, feeling  foolish, afraid  he sounded
like  a  lovesick  adolescent.  But  Crysania, he  realized, was
apparently not paying  the least  bit of  attention to  him. Her
smooth,  marble  face had  grown, if  anything, more  cold until
the  moon's  silver  light  seemed  warm by  comparison. Shaking
his head, Tanis pushed open the door.
I don't envy Caramon and Riverwind, he thought grimly.
The warm, familiar sounds and smells of the Inn washed
over Tanis and, for long  moments, everything  was a  blur. Here
was Otik, older and fatter, if possible, leaning upon a cane and
pounding him on the back. Here were  people he  had not  seen in
years,  who  had  never  had  much  to do  with him  before, now
shaking his hand and claiming his friendship.  Here was  the old
bar, still  brightly polished,  and somehow  he managed  to step
on a gully dwarf....
And then there was a tall man cloaked in  furs, and  Tanis was
clasped inside his friend's warm embrace.
"Riverwind," he  whispered huskily,  holding onto  the Plains-
man tightly.
"My brother," Riverwind said in Que-shu,  the language  of his
people.  The crowd  in the  Inn was  cheering wildly,  but Tanis
didn't hear them, because a woman  with flaming  red hair  and a
smattering  of  freckles  had  her hand  upon his  arm. Reaching
out, still holding fast to Riverwind,  Tanis gathered  Tika into
their embrace and for long  moments the  three friends  clung to
each other - bound together by sorrow and pain and glory.
Riverwind  brought  them  to  their  senses.  Unaccustomed  to
such public displays of emotion, the tall Plainsman regained his
composure  with  a  gruff  cough  and  stood back,  blinking his
eyes rapidly and frowning at the ceiling until he was  master of
himself again. Tanis, his reddish beard wet with his  own tears,
gave Tika another swift hug, then looked around.
"Where's  that big  lummox of  a husband  of yours?"  he asked
cheerfully. "Where's Caramon?"
It was  a simple  question, and  Tanis was  totally unprepared
for the response. The crowd fell completely silent; it seemed as
if someone had shut them all up in a barrel. Tika's face flushed
an ugly red, she muttered  something unintelligible,  and, bend-
ing down, dragged a gully dwarf up off the  floor and  shook him
so his teeth rattled in his head.
Startled, Tanis looked  at Riverwind,  but the  Plainsman only
shrugged and raised his  dark eyebrows.  The half-elf  turned to
ask Tika  what was  going on,  but just  then felt a  cool touch
upon his arm. Crysania! He had completely forgotten her!
His own face flushing, he made his belated introductions.
"May  I  present  Crysania  of  Tarinius,  Revered  Daughter  of
Paladine,"  Tanis  said  formally.  "Lady  Crysania,  Riverwind,
Chieftain of the Plainsmen, and Tika Waylan Majere."
Crysania untied her traveling  cloak and  drew back  her hood.
As  she  did  so,  the  platinum medallion  she wore  around her
neck flashed in the bright candlelight of  the Inn.  The woman's
pure white lamb's  wool robes  peeped through  the folds  of her
cloak.  A  murmur  -  both  reverent   and  respectful   -  went
through the crowd.
"A  holy cleric!"
"Did you catch her name? Crysania! Next in line..."
"Elistan's successor..."
Crysania  inclined   her  head.   Riverwind  bowed   from  the
waist, his face solemn, and Tika, her own face still  so flushed
she  appeared  feverish,  shoved Raf  hurriedly behind  the bar,
then made a deep curtsey.
At  the  sound  of  Tika's  married  name,   Majere,  Crysania
glanced at Tanis questioningly and received his nod in return.
"I am honored,"  Crysania said  in her  rich, cool  voice, "to
meet two whose deeds of courage shine as an example to us all."
Tika  flushed  in  pleased  embarrassment.  Riverwind's  stern
face  did  not  change expression,  but Tanis  saw how  much the
cleric's praise meant to the deeply religious Plainsman.  As for
the crowd, they cheered boisterously at this honor to  their own
and  kept  on  cheering. Otik,  with all  due ceremony,  led his
guests to a waiting table, beaming on  the heroes  as if  he had
arranged the entire war especially for their benefit.
Sitting down, Tanis at first felt  disturbed by  the confusion
and noise but soon decided it was beneficial. At least  he could
talk to Riverwind without fear of being overheard. But first, he
had to find out - where was Caramon?
Once again, he started to ask,  but Tika  - after  seeing them
seated and fussing over  Crysania like  a mother  hen -  saw him
open  his  mouth  and,  turning  abruptly, disappeared  into the
kitchen.

Tanis  shook  his  head,  puzzled,  but  before he  could think
about it  further, Riverwind  was asking  him questions.  The two
were soon deeply involved in talk.
"Everyone thinks the war  is over,"  Tanis said,  sighing. "And
that places  us in  worse danger  than before.  Alliances between
elves  and  humans  that  were  strong when  times were  dark are
beginning  to  melt  in  the  sun.  Laurana's in  Qualinesti now,
attending the funeral of her father and also trying to arrange an
agreement with that stiff-necked brother  of hers,  Porthios, and
the  Knights of  Solamnia. The  only ray  of hope  we have  is in
Porthios's  wife,  Alhana  Starbreeze."  Tanis  smiled.  "I never
thought I would live to see  that elfwoman  not only  tolerant of
humans  and  other  races,  but  even  warmly supporting  them to
her intolerant husband."
"A   strange   marriage,"   Riverwind   commented,   and  Tanis
nodded  in  agreement.  Both  men's  thoughts  were   with  their
friend,  the  knight, Sturm  Brightblade, now  lying dead  - hero
of the High Clerist's Tower.  Both knew  Alhana's heart  had been
buried there in the darkness with Sturm.
"Certainly not  a marriage  of love."  Tanis shrugged.  "But it
may be  a marriage  that will  help restore  order to  the world.
Now,  what  of  you,  my  friend?  Your  face  is dark  and drawn
with  new  worries,  as well  as beaming  with new  joy. Goldmoon
sent Laurana word of the twins."
Riverwind  smiled  briefly.  "You are  right. I  begrudge every
minute I am away," the Plainsman said in his deep voice,
"though seeing you again, my brother,  lightens my  heart's bur-.
den. But I left two tribes on the verge  of war.  So far,  I have
managed  to  keep  them  talking,  and  there  has been  no blood
shed yet. But malcontents work against me, behind my back.
Every  minute  I  am  away  gives them  a chance  to stir  up old
blood feuds."
Tanis clasped his arm. "I am sorry, my friend, and I  am grate-
ful  you came."  Then he  sighed again  and glanced  at Crysania,
realizing he had new  problems. "I  had hoped  you would  be able
to offer this lady your guidance and protection." His  voice sank
to a murmur. "She travels to the  Tower of  High Sorcery  in Way-
reth Forest."
Riverwind's  eyes  widened  in   alarm  and   disapproval.  The
Plainsman   distrusted   mages   and   anything   connected  with
them.
Tanis  nodded.  "I  see  you  remember Caramon's  stories about

the  time  he  and  Raistlin  traveled there.  And they  had been
invited. This lady goes  without invitation,  to seek  the mages'
advice about -"
Crysania  gave  him  a sharp,  imperious glance.  Frowning, she
shook her head. Tanis, biting his lip, added lamely, "I  was hop-
ing you could escort her -"
"I  feared  as  much,"  said Riverwind,  "when I  received your
message, and that was why I felt  I had  to come  - to  offer you
some explanation for my refusal. If it were  any other  time, you
know I  would gladly  help and,  in particular,  I would  be hon-
ored  to  offer my  services to  a person  so revered."  He bowed
slightly  to  Crysania,  who  accepted  his  homage with  a smile
that vanished instantly when she  returned her  gaze to  Tanis. A
small, deep line of anger appeared between her brows.
Riverwind  continued,  "But  there  is too  much at  stake. The
peace  I  have  established  between  the  tribes, many  who have
been at war for years, is a fragile one. Our survival as a nation
and  a  people  depend upon  us uniting  and working  together to
rebuild our land and our lives."
"I  understand,"  Tanis  said,  touched by  Riverwind's obvious
unhappiness in having to refuse his request  for help.  The half-
elf  caught  Lady  Crysania's displeased  stare, however,  and he
turned to her with grim  politeness. "All  will be  well, Revered
Daughter,"  he  said,  speaking  with elaborate  patience. "Cara-
mon will guide you, and  he is  worth three  of us  ordinary mor-
tals, right, Riverwind?"
The  Plainsman  smiled,  old  memories  returning. "He  can eat
as  much  as  three  ordinary  mortals, certainly.  And he  is as
strong  as  three  or  more.  Do  you  remember,  Tanis,  when he
used to lift stout Pig-faced William off his feet, when we put on
that show in... where was it... Flotsam?"
"And  the  time  he  killed  those  two  draconians  by bashing
their heads together." Tanis laughed, feeling the darkness of the
world suddenly lift in sharing those times with his  friend. "And
do  you  remember  when  we  were  in  the  dwarven  kingdom  and
Caramon  sneaked  up  behind  Flint   and  -"   Leaning  forward,
Tanis  whispered  in  Riverwind's   ear.  The   Plainsman's  face
flushed with  laughter. He  recounted another  tale, and  the two
men  continued,  recalling  stories  of  Caramon's  strength, his
skill with a sword, his courage and honor.
"And  his  gentleness,"  Tanis  added,  after a  moment's quiet
reflection. "I can see him now, tending to Raistlin so patiently,
holding his brother in his arms when those coughing  fits nearly
tore the mage apart -"
He was interrupted by a smothered  cry, a  crash, and  a thud.
Turning  in  astonishment, Tanis  saw Tika  staring at  him, her
face white, her green eyes glimmering with tears.
"Leave now!" she  pleaded through  pale lips.  "Please, Tanis!
Don't  ask any  questions! Just  go!" She  grabbed his  arm, her
nails digging painfully into his flesh.
"Look,  what  in the  name of  the Abyss  is going  on, Tika?"
Tanis asked in exasperation, standing up and facing her.
A splintering crash came in answer. The door to the  Inn burst
open, hit  from outside  by some  tremendous force.  Tika jumped
back, her face convulsed in such fear and  horror as  she looked
at the door that Tanis turned  swiftly, his  hand on  his sword,
and Riverwind rose to his feet.
A large shadow filled the  doorway, seeming  to spread  a pall
over the room. The  crowd's cheerful  noise and  laughter ceased
abruptly, changing to low, angry mutterings.
Remembering the  dark and  evil things  that had  been chasing
them, Tanis drew his  sword, placing  himself between  the dark-
ness  and  Lady  Crysania.  He  sensed, though  he did  not see,
Riverwind's stalwart presence behind him, backing him up.
So, it's caught up  with us,  Tanis thought,  almost welcoming
the  chance  to  fight  this  vague,  unknown terror.  Grimly he
stared  at  the door,  watching as  a bloated,  grotesque figure
entered into the light.
It was a man, Tanis saw, a huge  man, but,  as he  looked more
closely, he saw it was a man whose giant girth had run to flab.
A bulging belly hung over cinched up leather leggings.  A filthy
shirt gaped open at the navel, there being  too little  shirt to
cover too much flesh. The man's face -  partially obscured  by a
three-day  growth  of  beard  -  was  unnaturally   flushed  and
splotchy, his hair greasy and unkempt.  His clothes,  while fine
and  well-made,  were dirty  and smelled  strongly of  vomit and
the raw liquor' known as dwarf spirits.
Tanis lowered his sword, feeling like a fool. It was just some
poor drunken wretch, probably  the town  bully, using  his great
size to intimidate the citizenry. He looked at the man with pity
and disgust, thinking, even as he did so,  that there  was some-
thing  oddly  familiar  about  him.  Probably  someone   he  had
known  when  he lived  in Solace  long ago,  some poor  slob who
had fallen on hard times.

The  half-elf started  to turn  away, then  noticed -  to his
amazement  -  that  everyone  in  the  Inn  was looking  at him
expectantly.
What  do  they want  me to  do, Tanis  thought in  sudden, swift
anger.  Attack  him?  Some  hero I'd  look -  beating up  the town
drunk!
Then he heard a sob at his elbow.  "I told  you to  leave," Tika
moaned,  sinking  down  into  a  chair.  Burying  her face  in her
hands, she began to cry as if her heart would break.
Growing  more  and  more  mystified,  Tanis  glanced  at  River-
wind,  but  the Plainsman  was obviously  as much  in the  dark as
his  friend.  The drunk,  meanwhile, staggered  into the  room and
gazed about in anger.
"Wash  ish  thish?  A  party?"  he  growled. "And  nobody in-in-
invited their old... in-vited me?"
No  one  answered.  They  were  fixedly  ignoring  the  slovenly
man, their eyes still on Tanis,  and now  even the  drunk's atten-
tion turned to the half-elf. Attempting to  bring him  into focus,
the drunk stared at Tanis in a  kind of  puzzled anger,  as though
blaming him for being the cause  of all  his troubles.  Then, sud-
denly, the drunk's  eyes widened,  his face  split into  a foolish
grin, and he lurched forward, hands outstretched.
"Tanish... my fri-"
"Name  of  the  gods,"  Tanis breathed,  recognizing him  at last.
The  man  staggered  forward and  stumbled over  a chair.  For a
moment  he stood  swaying unsteadily,  like a  tree that  has been
cut and is ready to fall. His eyes rolled back in his head, people
scrambled to get out of his  way. Then  - with  a thud  that shook
the  Inn  - Caramon  Majere, Hero  of the  Lance, passed  out cold
at Tanis's feet.

_CHAPTER 3_

Name of the gods,"
Tanis  repeated  in  sorrow as  he stooped  down beside  the coma-
tose warrior. "Caramon..."
"Tanis  -"  Riverwand's  voice  caused the  half-elf to  glance up
quickly.  The  Plainsman  held  Tika  in  his  arms,  both   he  and
Dezra  trying  to  comfort  the  distraught  young  woman.  But peo-
ple  were  pressing close,  trying to  question Riverwind  or asking
Crysania  for  a  blessing.  Others  were  demanding  more   ale  or
just standing around, gawking.
Tanis rose swiftly to his feet. "The Inn is closed for the night,"
he shouted.
There  were  jeers  from  the crowd,  except for  some scattered
applause  near  the  back  where  several  customers   thought  he
was buying a round of drinks.
"No, I mean it," Tanis said  firmly, his  voice carrying  over the
noise.  The  crowd  quieted.  "Thank  you  all  for this  welcome. I
cannot  tell  you  what  it means  to me  to come  back to  my home-
land. But, my  friends and  I would  like to  be alone  now. Please,
it is late...."
There were murmurs of  sympathy and  some good-natured
clapping. Only a few scowled and muttered comments about
the greater the knight the more his own armor glares in  his eyes
(an  old  saying  from the  days when  the Solamnic  Knights were
held  in  derision).  Riverwind,  leaving Dezra  to take  care of
Tika,  came  forward  to  prod those  few stragglers  who assumed
Tanis  meant  everyone  except  them.  The  half-elf  stood guard
over  Caramon,  who was  snoring blissfully  on the  floor, keep-
ing people from  stepping on  the big  man. He  exchanged glances
with  Riverwind  as the  Plainsman passed,  but neither  had time
to speak until the Inn was emptied.
Otik  Sandeth  stood by  the door,  thanking everyone  for com-
ing and assuring each  that the  Inn would  be open  again tomor-
row  night.  When  everyone else  had gone,  Tanis stepped  up to
the  retired  proprietor,  feeling  awkward and  embarrassed. But
Otik stopped him before he could speak.
Gripping Tanis's hand in his, the  elderly man  whispered, "I'm
glad  you've  come  back.  Lock  up  when  you're  finished."  He
glanced  at Tika,  then motioned  the half-elf  forward conspira-
torially. "Tanis," he said in a  whisper, "if  you happen  to see
Tika take a little out of the money box, pay  it no  mind. She'll
pay it back someday. I just pretend not to notice." His gaze went
to  Caramon,  and  he  shook his  head sadly.  "I know  you'll be
able  to  help,"  he  murmured,  then he  nodded and  stumped off
into the night, leaning on his cane.
Help! Tanis  thought wildly.  We came  seeking his  help. Cara-
mon  snored  particularly loudly,  half-woke himself  up, belched
up  great  fumes  of  dwarf  spirits, then  settled back  down to
sleep. Tanis  looked bleakly  at Riverwind,  then shook  his head
in despair.
Crysania  stared  down  at  Caramon in  pity mingled  with dis-
gust.  "Poor  man," she  said softly.  The medallion  of Paladine
shone in the candlelight. "Perhaps I -"
"There's nothing you can do for him," Tika cried  bitterly. "He
doesn't  need  healing.  He's  drunk,  can't  you see  that? Dead
drunk!"
Crysania's  gaze  turned  to Tika  in astonishment,  but before
the cleric  could say  anything, Tanis  hurried back  to Caramon.
"Help  me,  Riverwind,"  he  said, bending  down. "Let's  get him
hom -"
"Oh, leave him!" Tika snapped,  wiping her  eyes with  the cor-
ner  of  her  apron.  "He's  spent enough  nights on  the barroom
floor. Another won't matter." She turned to  Tanis. "I  wanted to
tell you. I really did. But I thought... I kept hoping...  He was
excited  when  your  letter  arrived.  He  was... well,  more like
himself than I've seen him in a  long time.  I thought  maybe this
might do it. He might change.  So I  let you  come." She  hung her
head. "I'm sorry...."
Tanis stood beside the big warrior, irresolute. "I  don't under-
stand. How long -"
"It's  why  we  couldn't  come  to  your  wedding,  Tanis," Tika
said,  twisting  her  apron  into  knots. "I  wanted to,  so much!
But -" She began to cry again. Dezra put her arms around her.
"Sit down, Tika," Dezra  murmured, helping  her to  a seat  in a
high-backed, wooden booth.
Tika  sank  down,  her  legs  suddenly  giving out  beneath her,
then she hid her head in her arms.
"Let's all sit down," Tanis said firmly, "and get our wits about
us. You there" -  the half-elf  beckoned to  the gully  dwarf, who
was  peering  out  at  them  from beneath  the wooden  bar. "Bring
us  a  pitcher  of  ale  and  some mugs,  wine for  Lady Crysania,
some spiced potatoes -"
Tanis  paused.  The  confused  gully dwarf  was staring  at him,
round-eyed, his mouth hanging open in confusion.
"Better let me get it for you,  Tanis," Dezra  offered, smiling.
"You'd probably  end up  with a  pitcher of  potatoes if  Raf went
after it."
"Me help!" Raf protested indignantly.
"You take out the garbage!" Dezra snapped.
"Me  big  help...."  Raf mumbled  disconsolately as  he shuffled
out, kicking at the table legs to relieve his hurt feelings.
"Your  rooms  are in  the new  part of  the Inn,"  Tika mumbled.
"I'll show you...."
"We'll  find  them  later,"  Riverwind said  sternly, but  as he
looked at Tika, his eyes  were filled  with gentle  sympathy. "Sit
and talk to Tanis. He has to leave soon."
"Damn! My  horse!" Tanis  said, starting  up suddenly.  "I asked
the boy to bring it around -"
"I will go have them wait," Riverwind offered.
"No, I'll go. It'll just take a moment -"
"My  friend,"  Riverwind  said softly  as he  went past  him, "I
need to be  outdoors! I'll  come back  to help  with -"  He nodded
his head toward the snoring Caramon.
Tanis sat back down, relieved. The Plainsman left. Crysania
sat down beside Tanis on the opposite side of the table, staring
at  Caramon  in  perplexity.  Tanis  kept  talking  to  Tika about
small, inconsequential matters until she was able  to sit  up and
even smile a little. By the time Dezra returned with drinks, Tika
seemed  more  relaxed,  though  her  face  was  still  drawn  and
strained.  Crysania,  Tanis  noticed,  barely  touched  her wine.
She  simply  sat,  glancing  occasionally  at Caramon,  the daric
line  appearing  once  again  between  her  brows. Tanis  knew he
should explain  to her  what was  going on,  but he  wanted some-
one to explain it to him first.
"When did this -" he began, hesitantly.
"Start?"  Tika  sighed.  "About  six months  after we  got back
here." Her gaze went to  Caramon. "He  was so  happy -  at first.
The town  was a  mess, Tanis.  The winter  had been  terrible for
the survivors.  Most of  them were  starving, the  draconians and
goblin  soldiers  took  everything. Those  whose houses  had been
destroyed  were  living  in  whatever shelter  they could  find -
caves,  lean-to  hovels.  The draconians  had abandoned  the town
by the time we got back,  and people  were beginning  to rebuild.
They  welcomed  Caramon  as  a  hero  - the  bards had  been here
already, singing their songs about the defeat of the Queen."
Tika's eyes shimmered with tears and remembered pride.
"He  was  so happy,  Tanis, for  a while.  People needed  him. He
worked day and  night -  cutting trees,  hauling timber  from the
hills,  putting up  houses. He  even took  up smithy  work, since
Theros was  gone. Oh,  he wasn't  very good  at it."  Tika smiled
sadly.  "But  he was  happy, and  no one  really minded.  He made
nails  and  horseshoes  and  wagon  wheels.  That first  year was
good  for  us  -  truly  good.  We  were  married,   and  Caramon
seemed to forget about... about..."
Tika swallowed. Tanis patted her hand and, after eating  a lit-
tle  and.drinking some  wine in  silence, Tika  was able  to con-
tinue.
"A  year  ago  last  spring,  though,  everything   started  to
change.  Something  happened  to  Caramon.  I'm  not  sure  what.
It had something to do  with -"  She broke  off, shook  her head.
"The  town  was  prosperous.  A  blacksmith  who  had  been  held
captive  at  Pax  Tharkas  moved  here and  took over  the smithy
trade.  Oh, people  still needed  homes built,  but there  was no
hurry.  I took  over running  the Inn."  Tika shrugged.  "I guess
Caramon just had too much time on his hands."
"No one needed him," Tanis said grimly.
"Not  even  me...."  Tika  said, gulping  and wiping  her eyes.
"Maybe it's my fault -"

"No," said Tanis, his thoughts - and his memories - far
away. "Not your fault, Tika. I think we know whose fault this
is."
"Anyway" - Tika drew a deep breath -  "I tried  to help,  but I
was so busy here. I suggested all sorts of things he could do and
he tried - he really did. He helped the local constable, tracking
down  renegade  draconians.  He  was  a  bodyguard, for  a while,
hiring out to people traveling to  Haven. But  no one  ever hired
him twice." Her voice dropped.  "Then one  day, last  winter, the
party he'd  been supposed  to protect  returned, dragging  him on
a  sled.  He  was  dead  drunk. They'd  ended up  protecting him!
Since then, he's spent all his time  either sleeping,  eating, or
hanging  out  with  some  ex-mercenaries  at  the   Trough,  that
filthy place at the other end of town."
Wishing  Laurana  were  here  to  discuss  such  matters, Tanis
suggested softly, "Maybe a - um - baby?"
"I was  pregnant, last  summer," Tika  said dully,  leaning her
head  on  her  hand.  "But  not for  long. I  miscarried. Caramon
never even  knew. Since  then" -  she stared  down at  the wooden
table - "well, we haven't been sleeping in the same room."
Flushing  in  embarrassment,  Tanis   could  do   nothing  more
than pat her hand and hurriedly change the  subject. "You  said a
moment before 'it had something to do with - '... with what?"
Tika  shivered,  then  took  another  drink  of  wine.  "Rumors
started, then, Tanis,"  she said  in a  low, hushed  voice. "Dark
rumors. You can guess who they were about!"
Tanis nodded.
"Caramon  wrote to  him, Tanis.  I saw  the letter.  It was  - it
tore my heart. Not a  word of  blame or  reproach. It  was filled
with love. He begged his brother to come back  and live  with us.
He pleaded with him to turn his back on the darkness."
"And what happened?" Tanis asked, though he already
guessed the answer.
"It  came  back,"  Tika whispered.  "Unopened. The  seal wasn't
even  broken.  And  on  the  outside  was  written,  'I  have  no
brother.  I  know  no  one  named  Caramon.'  And it  was signed,
Raistlin!"
"Raistlin!" Crysania looked at Tika, as if  seeing her  for the
first time. Her gray  eyes were  wide and  startled as  they went
from  the  red-haired  young  woman  to Tanis,  then to  the huge
warrior  on  the floor,  who belched  comfortably in  his drunken
sleep.  "Caramon...  This   is  Caramon   Majere?  This   is  his
brother? The twin you were telling me about? The man who
could guide me -"
"I'm sorry, Revered Daughter," Tanis said,  flushing. "I  had no
idea he -"
"But  Raistlin  is  so... intelligent,  powerful. I  thought his
twin  must  be  the same.  Raistlin is  sensitive, he  exerts such
strong  control  over himself  and those  who serve  him. He  is a
perfectionist, while this"  - Crysania  gestured -  "this pathetic
wretch, while he deserves our pity and our prayers, is -"
"Your 'sensitive and  intelligent perfectionist'  had a  hand in
making  this  man the  'pathetic wretch'  you see,  Revered Daugh-
ter," Tanis said acidly,  keeping his  anger carefully  under con-
trol.
"Perhaps  it  was   the  other   way  around,"   Crysania  said,
regarding  Tanis coldly.  "Perhaps it  was for  lack of  love that
Raistlin turned from the light to walk in darkness."
Tika  looked  up  at Crysania,  an odd  expression in  her eyes.
"Lack of love?" she repeated gently.
Caramon  moaned  in  his  sleep  and  began thrashing  about on
the floor. Tika rose quickly to her feet.
"We  better get  him home."  She glanced  up to  see Riverwind's
tall figure appear in the doorway, then turned to Tanis. "I'll see
you  in  the  morning, won't  17 Couldn't  you stay...  just over-
night?"
Tanis looked at her pleading eyes and felt  like biting  off his
tongue before  he answered.  But there  was no  help for  it. "I'm
sorry, Tika," he said, taking her hands.  "I wish  I could,  but I
must go. It is a long ride to Qualinost from here, and I  dare not
be  late.  The  fate  of  two  kingdoms,  perhaps,  depends  on my
being there."
"I  understand,"  Tika  said  softly.  "This isn't  your problem
anyway. I'll cope."
Tanis  could  have  torn  out  his  beard  with  frustration. He
longed to stay and help, if he even could help. At least  he might
talk with Caramon, try to get  some sense  into that  thick skull.
But Porthios would take it as a personal affront if Tanis  did not
come  to the  funeral, which  would affect  not only  his personal
relationships  with  Laurana's  brother,  but  would   affect  the
treaty  of  alliance  being  negotiated  between   Qualinesti  and
Solamnia.
And  then, his  eyes going  to Crysania,  Tanis realized  he had
another  problem.  He groaned  inwardly. He  couldn't take  her to
Qualinost. Porthios had no use for human clerics.
"Look," Tanis said, suddenly getting an  idea, "I'll  come back,
after  the  funeral." Tika's  eyes brightened.  He turned  to Lady
Crysania. "I'll leave you here, Revered  Daughter. You'll  be safe
in this town, in the Inn,  Then I  can escort  you back  to Palan-
thas since your journey has failed -"
"My journey has not failed," Crysania  said resolutely.  "I will
continue as I began. I intend to go to the  Tower of  High Sorcery
at  Wayreth,  there  to  council  with  Par-Salian  of  the  White
Robes."
Tanis  shook  his  head.  "I  cannot take  you there,"  he said.
"And Caramon obviously is incapable. Therefore I suggest -"
"Yes,"   Crysania   interrupted   complacently.    "Caramon   is
clearly  incapacitated.  Therefore  I  will  wait  for  the kender
friend of yours to meet me  here with  the person  he was  sent to
find, then I will continue on my own."
"Absolutely  not!"  Tanis  shouted.  Riverwind  raised  his eye-
brows,   reminding   Tanis   who  he   was  addressing.   With  an
effort,  the  half-elf  regained  control. "My  lady, you  have no
idea of the danger! Besides those  dark things  that pursued  us -
and  I think  we all  know who  sent them  - I've  heard Caramon's
stories about the Forest of Wayreth. It's  darker still!  We'll go
back to Palanthas, 111 find some Knights -"
For the first time, Tanis saw a pale stain of color touch Crysa-
nia's  marble  cheeks.  Her  dark brows  contracted as  she seemed
to be thinking. Then her face  cleared. Looking  up at  Tanis, she
smiled.
"There is no danger," she said. "I am  in Paladine's  hands. The
dark  creatures  may  have been  sent by  Raistlin, but  they have
no  power   to  harm   me!  They   have  merely   strengthened  my
resolve." Seeing Tanis's face  grow even  grimmer, she  sighed. "I
promise this much. I will think about it.  Perhaps you  are right.
Perhaps the journey is too dangerous -"
"And  a  waste  of  time!"  Tanis  muttered, sorrow  and exhaus-
tion making him speak  bluntly what  he had  felt all  along about
this   woman's   crazy   scheme.   "If   Par-Salian   could   have
destroyed Raistlin, he would have done it long before -"
"Destroy!" Crysania regarded Tanis in shock, her gray eyes
cold. "I do not seek his destruction."
Tanis stared at her in amazement.
"I seek to reclaim him," Crysania  continued. "I  will go  to my
rooms now, if someone will be  so kind  as to  guide me  to them."

Dezra  hurried  forward.  Crysania calmly  bade them  all good-
night,  then  followed  Dezra  from the  room. Tanis  gazed after
her,  totally  at  a loss  for words.  He heard  Riverwind mutter
something  in  Que-shu.  Then   Caramon  groaned   again.  River-
wind  nudged  Tanis.  Together  they  bent  over  the  slumbering
Caramon and - with an effort - hauled the big man to his feet.
"Name  of  the  Abyss,  he's  heavy!" Tanis  gasped, staggering
under  the  man's dead  weight as  Caramon's flacid  arms flopped
over his shoulders.  The putrid  smell of  the dwarf  spirit made
him gag.
"How can he drink that stuff?" Tanis said  to Riverwind  as the
two  dragged  the  drunken  man  to  the  door,   Tika  following
along anxiously behind.
"I saw a  warrior fall  victim to  that curse  once," Riverwind
grunted.  "He  perished  leaping  over a  cliff, being  chased by
creatures that were there only in his mind."
"I should stay -" Tanis murmured.
"You  cannot  fight another's  battle, my  friend," Riverwind
said firmly. "Especially when  it is  between a  man and  his own
soul."
It  was  past  midnight  when  Tanis  and  Riverwind  had Cara-
mon  safely  at  home  and  dumped -  unceremoniously -  into his
bed. Tanis had never  been so  tired in  his life.  His shoulders
ached  from carrying  the dead  weight of  the giant  warrior. He
was worn out and felt drained, his  memories of  the past  - once
pleasant  -  were  now like  old wounds,  open and  bleeding. And
he still had hours to ride before morning.
"I wish I could stay," he repeated again to Tika as  they stood
together with  Riverwind outside  her door,  gazing out  over the
sleeping, peaceful town of Solace. "I feel responsible -"
"No, Tanis," Tika said quietly.  "Riverwind's right.  You can't
fight this war. You  have your  own life  to live,  now. Besides,
there's nothing you can do. You might only make things worse."
"I suppose." Tanis frowned. "At any rate, I'll be back in about
a week. I'll talk to Caramon then."
"That  would  be  nice."  Tika sighed,  then, after  a pause,
changed  the  subject.  "By  the  way,  what did  Lady Crysania
mean about a kender coming here? Tasslehoff'?"
"Yes," Tanis said, scratching his beard.  "It has  something to
do with Raistlin, though I'm not  sure what.  We ran  into Tas in
Palanthas. He started in on some of  his stories  - I  warned her
that only about half of what he says is true and even that half's
nonsense, but he probably convinced her to send him after
some person she thinks can help her reclaim Raistlin!"
"The  woman  may  be  a  holy  cleric  of   Paladine,"  Riverwind
said sternly, "and may the gods forgive me if I speak ill of one of
their  chosen.  But  I  think  she's  mad."  Having made  this pro-
nouncement,  he  slung  his  bow  over  his  shoulder  and prepared
to depart.
Tanis  shook his  head. Putting  his arm  around Tika,  he kissed
her. "I'm afraid Riverwind's right," he said  to her  softly. "Keep
an eye on Lady Crysania  while she's  here. I'll  have a  talk with
Elistan  about  her  when  we  return.  I wonder  how much  he knew
about this wild scheme  of hers.  Oh, and  if Tasslehoff  does show
up,  hang  onto  him,  will  you? I  don't want  him turning  up in
Qualinost!  I'm  going to  have enough  trouble with  Porthios and
the elves as it is!"
"Sure,  Tanis,"  Tika  said  softly.  For  a  moment  she nestled
close  to him,  letting herself  be comforted  by his  strength and
the compassion she could sense in both his touch and his voice.
Tanis hesitated, holding her, reluctant to  let her  go. Glancing
inside the small house,  he could  hear Caramon  crying out  in his
sleep.
"Tika -" he began.
But she pushed herself away. "Go along, Tanis," she said
firmly. "You've got a long ride ahead of you."
"Tika.  I  wish  -"  But  there  was  nothing  he could  say that
would help, and they both knew it.
Turning slowly, he trudged off after Riverwind.
Watching them go, Tika smiled.
"You  are  very  wise, Tanis  Half-Elven. But  this time  you are
wrong,"  she  said  to  herself as  she stood  alone on  her porch.
"Lady Crysania isn't mad. She's in love."

_CHAPTER 4_

An army of dwarves
was  marching  around  the bedroom,  their steelshod  boots going
THUD,  THUD,  THUD.  Each  dwarf  had  a   hammer  in   his  hand
and,  as  he marched  past the  bed, he  banged it  against Cara-
mon's head. Caramon groaned and flapped his hands feebly.
"Get away!" he muttered. "Get away!"
But  the  dwarves  only responded  by lifting  his bed  up onto
their strong shoulders and whirling it around at a rapid pace, as
they continued to march,  their boots  striking the  wooden floor
THUD. THUD, THUD.
Caramon  felt  his  stomach   heave.  After   several  desperate
tries, he managed to leap  out of  the revolving  bed and  make a
clumsy  dash  for  the  chamber  pot in  the corner.  Having vom-
ited,  he  felt  better.  His  head  cleared.  The  dwarves  dis-
appeared -  although he  suspected they  were hiding  beneath the
bed, waiting for him to lie down again.
Instead,  he opened  a drawer  in the  tiny bedside  table where
he  kept  his  small  flask  of  dwarf  spirits.   Gone!  Caramon
scowled.  So Tika  was playing  this game  again, was  she! Grin-
ning smugly,  Caramon stumbled  over to  the large  clothes chest
on the other side of  the room.  He lifted  the lid  and rummaged
through  tunics and  pants and  shirts that  would no  longer fit
over his flabby body. There it was - tucked into an old boot.
Caramon  withdrew  the  flask  lovingly,  took  a  swig  of the
fiery liquor, belched, and  heaved a  sigh. There,  the hammering
in  his  head  was  gone.  He  glanced around  the room.  Let the
dwarves stay under the bed. He didn't care.
There  was  the  clink of  crockery in.  the other  room. Tika!
Hurriedly, Caramon took another  sip, then  closed the  flask and
tucked it back into the boot again. Shutting  the lid  very, very
quietly,  he  straightened  up,  ran a  hand through  his tangled
hair, and started to go out into  the main  living area.  Then he
caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror as he passed.
"Change my shirt," he muttered thickly.
After  much  pulling and  tugging, he  dragged off  the filthy
shirt  he  was  wearing  and tossed  it in  a corner.  Perhaps he
should wash?  Bah! What  was he  - a  sissy? So  he smelled  - it
was  a  manly  smell.  Plenty  of  women   liked  it,   found  it
attractive   -   found  him   attractive!  Never   complained  or
nagged,  not  like Tika.  Why couldn't  she take  him as  he was?
Struggling into a clean shirt he found  at the  foot of  the bed,
Caramon felt  very sorry  for himself.  No one  understood him...
life was  hard... he  was going  through a  bad time  just now...
but  that  would  change...  just  wait...  someday   -  tomorrow
maybe....
Lurching  out  of  the  bedroom,  trying to  appear nonchalant,
Caramon  walked  unsteadily  across the  neat, clean  living room
and collapsed into a chair at the eating table. The chair creaked
beneath his great weight. Tika turned around.
Catching   her  glance,   Caramon  sighed.   Tika  was   mad  -
again. He tried grinning at  her, but  it was  a sickly  grin and
didn't  help.  Her  red  curls  bouncing  in  anger,  she whirled
around and  disappeared through  a door  into the  kitchen. Cara-
mon  winced  as  he  heard  heavy  iron  pots  bang.   The  sound
brought  the  dwarves  and  their  hammers  back.  Within  a  few
moments,  Tika  returned,  carrying  a  huge  dish   of  sizzling
bacon,  fried  maize  cakes,  and  eggs.  She  slammed  the plate
down  in  front of  him with  such force  the cakes  leaped three
inches into the air.
Caramon  winced  again.  He  wondered  briefly  about  eating -
considering  the  queasy state  of his  stomach -  then grouchily
reminded  his  stomach  who   was  boss.   He  was   starved,  he
couldn't  remember  when  he'd  eaten  last.  Tika  flounced down
in a chair next to him.  Glancing up,  he saw  her green  eyes blaz-
ing. Her freckles stood  out clearly  against her  skin -  a certain
sign of fury.
"All right," Caramon growled, shoveling food into his
mouth. "What'd I do now?"
"You don't remember." It was a statement.
Caramon  cast  about  hastily in  the foggy  regions of  his mind.
Something  stirred   vaguely. He  was   supposed  to   have  been
somewhere  last  night. He'd  stayed home  all day,  getting ready.
He'd  promised  Tika...  but  he'd  grown  thirsty.  His  flask was
empty. He'd just go down to  the Trough  for a  quick nip,  then to
... where... why...
"I had  business to  attend to,"  Caramon said,  avoiding Tika's
gaze.
"Yes,  we  saw  your  business,"  Tika  snapped  bitterly.  "The
business that made you pass out right at Tanis's feet!"
"Tanis!"  Caramon  dropped  his  fork. "Tanis...  last night..."
With  a  heartsick  moan,  the  big  man  let  his aching  head sink
into his hands.
"You made quite a  spectacle of  yourself," Tika  continued, her
voice choked. "In front of the entire town, plus  half the  elves in
Krynn.  Not  to  mention  our  old  friends."  She was  weeping qui-
etly now. "Our best friends...."
Caramon moaned again. Now he was crying, too. "Why?
Why?" he blubbered. "Tanis, of all of them..." His self-
recriminations were interrupted by a banging on the front
door.
"Now  what?"  Tika  muttered,  rising   and  wiping   her  tears
away with the sleeve of her blouse. "Maybe  it's Tanis,  after all."
Caramon lifted his  head. "Try  at least  to look  like the  man you
once  were,"  Tika  said  under  her  breath as  she hurried  to the
door.
Throwing  the  bolt,  she  unlatched  it.  "Otik?"  she  said in
astonishment. "What are - Whose food?"
The  rotund,  elderly innkeeper  stood in  the doorway,  a plate
of steaming food in his hand. He peered past Tika.
"Isn't she here?" he asked, startled.
"Isn't  who  here?"  Tika  replied,  confused.  "There's  no one
here."
"Oh,  dear."  Otik's  face  grew solemn.  Absently, he  began to
eat  the  food  from  the  plate.  "Then I  guess the  stableboy was
right. She's gone. And after I fixed this nice breakfast."
"Who's  gone?"  Tika  demanded  in  exasperation,  wondering  if
he meant Dezra.
"Lady  Crysania.  She's  not  in  her  room.  Her  things aren't
there,  either.  And  the  stableboy said  she came  this morning,
told him to saddle her horse, and left. I thought -"
"Lady  Crysania!"  Tika  gasped.  "She's  gone off,  by herself.
Of course, she would...."
"What?" asked Otik, still munching.
"Nothing,"  Tika  said,  her  face pale.  "Nothing, Otik.  Uh, you
better get back to the Inn. I'll - I may be a little late today."
"Sure,   Tika,"   Otik   said   kindly,   having   seen  Caramon
hunched over the table. "Get there  when you  can." Then  he left,
eating as he walked. Tika shut the door behind him.
Seeing Tika return, and knowing he  was in  for a  lecture, Car-
amon rose clumsily to  his feet.  "I'm not  feeling too  good," he
said. Lurching across the  floor, he  staggered into  the bedroom,
slamming  the  door  shut behind  him. Tika  could hear  the sound
of wracking sobs from inside.
She  sat  down  at  the  table,  thinking.  Lady   Crysania  had
gone,  she  was  going  to  find  Wayreth  Forest  by  herself. Or
rather,  she  had  gone in  search of  it. No  one ever  found it,
according  to  legend.  It found  you! Tika  shivered, remembering
Caramon's  stories.  The  dread   Forest  was   on  maps,   but  -
comparing  them  -  no  two  maps  ever  agreed  on  its location.
And there was always a symbol of  warning beside  it. At  its cen-
ter stood  the Tower  of High  Sorcery of  Wayreth, where  all the
power  of  the  mages  of  Ansalon  was  now  concentrated.  Well,
almost all -
In  sudden  resolution,  Tika got  up and  thrust open  the bed-
room  door.  Going  inside,  she  found  Caramon  flat   upon  the
bed,  sobbing  and blubbering  like a  child. Hardening  her heart
against this pitiful sight, Tika  walked with  firm steps  over to
the large chest of clothes. As she  threw open  the lid  and began
sorting  through  the  clothes,  she found  the flask,  but simply
tossed  it  into  a  corner  of  the  room.  Then  -  at  the very
bottom - she came upon what she had been searching for.
Caramon's armor.
Lifting out a cuisse by its leather strap, Tika stood up and,
turning  around,  hurled  the  polished  metal  straight  at Cara-
mon.
It struck him in the shoulder, bouncing off to fall to the floor
with a clatter.

"Ouch!"  the  big  man cried,  sitting up.  "Name of  the Abyss,
Tika! Leave me alone for -"
"You're going after her," Tika said firmly, lifting  out another
piece of armor. "You're going after her, if I have to haul you out
of here in a wheelbarrow!"

"Uh,  pardon  me," said  a kender  to a  man loitering  near the
edge of the road  on the  outskirts of  Solace. The  man instantly
clapped his hand over his purse. "I'm  looking for  the home  of a
friend  of  mine.  Well,  actually  two friends  of mine.  One's a
woman, pretty, with red curls. Her name is Tika Waylan -"
Glaring  at  the  kender, the  man jerked  a thumb.  "Over there
yonder."
Tas looked. "There?" he said pointing, impressed. "That
truly magnificent house in the new vallenwood"?"
"What?"  The  man  gave  a  brief,  sharp  laugh.   "What'd  you
call it? Truly magnificent? That's a  good one."  Still chuckling,
he  walked off,  laughing and  hastily counting  the coins  in his
purse at the same time.
How  rude!  Tas  thought,  absently  slipping  the  man's pocket
knife  into  one  of  his pouches.  Then, promptly  forgetting the
incident, the  kender headed  for Tika's  home. His  gaze lingered
fondly on each detail of the  fine house  nestled securely  in the
limbs of the still-growing vallenwood tree.
"I'm so glad for Tika," Tas remarked  to what  appeared to  be a
mound  of clothes  with feet  walking beside  him. "And  for Cara-
mon, too,"  he added.  "But Tika's  never really  had a  true home
of her own. How proud she must be!"
As he approached the house,  Tas saw  it was  one of  the better
homes in the township. It was built  in the  ages-old tradition.of
Solace. The delicate turns of the vaulting  gables were  shaped to
appear to be part of the tree itself. Each room extended  off from
the  main body  of the  house, the  wood of  the walls  carved and
polished to resemble the  tree trunk.  The structure  conformed to
the  shape  of  the  tree,  a  peaceful  harmony  existed  between
man's work and nature's  to create  a pleasing  whole. Tas  felt a
warm glow in  his heart  as he  thought of  his two  friends work-
ing on and living in such a wonderful dwelling. Then -
"That's funny," said Tas to  himself, "I  wonder why  there's no
roof."
As  he  drew  closer,  looking  at the  house more  intently, he
noticed it was missing quite  a few  things -  a roof  among them.
The great  vaulting gables  actually did  nothing more  than form
a  framework  for  a  roof that  wasn't there.  The walls  of the
rooms  extended  only  part  way around  the building.  The floor
was only a barren platform.
Coming  to  stand right  beneath it,  Tas peered  upwards, won-
dering  what  was going  on. He  could see  hammers and  axes and
saws  lying  out  in the  open, rusting  away. From  their looks,
they hadn't been used in months. The  structure itself  was show-
ing the effects of long exposure to weather. Tas tugged  his top-
knot thoughtfully. The building had all the  makings of  the most
magnificent structure in all of Solace - if it was ever finished!
Then Tas  brightened. One  section of  the house  was finished.
All  of  the  glass  had  been carefully  placed into  the window
frames, the walls  were intact,  a roof  protected the  room from
the elements. At least Tika  has one  room of  her own,  the ken-
der thought. But, as he studied the room more closely,  his smile
faded.  Above  the  door,  he  could  see  clearly,  despite some
weathering,  the  carefully  crafted  mark denotating  a wizard's
residence.
"I might have known," Tas  said, shaking  his head.  He glanced
around.  "Well,  Tika  and  Caramon  certainly  can't  be  living
there. But that man said - Oh."
As  he  walked  around  the  huge  vallenwood  tree,   he  came
upon  a  small house,  almost lost  amidst overgrown  weeds, hid-
den  by  the  shadow  of  the  vallenwood  tree.  Obviously built
only as  a temporary  measure, it  had the  look of  becoming all
too  permanent.  If  ever  a  building  could  look  unhappy, Tas
mused, this one did. Its gables  sagged into  a frown.  Its paint
was cracked and peeling. Still,  there were  flowers in  the win-
dowboxes  and  frilly  curtains  in   the  windows.   The  kender
sighed.  So  this  was  Tika's house,  built in  the shadow  of a
dream.
Approaching the little house, he stood  outside the  door, lis-
tening  attentively.  There  was the  most awful  commotion going
on  inside. He  could hear  thuds and  glass breaking  and shouts
and thumping.
"I think you better wait out here," Tas said  to the  bundle of
clothes.
The  bundle  grunted  and   plopped  itself   comfortably  down
into the muddy road outside the house. Tas  glanced at  it uncer-
tainly,  then shrugged  and walked  up to  the door.  Putting his
hand  on  the doorknob,  he turned  it and  took a  step forward,
confidently  expecting  to  walk  right in.  Instead he  smashed his
nose on the wood. The door was locked.
"That's  odd,"  Tas  said,  stepping  back  and   looking  around.
"What  is  Tika  thinking  about?   Locking  doors!   How  barbaric.
And a bolt  lock at  that. I'm  sure I  was expected...."  He stared
at  the lock  gloomily. The  shouts and  yells continued  inside. He
thought he could hear Caramon's deep voice.
"It sure  sounds interesting  in there."  Tas glanced  around, and
felt cheered immediately. "The window! Of course!"
But,  on  hurrying  over  to  the  window,  Tas  found  it locked,
too! "I  never would  have expected  that of  Tika, of  all people,"
the  kender  commented  sadly  to  himself.  Studying  the  lock, he
noticed  it  was  a  simple one  and would  open quite  easily. From
the  set  of  tools  in  his  pouch,  Tas  removed  the lock-picking
device that is a kender's birthright.  Inserting it,  he gave  it an
expert twist and  had the  satisfaction of  hearing the  lock click.
Smiling  happily,  he  pushed  the  paned  glass  open  and  crawled
inside.  He.hit  the  floor without  a sound.  Peering back  out the
window, he saw the shapeless bundle napping in the gutter.
Relieved  on  that  point,  Tasslehoff paused  to look  around the
house,  his  sharp  eyes  taking in  everything, his  hands touching
everything.
"My,  isn't  this  interesting,"  went  Tas's  running  commentary
as  he  headed  for  the  closed  door  from  beyond which  came the
crashing  sounds.  "Tika  won't  mind if  I study  it for  a moment.
I'll put it right back." The object tumbled, of its accord, into his
pouch.  "And  look at  this! Uh-oh,  there's a  crack in  it. She'll
thank  me  for  telling  her  about  it."  That object  slipped into
another  pouch.  "And  what's  the  butter  dish  doing  clear  over
here? I'm sure Tika kept it in the pantry. I better return it to its
proper place." The butter dish settled into a third pouch.
By  this time,  Tas had  reached the  closed door.  Turning the
handle  -  (he  was  thankful  to  see Tika  hadn't locked  it as
well!) - he walked inside.
"Hullo,"  he  said  merrily.  "Remember me?  Say, this  looks like
fun!  Can I  play? Give  me something  to throw  at him,  too, Tika.
Gee,  Caramon"  -  Tas  entered  the  bedroom  and  walked  over  to
where  Tika  stood, a  breastplate in  her hand,  staring at  him in
profound  astonishment  -  "what  is  the  matter  with  you  -  you
look  awful,  just  awful!  Say,  why  are  we  throwing   armor  at
Caramon,  Tika?"  Tas  asked,  picking  up  a  chain mail  vest and
turning  to  face  the  big  warrior,  who  had  barricaded  himself
behind the bed.  "Is this  something you  two do  regularly? I've
heard  married  couples do  some strange  things, but  this seems
kind of weird -"
"Tasslehoff  Burrfoot!"  Tika  recovered  her power  of speech.
"What in the name of the gods are you doing here?"
"Why, I'm  sure Tanis  must have  told you  I was  coming," Tas
said, hurling the chain mail at Caramon.  "Hey -  this is  fun! I
found  the  front  door  locked."  Tas  gave  her  a  reproachful
glance.  "In fact,  I had  to come  in a  window, Tika,"  he said
severely.  "I  think  you  might  have  more  consideration. Any-
way, I'm supposed to meet Lady Crysania here and -"
To  Tas's  amazement,  Tika  dropped  the   breastplate,  burst
into  tears,  and  collapsed  onto the  floor. The  kender looked
over  at  Caramon,  who  was  rising  up  from  behind  the back-
board  like  a  spectre  rising  from  the  grave.  Caramon stood
looking  at  Tika  with a  lost and  wistful expression.  Then he
picked  his  way  through  pieces  of  armor  that  lay scattered
about on the floor and knelt down beside her.
"Tika," he whispered pathetically,  patting her  shoulder. "I'm
sorry. I didn't mean all those things  I said,  you know  that. I
love you! I've always loved you. It's just...  I don't  know what
to do!"
"You  know  what  to  do!"  Tika  shouted.  Pulling  away  from
him, she sprang to her feet. "I just told you! Lady Crysania's in
danger. You've got to go to her!"
"Who  is  this  Lady  Crysania?"  Caramon  yelled  back. "Why
should I give a damn whether she's in danger or not?"
"Listen  to  me  for once  in your  life," Tika  hissed through
clenched teeth, her anger drying her tears.  "Lady Crysania  is a
powerful  cleric of  Paladine, one  of the  most powerful  in the
world, next to Elistan.  She was  warned in  a dream  that Raist-
lin's evil could destroy the world. She is going to the  Tower of
High Sorcery in Wayreth to talk to Par-Salian to -"
"To get  help destroying  him, isn't  that it?"  Caramon snarled.
"And  what  if  they  did?"  Tika  flared.  "Does  he  deserve to
live? He'd kill you without a second thought!"
Caramon's  eyes  flashed  dangerously,  his  face  flushed. Tas
gulped, seeing the big man's fist clench,  but Tika  walked right
up to stand in front of him. Though her head  barely came  to his
chin, Tas  thought the  big man  cowered at  her anger.  His hand
opened weakly.
"But, no, Caramon," Tika said grimly, "she doesn't want to
destroy him. She's just as big a fool as you are. She  loves your
brother, may the gods help her. She  wants to  save him,  to turn
him from evil."
Caramon  stared  at  Tika  in  wonder.  His  expression softened.
"Truly?" he said.
"Yes,  Caramon,"  Tika  said  wearily.  "That's  why  she  came
here, to see you. She thought you  might be  able to  help. Then,
when she saw you last night -"
Caramon's  head  drooped.  His  eyes  filled  with   tears.  "A
woman, a stranger, wants to help Raist. And risks her life  to do
it." He began to blubber again.
Tika stared at him in exasperation. "Oh, for the  love of  - Go
after her, Caramon!" she cried, stamping her  foot on  the floor.
"She'll  never  reach  the  Tower  alone.  You know  that! You've
been through the Forest of Wayreth."
"Yes," Caramon said, sniffing. "I went with  Raist. I  took him
there, so he could find the Tower  and take  the Test.  That evil
Test! I guarded him. He needed me... then."
"And  Crysania  needs  you  now!"  Tika  said  grimly.  Caramon
was still standing, irresolute, and Tas saw Tika's face settle in
firm, hard lines. "You don't have  much time  to lose,  if you're
going to catch up with her. Do you remember the way?"
"I do!" shouted Tas  in excitement.  "That is,  I have  a map."
Tika  and  Caramon  turned  around  to  stare  at  the  kender in
astonishment, both having forgotten his existence.
"I  dunno,"  Caramon  said, regarding  Tas darkly.  "I remember
your maps. One  of them  took us  to a  seaport that  didn't have
any sea!"
"That  wasn't  my  fault!" Tas  cried indignantly.  "Even Tanis
said  so.  My  map  was  drawn  before  the Cataclysm  struck and
took  the  sea  away. But  you have  to take  me with  you, Cara-
mon!  I'm  supposed  to  meet  Lady  Crysania. She  sent me  on a
quest,  a  real  quest.  And I  completed it.  I found"  - sudden
movement caught Tas's attention - "oh, here she is."
He  waved  his hand,  and Tika  and Caramon  turned to  see the
shapeless bundle of clothes standing  in the  door to  their bed-
room.  Only  now  the  bundle  had  grown  two  black, suspicious
eyes.
"Me  hungry,"  said  the  bundle  to  Tas accusingly.  "When we
eat?"
"I  went  on  a  quest  for  Bupu,"  Tasslehoff  Burrfoot  said
proudly.

"But  what  in the  name of  the Abyss  does Lady  Crysania want
with  a  gully dwarf?"  Tika said  in absolute  mystification. She
had taken  Bupu to  the kitchen,  given her  some stale  bread and
half a  cheese, then  sent her  back outside  - the  gully dwarf's
smell doing nothing  to enhance  the comfort  of the  small house.
Bupu  returned  happily  to  the  gutter,  where  she supplemented
her meal by drinking water out of a puddle in the street.
"Oh,  I  promised I  wouldn't tell,"  Tas said  importantly. The
kender  was  helping  Caramon  to strap  on his  armor -  a rather
involved task,  since the  big man  was considerably  bigger since
the last time he'd worn it. Both  Tika and  Tas worked  until they
were  sweating,  tugging  on  straps,  pushing and  prodding rolls
of fat beneath the metal.
Caramon  groaned  and   moaned,  sounding   very  much   like  a
man  being  stretched  on the  rack. The  big man's  tongue licked
his lips and  his longing  gaze went  more than  once to  the bed-
room and  the small  flask Tika  had so  casually tossed  into the
corner.
"Oh,  come  now,  Tas,"  Tika   wheedled,  knowing   the  kender
couldn't keep a secret to save his life.  "I'm sure  Lady Crysania
wouldn't mind -"
Tas's  face  twisted  in  agony.  "She-she  made me  promise and
swear  to  Paladine, Tika!"  The kender's  face grew  solemn. "And
you  know  that  Fizban -  I mean  Paladine -  and I  are personal
friends."  The  kender  paused.  "Suck in  your gut,  Caramon," he
ordered irritably. "How did you ever get  yourself into  this con-
dition, anyway?"
Putting his foot against the big man's  thigh, Tas  tugged. Car-
amon yelped in pain.
"I'm  in fine  shape," the  big man  mumbled angrily.  "It's the
armor. It's shrunk or something."
"I didn't know this kind of metal shrinks," Tas said with inter-
est. "I'll bet it has to be heated! How did you do that? Or did it
just get real, real hot around here?"
"Oh, shut up!" Caramon snarled.
"I  was  only  being  helpful,"  Tas  said, wounded.  "Anyway, oh,
about Lady Crysania." His face took on  a lofty  look. "I  gave my
sacred oath. All I can say  is she  wanted me  to tell  her every-
thing I could remember  about Raistlin.  And I  did. And  this has
to  do  with  that.  Lady  Crysania's  truly  a  wonderful person,
Tika,"  Tas  continued  solemnly.  "You  might  not  have noticed,
but  I'm  not  very  religious. Kender  aren't as  a rule.  But you
don't have to be religious to  know that  there is  something truly
good   about   Lady   Crysania.  She's   smart,  too.   Maybe  even
smarter than Tanis."
Tas's  eyes  were bright  with mystery  and importance.  "I think
I can tell you this much," he said in a whisper.  "She has  a plan!
A plan to help save Raistlin! Bupu's part of  the plan.  She's tak-
ing her to Par-Salian!"
Even Caramon looked dubious at this, and Tika was pri-
vately beginning to think maybe Riverwind and Tanis were
right. Maybe Lady Crysania was mad. Still, anything that
might help Caramon, might give him some hope -
But  Caramon  had  apparently  been  working  things  out  in his
own mind. "You know. It's  all the  fault of  this Fis-Fistandoodle
or  whatever  his  name  was,"  he  said, tugging  uncomfortably at
the  leather  straps  where they  bit into  his flabby  flesh. "You
know,  that  mage  Fizban  -  er  -  Paladine  told  us  about. And
Par-Salian  knows  something  about  that,  too!" His  face bright-
ened. "We'll fix everything. I'll bring Raistlin back here, like we
planned,  Tika!  He  can  move  into  the room  we've got  fixed up
for him.  We'll take  care of  him, you  and I.  In our  new house.
It's going to be fine, fine!" Caramon's  eyes shone.  Tika couldn't
look  at  him.  He  sounded  so  much  like  the  old  Caramon, the
Caramon she had loved....
Keeping   her   expression   stern,   she  turned   abruptly  and
headed for the bedroom. "I'll go get the rest of your things -"
"Wait!"  Caramon  stopped  her.  "No,  uh -  thanks, Tika.  I can
manage. How about you - uh - pack us something to eat."
"I'll help," Tas offered, heading eagerly for the kitchen.
"Very  well,"  Tika  said.  Reaching  out, she  caught hold  of the
kender  by  the  topknot  of  hair  that  tumbled  down  his  back.
"Just  one  minute,  Tasslehoff  Burrfoot.  You're  not  going any-
where  until  you  sit  down  and  empty  out  every  one  of  your
pouches!"
Tas  wailed  in  protest.  Under  cover  of the  confusion, Cara-
mon  hurried  into  the   bedroom  and   shut  the   door.  Without
pausing, he went straight for the corner  and retrieved  the flask.
Shaking it, he found it over half-full. Smiling to himself  in sat-
isfaction, he thrust it deep  into his  pack, then  hastily crammed
some additional clothes in on top of it.
"Now, I'm all set!" he called out cheerfully to Tika.

"I'm  all  set," Caramon  repeated, standing  disconsolately on
the porch.
He  was  a  ludicrous  sight.  The  stolen  dragonarmor  he had
worn  during  the  last  months  of  the  campaign had  been com-
pletely refurbished by the big  warrior when  he arrived  back in
Solace. He had  beaten the  dents out,  cleaned and  polished and
redesigned it so completely that it no longer resembled the orig-
inal. He had taken a great deal of care with  it, then  packed it
away lovingly.  It was  still in  excellent condition.  Only now,
unfortunately, there was a  large gap  between the  shining black
chain mail that covered his chest and the  big belt  that girdled
his rotund waist. Neither he nor Tas had been  able to  strap the
metal plates that guarded his legs around  his flabby  thighs. He
had stowed  these away  in his  pack. He  groaned when  he lifted
his shield and looked at it suspiciously,  as if  certain someone
had filled it with lead weights  during the  last two  years. His
swordbelt would not fit  around his  sagging gut.  Blushing furi-
ously,  he  strapped  the  sword  in its  worn scabbard  onto his
back.
At  this  point,  Tas was  forced to  look somewhere  else. The
kender thought he was  going to  laugh but  was startled  to find
himself on the verge of tears.
"I look a fool," Caramon  muttered, seeing  Tas turn  away hur-
riedly. Bupu was staring at him  with eyes  as wide  as tea-cups,
her mouth hanging open.
"Him look just like my Highbulp, Phudge I." Bupu sighed.
A  vivid  memory  of  the fat,  slovenly king  of the  gully dwarf
clan  in  Xak  Tsaroth  came  to Tas's  mind. Grabbing  the gully
dwarf, he stuffed a hunk of bread in  her mouth  to shut  her up.
But  the  damage   had  been   done.  Apparently   Caramon,  too,
remembered.
"That does  it," he  snarled, flushing  darkly and  hurling his
shield  to  the  wooden  porch  where  it  banged  and  clattered
loudly.  "I'm  not  going!  This  was a  stupid idea  anyway!" He
stared accusingly at Tika, then, turning  around, he  started for
the door. But Tika moved to stand in front of him.
"No,"  she  said  quietly.  "You're  not  coming  back  into my
house, Caramon, until you come back one whole person."
"Him  more  like  two  whole  person," mumbled  Bupu in  a muf-
fled voice. Tas stuffed more bread in her mouth.
"You're  not  making  any  sense!"  Caramon  snapped viciously,
putting his  hand on  her shoulder.  "Get out  of my  way, Tika!"

"Listen to me,  Caramon," Tika  said. Her  voice was  soft, but
penetrating; her eyes caught  and held  the big  man's attention.
Putting her hand on his chest,  she looked  up at  him earnestly.
"You  offered  to  follow  Raistlin into  darkness, once.  Do you
remember?"
Caramon swallowed, then nodded silently, his face pale.
"He  refused,"  Tika  continued  gently,  "saying  it  would mean
your  death.  But,  don't you  see, Caramon  - you  have followed
him  into  darkness! And  you're dying  by inches!  Raistlin him-
self told you to walk your  own path  and let  him walk  his. But
you haven't done that! You're  trying to  walk both  paths, Cara-
mon. Half of you is living in darkness and the other half is try-
ing to drink away the pain and the horror you see there."
"It's my  fault!" Caramon  began to  blubber, his  voice break-
ing. "It's my fault he turned to the Black Robes. I drove  him to
it! That's what Par-Salian tried to make me see -"
Tika bit her lip. Tas could see  her face  grow grim  and stern
with anger, but she kept it inside. "Perhaps," was all  she said.
Then she drew  a deep  breath. "But  you are  not coming  back to
me  as  husband  or  even  friend  until you  come back  at peace
with yourself."
Caramon  stared at  her, looking  as though  he was  seeing her
for the first time. Tika's face was resolute and firm,  her green
eyes  were  clear and  cold. Tas  suddenly remembered  her fight-
ing draconians in the Temple at Neraka  that last  horrible night
of the War. She had looked just the same.
"Maybe  that'll be  never," Caramon  said surlily.  "Ever think
of that, huh, my fine lady?"
"Yes," Tika said steadily. "I've thought of it. Good-bye, Cara-
mon."
Turning  away  from  her  husband,  Tika  walked  back  through
the door of her house and shut it. Tas heard the bolt  slide home
with a click. Caramon heard it, too, and  flinched at  the sound.
He clenched his huge fists, and for a minute Tas feared  he might
break  down the  door. Then  his hands  went limp.  Angrily, try-
ing to  salvage some  of his  shattered dignity,  Caramon stomped
off the porch.
"I'll show her," he muttered, striding off, his  armor clanking
and clattering. "Come back, three  or four  days, with  that Lady
Crysle-whatever. Then we'll talk about this. She can't do this to
me! No, by all the gods! Three, four days,  she'll be  begging me
to come back. But maybe I will and maybe I won't...."

Tas stood, irresolute. Behind him, inside the house, his sharp
kender  ears  could  hear grief-stricken  sobbing. He  knew that
Caramon,  between  his  own   self-pitying  ramblings   and  his
clanking armor, could hear nothing. But what could he do?
"I'll take  care of  him, Tika!"  Tas shouted,  then, grabbing
Bupu, they hurried along after the big man.  Tas sighed.  Of all
the adventures he had been on, this  one was  certainly starting
out all wrong.

_CHAPTER 5_

Palanthas - fabled
city of beauty.
A city that has turned its back upon the  world and  sits gaz-
ing, with admiring eyes, into its mirror.
Who had described it thus?  Kitiara, seated  upon the  back of
her blue dragon, Skie, pondered idly as she flew within sight of
the city walls.  The late,  unlamented Dragon  Highlord Ariakas,
perhaps.  It  sounded  pretentious  enough,  like  something  he
would  say. But  he had  been right  about the  Palanthians, Kit
was  forced to  admit. So  terrified were  they of  seeing their
beloved city laid waste,  they had  negotiated a  separate peace
with the Highlords. It wasn't until right before the end  of the
war - when it was obvious they had nothing to  lose -  that they
had reluctantly joined  with others  to fight  the might  of the
Dark Queen.
Because of the heroic  sacrifice of  the Knights  of Solamnia,
the city of Palanthas was spared the  destruction that  had laid
other cities - such as Solace and Tarsis - to waste. Kit, flying
within  arrow  shot  of  the  walls,  sneered.  Now,  once more,
Palanthas  had  turned  her eyes  to her  mirror, using  the new
influx  of prosperity  to enhance  her already  legendary charm.

Thinking  this,  Kitiara  laughed  out  loud as  she saw  the stir
upon  the  Old  City  walls.  It  had  been two  years since  a blue
dragon  had  flown  above the  walls. She  could picture  the chaos,
the panic. Faintly, on the still night air, she could hear the beat-
ing of drums and the clear calls of trumpets.
Skie, too, could hear.  His blood  stirred at  the sounds  of war,
and he turned a blazing  red eye  round to  Kitiara, begging  her to
reconsider.
"No,  my  pet,"  Kitiara  called,  reaching down  to pat  his neck
soothingly.  "Now  is  not the  time! But  soon -  if we  prove suc-
cessful! Soon, I promise you!"
Skie  was  forced  to  content  himself  with  that.  He  achieved
some  satisfaction,  however,  by  breathing  a  bolt  of  lightning
from  his  gaping  jaws,  blackening  the  stone  wall as  he soared
past, keeping just  out of  arrow range.  The troops  scattered like
ants  at  his  coming,   the  dragonfear   sweeping  over   them  in
waves.
Kitiara flew slowly,  leisurely. None  dared touch  her -  a state
of  peace  existed  between her  armies in  Sanction and  the Palan-
thians,  though  there  were  some  among   the  Knights   who  were
trying  to  persuade  the  free  peoples  of  Ansalon  to  unite and
attack  Sanction  where  Kitiara  had  retreated following  the war.
But  the  Palanthians  couldn't  be  bothered.  The  war  was  over,
the threat gone.
"And daily I  grow in  strength and  in might,"  Kit said  to them
as she flew above the city, taking it all in, storing it in her mind
for future reference.
Palanthas  is   built  like   a  wheel.   All  of   the  important
buildings -  the palace  of the  reigning lord,  government offices,
and  the ancient  homes of  the nobles  - stand  in the  center. The
city revolves  around this  hub. In  the next  circle are  built the
homes  of  the  wealthy  guildsmen  -  the  "new"  rich  -  and  the
summer  homes  of  those  who  live  outside  the city  walls. Here,
too, are  the educational  centers, including  the Great  Library of
Astinus. Finally, near  the walls  of Old  City, is  the marketplace
and shops of every type and description.
Eight wide  avenues lead  out from  the center  of Old  City, like
spokes  on  the  wheel.  Trees  line  these  avenues,  lovely trees,
whose  leaves  are  like  golden  lace  all  year long.  The avenues
lead to  the seaport  to the  north and  to the  seven gates  of Old
City Wall.
Surrounding the wall, Kit saw New City, built just like Old

City,  in the  same circular  pattern. There  are no  walls around
New City, since walls "detract  from the  overall design,"  as one
of the lords put it.
Kitiara smiled.  She did  not see  the beauty  of the  city. The
trees  were  nothing  to  her.  She could  look upon  the dazzling
marvels of the seven gates without a catch in  her throat  - well,
perhaps, a small one. How  easy it  would be,  she thought  with a
sigh, to capture!
Two  other  buildings  attracted  her  interest.  One was  a new
one being built in the center of the city - a Temple, dedicated to
Paladine. The  other building  was her  destination. And,  on this
one, her gaze rested thoughtfully.
It stood out in such vivid contrast  to the  beauty of  the city
around  it  that  even  Kitiara's cold,  unfeeling gaze  noted it.
Thrusting  up  from  the  shadows  that   surrounded  it   like  a
bleached  fingerbone,  it  was  a  thing  of darkness  and twisted
ugliness, all the  more horrible  because once  it must  have been
the  most  wonderful  building  in Palanthas  - the  ancient Tower
of High Sorcery.
Shadow  surrounded  it  by  day  and  by   night,  for   it  was
guarded by a grove of huge  oak trees,  the largest  trees growing
on  Krynn,  some  of  the  more  well-traveled  whispered  in awe.
No  one  knew for  certain because  there were  none, even  of the
kender race which fears little on  this world,  who could  walk in
the trees' dread darkness.
"The  Shoikan  Grove,"  Kitiara  murmured  to  an   unseen  com-
panion. "No living being of any race dared enter it. Not  until he
came - the master of past and of present." If she said this with a
sneer in her voice, it was a sneer that quivered as Skie  began to
circle nearer and nearer that patch of blackness.
The  blue  dragon  settled  down   upon  the   empty,  abandoned
streets near the  Shoikan Grove.  Kit had  urged Skie  with every-
thing from bribes to dire threats to fly her over the Grove to the
Tower  itself.  But  Skie, although  he would  have shed  the last
drop of his blood for his master, refused her this. It  was beyond
his  power.  No  mortal  being,  not  even  a dragon,  could enter
that accursed ring of guardian oaks.
Skie  stood glaring  into the  grove with  hatred, his  red eyes
burning,  while  his claws  nervously tore  up the  paving stones.
He  would  have  prevented  his  master  from  entering,   but  he
knew  Kitiara  well.  Once  her  mind  was  set   upon  something,
nothing  could  deter  her.  So  Skie  folded his  great, leathery

wings  around  his  body  and  gazed at  this fat,  beautiful city
while  thoughts  of  flames and  smoke and  death filled  him with
longing.
Kitiara  dismounted  from  her  dragonsaddle slowly.  The silver
moon, Solinari, was a  pale, severed  head in  the sky.  Its twin,
the red moon  Lunitari, had  just barely  risen and  now flickered
on the horizon like the wick of a dying candle. The faint light of
both  moons  shimmered  in  Kitiara's  dragonscale  armor, turning
it a ghastly blood-hued color.
Kit  studied the  grove intently,  took a  step toward  it, then
stopped nervously. Behind her, she  could hear  a rustle  - Skie's
wings giving  unspoken advice  - Let  us flee  this place  of doom,
lady! Flee while we still have our lives!
Kitiara  swallowed.  Her  tongue  felt  dry  and   swollen.  Her
stomach  muscles knotted  painfully. Vivid  memories of  her first
battle returned to her, the first time she had faced an  enemy and
known  that  she  must kill  this man  - or  she herself  would be
dead.  Then, she  had conquered  with the  skillful thrust  of her
sword blade. But this?
"I  have  walked  many dark  places upon  this world,"  Kit said
to her unseen  companion in  a deep,  low voice,  "and I  have not
known fear. But I cannot enter here."
"Simply hold  the jewel  he gave  you high  in your  hand," said
her  companion,  materializing  out of  the night.  "The Guardians
of the Grove will be powerless to harm you."
Kitiara looked into the dense  ring of  tall trees.  Their vast,
spreading branches blotted  out the  light of  moons and  stars by
night,  of the  sun by  day. Around  their roots  flowed perpetual
night.  No soft  breeze touched  their hoary  arms, no  storm wind
moved the  great limbs.  It was  said that  even during  the awful
days  before  the  Cataclysm, when  storms the  like of  which had
not  been  known  before  on Krynn  swept the  land, the  trees of
Shoikan Grove alone had not bent to the anger of the gods.
But,  more horrible  even than  their everlasting  darkness, was
the echo of everlasting life that pulsed  from deep  within. Ever-
lasting life, everlasting misery and torment...
"What  you  say  my  head  believes," Kitiara  answered, shiver-
ing, "but my heart does not, Lord Soth."
"Turn  back,  then,"  the  death  knight   answered,  shrugging.
"Show  him  that  the  most  powerful   Dragon  Highlord   in  the
world is a coward."
Kitiara stared at  Soth from  the eye  slits of  her dragonhelm.

Her  brown  eyes  glinted,  her  hand  closed   spasmodically  over
the hilt of her  sword. Soth  returned her  gaze, the  orange flame
flickering  within his  eyesockets burned  bright in  hideous mock-
ery.  And  if  his  eyes laughed  at her,  what would  those golden
eyes of the mage reveal? Not laughter - triumph!
Compressing  her  lips  tightly,  Kitiara  reached for  the chain
around  her  neck  where  hung  the  charm  Raistlin had  sent her.
Grasping hold of the chain, she gave it a  quick jerk,  snapping it
easily. Then she held the jewel in her gloved hand.
Black as dragon's blood, the jewel felt cold to the  touch, radi-
ating a chill even  through her  heavy, leather  gloves. Unshining,
unlovely, it lay heavy in her palm.
"How  can  these  Guardians  see  it?"  Kitiara  demanded,  hold-
ing it to the moons' light. "Look, it does not gleam or sparkle. It
seems I hold nothing more than a lump of coal in my hand."
"The  moon  that  shines  upon  the  nightjewel  you  cannot see,
nor can  any see  save those  who worship  it," Lord  Soth replied.
"Those  - and  the dead  who, like  me, have  been damned  to eter-
nal life. We can see it! For us,  it shines  more clearly  than any
light in the sky. Hold it high, Kitiara, hold it high and walk for-
ward.  The  Guardians  will  not  stop  you.  Take  off  your helm,
that they may look upon your face and  see the  light of  the jewel
reflected in your eyes."
Kitiara  hesitated  a  moment  longer.  Then  - with  thoughts of
Raistlin's  mocking  laughter  ringing  in  her  ears -  the Dragon
Highlord  removed  the  horned  dragonhelm  from  her  head.  Still
she  stood,  glancing  around.  No  wind  ruffled  her  dark curls.
She felt cold sweat trickle down  her temple.  With an  angry flick
of her glove, she wiped  it away.  Behind her,  she could  hear the
dragon  whimper  -  a  strange  sound,  one  she  had  never  heard
Skie  make  before.  Her  resolution  faltered.  The  hand  holding
the jewel shook.
"They feed off fear, Kitiara," said Lord  Soth softly.  "Hold the
jewel high, let them see it reflected in your eyes!"
Show  him  you  are  a   coward!  Those   words  echoed   in  her
mind. Clutching  the nightjewel,  lifting it  high above  her head,
Kitiara entered Shoikan Grove.
Darkness  descended,  dropping  over  her  so   suddenly  Kitiara
thought  for  one   horrible,  paralyzing   moment  she   had  been
struck blind. Only the sight of Lord  Soth's flaming  eyes flicker-
ing  within  his pale,  skeletal visage  reassured her.  She forced
herself  to stand  there calmly,  letting that  debilitating moment

of fear fade. And then she noticed,  for the  first time,  a light
gleam from the  jewel. It  was like  no other  light she  had ever
seen. It did not illuminate the  darkness so  much as  allow Kiti-
ara to distinguish  all that  lived within  the darkness  from the
darkness itself.
By  the  jewel's  power,  Kitiara  could begin  to make  out the
trunks of the living trees.  And now  she could  see a  path form-
ing at her feet. Like a river of night, it flowed onward, into the
trees,  and  she  had  the  eerie sensation  that she  was flowing
along with it.
Fascinated,  she  watched  her feet  move, carrying  her forward
without her volition. The  Grove had  tried to  keep her  out, she
realized in horror. Now, it was drawing her in!
Desperately  she  fought  to  regain  control  of her  own body.
Finally, she won - or  so she  presumed. At  least, she  quit mov-
ing.  But  now  she  could do  nothing but  stand in  that flowing
darkness  and  shiver,  her  body  racked   by  spasms   of  fear.
Branches   creaked   overhead,  cackling   at  the   joke.  Leaves
brushed her face. Frantically, Kit  tried to  bat them  away, then
she stopped. Their  touch was  chill, but  not unpleasant.  It was
almost a caress, a gesture  of respect.  She had  been recognized,
known  for  one  of  their  own. Immediately,  Kit was  in command
of herself once more. Lifting her head, she  made herself  look at
the path.
It  was  not  moving.  That had  been an  illusion borne  of her
own  terror.  Kit smiled  grimly. The  trees themselves  were mov-
ing! Standing aside to  let her  pass. Kitiara's  confidence rose.
She walked  the path  with firm  steps and  even turned  to glance
triumphantly  at  Lord  Soth,  who  walked  a  few   paces  behind
her. The death knight did not appear to notice her, however.
"Probably  communing  with  his  fellow  spirits,"  Kit  said to
herself with a laugh that was twisted, suddenly, into a  shriek of
sheer terror.
Something  had  caught  hold  of  her  ankle!   A  bone-freezing
chill  was  seeping  slowly  through her  body, turning  her blood
and  her  nerves to  ice. The  pain was  intense. She  screamed in
agony.  Clutching  at  her  leg,  Kitiara  saw  what  had  grabbed
her - a white hand!  Reaching up  from the  ground, its  bony fin-
gers were wrapped  tightly around  her ankle.  It was  sucking the
life out of her, Kit realized, feeling the warmth leave. And then,
horrified, she saw  her foot  begin to  disappear into  the oozing
soil.

Panic  swept  her  mind.  Frantically  she  kicked at  the hand,
trying to break its freezing grip. But it held  her fast,  and yet
another  hand  reached  up from  the black  path and  grabbed hold
of her other ankle. Screaming in terror, Kitiara lost  her balance
and plunged to the ground.
"Don't  drop  the  jewel!"  came  Lord  Soth's  lifeless  voice.
"They will drag you under!"
Kitiara kept hold of the jewel, clutching it in her hand even as
she fought and twisted, trying  to escape  the deathly  grasp that
was  slowly  drawing  her  down  to  share  its grave.  "Help me!"
she cried, her terror-stricken gaze seeking Soth.
"I cannot,"  the death  knight answered  grimly. "My  magic will
not  work here.  The strength  of your  own will  is all  that can
save you now, Kitiara. Remember the jewel...."
For a moment, Kitiara lay quite still, shivering at the chilling
touch.  And  then  anger  coursed  through her  body. How  dare he
do  this to  me! she  thought, seeing,  once more,  mocking golden
eyes  enjoying her  torture. Her  anger thawed  the chill  of fear
and  burned  away  the  panic.  She  was calm  now. She  knew what
she  must  do.  Slowly,  she pushed  herself up  out of  the dirt.
Then, coldly and  deliberately, she  held the  jewel down  next to
the skeletal hand and, shuddering, touched the  jewel to  the pal-
lid flesh.
A  muffled  curse  rumbled from  the depths  of the  ground. The
hand quivered, then released its grip, sliding back into  the rot-
ting leaves beside the trail.
Swiftly,  Kitiara  touched  the  jewel  to  the other  hand that
grasped  her.  It,  too, vanished.  The Dragon  Highlord scrambled
to her feet and stared around. Then she held the jewel aloft.
"See  this,  you  accursed  creatures  of  living   death?"  she
screamed shrilly. "You will not stop me! I will pass! Do  you hear
me? I will pass!"
There  was  no  answer.  The  branches  creaked  no  longer, the
leaves hung  limply. After  standing a  moment longer  in silence,
the  jewel in  her hand,  Kitiara started  walking down  the trail
once  more,  cursing Raistlin  beneath her  breath. She  was aware
of Lord Soth near her.
"Not  much  farther," he  said. "Once  again, Kitiara,  you have
earned my admiration."
Kitiara did not answer. Her anger was gone, leaving a hollow
place in the pit of her stomach that was rapidly filling up again
with fear. She did not trust herself to speak. But she  kept walk-

ing, her eyes now focused  grimly on  the path  ahead of  her. All
around  her now,  she could  see the  fingers digging  through the
soil, seeking the living flesh they both  craved and  hated. Pale,
hollow visages glared at her from the  trees, black  and shapeless
things flitted about her, filling the cold, clammy air with a foul
scent of death and decay.
But,  though  the  gloved  hand  that held  the jewel  shook, it
never wavered. The fleshless fingers did not  stop her.  The faces
with  their  gaping  mouths  howled  in vain  for her  warm blood.
Slowly,  the  oak  trees  continued  to  part before  Kitiara, the
branches bending back out of the way.
There, standing at the trail's end, was Raistlin.
' "I should kill you, you damned bastard!" Kitiara said
through numb lips, her hand on the hilt of her sword.
"I am overjoyed to see you, too, my sister," Raistlin replied in
his soft voice.
It was the first time  brother and  sister had  met in  over two
years.  Now  that  she  was  out  from among  the darkness  of the
trees, Kitiara could see her brother, standing in  Solinari's pale
light. He was dressed in robes of the  finest black  velvet. Hang-
ing from his slightly stooped, thin shoulders,  they fell  in soft
folds around his slender  body. Silver  runes were  stitched about
the hood that covered his head,  leaving all  but his  golden eyes
in shadow.  The largest  rune was  in the  center -  an hourglass.
Other silver runes sparkled in the moons' light upon the  cuffs of
his wide, full sleeves. He leaned  upon the  Staff of  Magius, its
crystal,   which   flamed   into   light   only   upon  Raistlin's
command - dark and cold, clutched in a golden dragon's claw.
"I  should  kill  you!"  Kitiara repeated,  and, before  she was
quite  aware  of  what she  did, she  cast a  glance at  the death
knight, who seemed to form out of  the darkness  of the  grove. It
was a  glance, not  of command,  but of  invitation -  an unspoken
challenge.
Raistlin  smiled,  the  rare smile  that few  ever saw.  It was,
however, lost in the shadows of his hood.
"Lord Soth," he said, turning to greet the death knight.
Kitiara  bit  her  lip  as Raistlin's  hourglass eyes  studied the
undead knight's armor. Here were  still the  graven symbols  of a
Knight  of  Solamnia  -  the  Rose  and  the  Kingfisher  and  the
Sword - but all were blackened as if the armor burned in a fire.
"Knight of  the Black  Rose," continued  Raistlin, "who  died in
flames  in  the  Cataclysm  before  the curse  of the  elfmaid you

wronged dragged you back to bitter life."
"Such  is  my  tale,"  the  death  knight  said  without moving.
"And you are Raistlin,  master of  past and  present, the  one fore-
told."
The two  stood, staring  at each  other, both  forgetting Kitiara,
who  -  feeling  the  silent,  deadly  contest  being  waged between
the  two  -  forgot  her own  anger, holding  her breath  to witness
the outcome.
"Your  magic  is   strong,"  Raistlin   commented.  A   soft  wind
stirred the branches of the oak trees, caressed  the black  folds of
the mage's robes.
"Yes," said Lord Soth quietly. "I can kill with  a single  word. I
can hurl a  ball of  fire into  the midst  of my  enemies. I  rule a
squadron  of  skeletal  warriors,  who can  destroy by  touch alone.
I can raise a wall of ice to protect those I serve. The invisible is
discernible  to  my  eyes.  Ordinary  magic  spells  crumble  in  my
presence."
Raistlin nodded, the folds of his hood moving gently.
Lord Soth stared at the mage without speaking. Walking
close  to Raistlin,  he stopped  only inches  from the  mage's frail
body. Kitiara's breath came fast.
Then,  with  a  courtly  gesture,  the  cursed Knight  of Solamnia
placed  his  hand over  that portion  of his  anatomy that  had once
contained his heart.
"But I bow in the presence of a master," Lord Soth said.
Kitiara chewed her lip, checking an exclamation.
Raistlin  glanced  over  at  her  quickly,  amusement  flashing in
his golden, hourglass eyes.
"Disappointed, my dear sister?"
But  Kitiara  was  well  accustomed  to  the  shifting  winds of
fate.  She  had  scouted   out  the   enemy,  discovered   what  she
needed  to  know.  Now  she  could  proceed  with  the  battle.  "Of
course not,  little brother,"  she answered  with the  crooked smile
that  so  many  had  found  so charming.  "After all,  it was  you I
came to see. It's been too long since we visited. You look well."
"Oh, I am,  dear sister,"  Raistlin said.  Coming forward,  he put
his thin hand  upon her  arm. She  started at  his touch,  his flesh
felt hot, as  though he  burned with  fever. But  - seeing  his eyes
intent upon  her, noting  every reaction  - she  did not  flinch. He
smiled.
"It  has been  so long  since we  saw each  other last.  What, two
years? Two  years  ago this  spring, in  fact," he  continued, con-

versationally, holding Kitiara's  arm within  his hand.  His voice
was filled with mockery. "It  was in  the Temple  of the  Queen of
Darkness  at  Neraka,  that fateful  night when  my queen  met her
downfall and was banished from the world -"
"Thanks  to  your  treachery,"  Kitiara snapped,  trying, unsuc-
cessfully, to break free of his grip. Raistlin kept his  hand upon
Kitiara's arm.  Though taller  and stronger  than the  frail mage,
and  seemingly  capable  of  breaking  him  in  two with  her bare
hands,  Kitiara  - nevertheless  - found  herself longing  to pull
away from that burning touch, yet not daring to move.
Raistlin  laughed  and,  drawing her  with him,  led her  to the
outer gates of the Tower of High Sorcery.
"Shall we talk of  treachery, dear  sister? Didn't  you rejoice
when I  used my  magic to  destroy Lord  Ariakas's shield  of pro-
tection,  allowing  Tanis  Half-Elven  the  chance  to  plunge his
sword  into  the body  of your  lord and  master? Did  not I  - by
that  action  -  make  you  the most  powerful Dragon  Highlord in
Krynn?"
"A  lot  of  good it  has done  me!" Kitiara  returned bitterly.
"Kept  almost  a  prisoner  in  Sanction  by  the foul  Knights of
Solamnia,  who rule  the lands  all about!  Guarded day  and night
by  golden  dragons,  my  every  move  watched.  My  armies  scat-
tered, roaming the land...."
"Yet  you  came  here,"  Raistlin  said  simply. "Did  the gold
dragons stop you? Did the Knights know of your leaving?"
Kitiara stopped on  the path  leading to  the tower,  staring at
her brother in amazement. "Your doing?"
"Of  course!"  Raistlin shrugged.  "But, we  will talk  of these
matters later, dear sister," he said as they walked. "You are cold
and  hungry.  The  Shoikan  Grove  shakes the  nerves of  the most
stalwart.   Only   one  other   person  has   successfully  passed
through its borders, with my help,  of course.  I expected  you to
do well, but I must admit I was a bit surprised at the  courage of
Lady Crysania -"
"Lady Crysania!" Kitiara repeated, stunned. "A Revered
Daughter of Paladine! You allowed her - here?"
"I  not  only  allowed  her, I  invited her,"  Raistlin answered
imperturbably.  "Without  that  invitation  and  a charm  of ward-
ing, of course, she could never have passed."
"And she came?"
"Oh,  quite eagerly,  I assure  you." Now  it was  Raistlin who
paused. They stood outside the entrance to the Tower of High

Sorcery.  Torchlight  from  the  windows  shone  upon his  face. Kit-
iara could see it clearly. The lips were twisted in a smile, his flat
golden  eyes  shone  cold  and  brittle  as  winter  sunlight. "Quite
eagerly," he repeated softly.
Kitiara began to laugh.

Late that night, after the  two moons  had set,  in the  still dark
hours before the dawn, Kitiara sat  in Raistlin's  study, a  glass of
dark-red wine in her hands, her brows creased in a frown.
The  study  was  comfortable,  or  so  it  seemed  to   look  upon.
Large,  plush  chairs  of  the  best  fabric and  finest construction
stood  upon  hand-woven  carpets  only   the  wealthiest   people  in
Krynn  could  afford  to  own.  Decorated  with  woven   pictures  of
fanciful  beasts  and  colorful  flowers, they  drew the  eye, tempt-
ing  the  viewer  to  lose himself  for long  hours in  their beauty.
Carved  wooden  tables  stood  here  and  there,  objects   rare  and
beautiful - or rare and ghastly - ornamented the room.
But  its  predominant  feature were  the books.  It was  lined with
deep   wooden   shelves,   holding    hundreds   and    hundreds   of
books.  Many   were  similar   in  appearance,   all  bound   with  a
nightblue  binding, decorated  with runes  of silver.  It was  a com-
fortable  room,  but,  despite  a  roaring  fire  blazing in  a huge,
gaping  fireplace  at  one  end  of  the  study,  there  was  a bone-
chilling cold in the air. Kitiara was  not certain,  but she  had the
feeling it came from the books.
Lord  Soth  stood  far  from  the  fire's  light,  hidden   in  the
shadows.  Kit  could  not  see  him,  but  she   was  aware   of  his
presence - as  was Raistlin.  The mage  sat opposite  his half-sister
in a large  chair behind  a gigantic  desk of  black wood,  carved so
cunningly  that  the creatures  decorating it  seemed to  watch Kiti-
ara with their wooden eyes.
Squirming   uncomfortably,   she   drank   her   wine,   too  fast.
Although  well  accustomed  to  strong   drink,  she   was  beginning
to feel giddy, and she hated that  feeling. It  meant she  was losing
control.  Angrily,  she  thrust  the  glass  away  from  her,  deter-
mined to drink no more.
"This plan of  yours is  crazy!" she  told Raistlin  irritably. Not
liking  the  gaze of  those golden  eyes upon  her, Kitiara  stood up
and  began  to  pace  the  room.  "It's senseless!  A waste  of time.
With  your  help,  we  could  rule  Ansalon,  you and  I. In  fact" -
Kitiara  turned  suddenly,  her  face alight  with eagerness  - "with
your  power  we  could  rule  the  world!  We  don't  need  Lady Cry-

sania or our hulking brother -"
" 'Rule the world,' " Raistlin repeated  softly, his  eyes burn-
ing.  "Rule  the  world? You  still don't  understand, do  you, my
dear sister? Let me  make this  as plain  as I  know how."  Now it
was his turn to stand up. Pressing his thin  hands upon  the desk,
he leaned toward her, like a snake.
"I don't give a damn about the world!" he said softly.  "I could
rule it tomorrow if I wanted it! I don't."
"You  don't  want  the  world." Kit  shrugged, her  voice bitter
with sarcasm. "Then that leaves only -"
Kitiara almost bit her tongue.  She stared  at Raistlin  in won-
der.  In  the  shadows  of  the  room,  Lord  Soth's  flaming eyes
blazed more brightly than the fire.
"Now  you  understand."  Raistlin  smiled  in  satisfaction  and
resumed  his  seat  once  more.  "Now  you  see the  importance of
this  Revered Daughter  of Paladine!  It was  fate brought  her to
me, just when I was nearing the time for my journey."
Kitiara could only stare at him, aghast. Finally, she  found her
voice.  "How  -  how  do  you  know  she  will follow  you? Surely
you didn't tell her!"
"Only  enough  to  plant  the  seed  in  her  breast."  Raistlin
smiled, looking back  to that  meeting. Leaning  back, he  put his
thin fingers to  his lips.  "My performance  was, frankly,  one of
my  best.  Reluctantly  I  spoke, my  words drawn  from me  by her
goodness  and  purity.  They  came  out,  stained with  blood, and
she  was  mine...  lost  through her  own pity."  He came  back to
the present with a start. "She will come," he said coldly, sitting
forward once more. "She  and that  buffoon of  a brother.  He will
serve  me unwittingly,  of course.  But then,  that's how  he does
everything."
Kitiara put her hand to her  head, feeling  her blood  pulse. It
was not the wine, she was cold sober  now. It  was fury  and frus-
tration. He could help  me! she  thought angrily.  He is  truly as
powerful as they said.  More so!  But he's  insane. He's  lost his
mind....  Then,  unbidden,  a  voice  spoke  to  her   from  some-
where deep inside.
What  if  he  isn't  insane?  What  if he  really means  to go
through with this?
Coldly,  Kitiara considered  his plan,  looking at  it carefully
from all  angles. What  she saw  horrified her.  No. He  could not
win! And, worse, he would probably drag her down with him!
These  thoughts  passed  through  Kit's  mind swiftly,  and none

of them showed on her  face. In  fact, her  smile grew  only more
charming.  Many  were  the  men  who had  died, that  smile their
last vision.
Raistlin might have been considering that as  he looked  at her
intently. "You can be on a winning side for a change, my sister."
Kitiara's conviction wavered. If he could pull it off, it would
be glorious! Glorious! Krynn would be hers.
Kit looked at  the mage.  Twenty-eight years  ago, he  had been
a  newborn  baby,  sick and  weakly, a  frail counterpart  to his
strong, robust twin brother.
"Let 'im die. 'Twill be best in the long run," the  midwife had
said. Kitiara had been a teenager then.  Appalled, she  heard her
mother weepingly agree.
But  Kitiara  had  refused.  Something within  her rose  to the
challenge.  The  baby  would  live!  She  would  make  him  live,
whether he wanted to or not. "My first fight,"  she used  to tell
people proudly, "was with the gods. And I won!"
And  now!  Kitiara  studied  him. She  saw the  man. She  saw -
in  her mind's  eye -  that whining,  puking baby.  Abruptly, she
turned away.
"I must get back," she said, pulling on  her gloves.  "You will
contact me upon your return?"
"If I am successful,  there will  be no  need to  contact you,"
Raistlin said softly. "You will know!"
Kitiara  almost  sneered but  caught herself  quickly. Glancing
at Lord Soth,  she prepared  to leave  the room.  "Farewell then,
my brother." Controlled as she was,  she could  not keep  an edge
of anger from her voice. "I am sorry you do  not share  my desire
for  the  good  things  of  this  life! We  could have  done much
together, you and I!"
"Farewell,  Kitiara,"  Raistlin said,  his thin  hand summoning
the shadowy  forms of  those who  served him  to show  his guests
to the  door. "Oh,  by the  way," he  added as  Kit stood  in the
doorway, "I owe you my  life, dear  sister. At  least, so  I have
been told. I just wanted to let you know that - with the death of
Lord  Ariakas,  who  would,  undoubtedly,  have  killed  you  - I
consider my debt paid. I owe you nothing!"
Kitiara  stared into  the mage's  golden eyes,  seeking threat,
promise,  what?  But  there was  nothing there.  Absolutely noth-
ing. And  then, in  an instant,  Raistlin spoke  a word  of magic
and vanished from her sight.
The way out of Shoikan Grove was not difficult. The guard-

ians had no care for those who  left the  Tower. Kitiara  and Lord
Soth  walked  together,  the   death  knight   moving  soundlessly
through the Grove, his feet  leaving no  impression on  the leaves
that lay  dead and  decaying on  the ground.  Spring did  not come
to Shoikan Grove.
Kitiara did not speak until  they had  passed the  outer perime-
ter of trees and once more stood upon the  solid paving  stones of
the city of  Palanthas. The  sun was  rising, the  sky brightening
from its deep night blue  to a  pale gray.  Here and  there, those
Palanthians  whose  business called  for them  to rise  early were
waking. Far  down the  street, past  the abandoned  buildings that
surrounded  the  Tower,  Kitiara  could  hear  marching  feet, the
changing of  the watch  upon the  wall. She  was among  the living
once again.
She drew a deep  breath, then,  "He must  be stopped,"  she said
to Lord Soth.
The  death  knight  made  no  comment,  one  way  or   the  other.
"It will  not be  easy, I  know," Kitiara  said, drawing  the dra-
gonhelm  over  her  head  and  walking  rapidly  toward  Skie, who
had  reared  his  head  in  triumph at  her approach.  Patting her
dragon lovingly upon his neck,  Kitiara turned  to face  the death
knight.
"But we do not have  to confront  Raistlin directly.  His scheme
hinges  upon  Lady  Crysania.  Remove  her,  and  we stop  him. He
need  never  know  I had  anything to  do with  it, in  fact. Many
have died, trying to enter the Forest of Wayreth. Isn't that so?"
Lord Soth nodded, his flaming eyes flaring slightly.
"You handle it.  Make it  appear to  be... fate,"  Kitiara said.
"My  little  brother  believes in  that, apparently."  She mounted
her dragon. "When he was  small, I  taught him  that to  refuse to
do  my  bidding  meant  a whipping.  It seems  he must  learn that
lesson again!"
At  her  command,  Skie's  powerful  hind  legs  dug   into  the
pavement, cracking  and breaking  the stones.  He leaped  into the
air,  spread  his  wings,  and  soared into  the morning  sky. The
people of Palanthas felt a shadow lift from their hearts, but that
was all they knew. Few saw the dragon or its rider leave.
Lord Soth remained standing upon the fringes of Shoikan
Grove.
"I, too, believe in fate, Kitiara,"  the death  knight murmured.
"The fate a man makes himself."
Glancing  up  at  the  windows  of  the  Tower of  High Sorcery,

Soth saw the  light extinguished  from the  room where  they had
been. For a brief instant, the Tower was shrouded in the perpet-
ual darkness that  seemed to  linger around  it, a  darkness the
sun's light could not penetrate. Then  one light  gleamed forth,
from a room at the top of the tower.
The  mage's  laboratory,  the  dark  and  secret   room  where
Raistlin worked his magic.
"Who  will  learn  this  lesson,  I  wonder?"  Soth  murmured.
Shrugging,  he  disappeared,  melting  into  the  waning shadows
as daylight approached.

_CHAPTER 6_

Let's stop at this
place,"  Caramon  said,  heading for  a ramshackle  building that
stood huddled back  away from  the trail,  lurking in  the forest
like a sulking beast. "Maybe she's been in here."
"I really doubt it," said  Tas, dubiously  eyeing the  sign that
hung  by  one  chain over  the door.  "The 'Cracked  Mug' doesn't
seem quite the place -"
"Nonsense,"   growled   Caramon,   as   he   had   growled  more
times on this journey already than Tas could  count, "she  has to
eat.  Even  great,  muckety-muck  clerics have  to eat.  Or maybe
someone in here will have  seen some  sign of  her on  the trail.
We're not having any luck."
"No,"  muttered  Tasslehoff  beneath his  breath, "but  we might
have more luck if we searched the road, not taverns."
They  had  been on  the road  three days,  and Tas's  worst mis-
givings about this adventure had proved true.
Ordinarily, kender  are enthusiastic  travelers. All  kender are
stricken  with  wanderlust somewhere  near their  twentieth year.
At this time, they gleefully strike out for parts unknown, intent
on  finding  nothing  except  adventure  and  whatever beautiful,
horrible, or curious items might by chance fall into  their bulg-
ing  pouches.  Completely  immune  to  the  self-preserving emo-
tion of fear,  afflicted by  unquenchable curiosity,  the kender
population  on  Krynn was  not a  large one,  for which  most of
Krynn was devoutly grateful.
Tasslehoff Burrfoot, now nearing his thirtieth year  (at least
as far as he could remember),  was, in  most regards,  a typical
kender. He had journeyed the  length and  breadth of  the conti-
nent of Ansalon, first with his parents before they  had settled
down  in  Kenderhome.  After  coming  of  age,  he  wandered  by
himself  until he  met Flint  Fireforge, the  dwarven metalsmith
and  his  friend,  Tanis  Half-Elven.  After  Sturm Brightblade,
Knight  of  Solamnia,  and  the  twins,  Caramon  and  Raistlin,
joined  them,  Tas  became  involved   in  the   most  wonderful
adventure of his life - the War of the Lance.
But, in some respects,  Tasslehoff was  not a  typical kender,
although he would  have denied  this if  it were  mentioned. The
loss  of  two  people he  loved dearly  - Sturm  Brightblade and
Flint  -  touched the  kender deeply.  He had  come to  know the
emotion of fear, not fear for himself, but fear and  concern for
those  he  cared  about.  His  concern  for Caramon,  right now,
was deep.
And it grew daily.
At first, the trip had been fun. Once Caramon  got over  his fit
of sulks about Tika's hard-heartedness and the inability  of the
world in general to  understand him,  he had  taken a  few swigs
from his flask  and felt  better. After  several more  swigs, he
began to relate  stories about  his days  helping to  track down
draconians.  Tas  found  this  amusing  and   entertaining  and,
though  he continually  had to  watch Bupu  to make  certain she
didn't get run  over by  a wagon  or wander  into a  mudhole, he
enjoyed his morning.
By  afternoon,  the  flask  was  empty,  and Caramon  was even
in such a good humor as to be ready to listen  to some  of Tas's
stories,  which  the  kender never  tired of  relating. Unfortu-
nately, right at the best part,  when he  was escaping  with the
woolly  mammoth   and  the   wizards  were   shooting  lightning
bolts at him, Caramon came to a tavern.
"Just fill up the flask," he mumbled and went inside.
Tas started to follow, then saw Bupu staring in open-
mouthed  wonder  at  the red-hot  blacksmith's forge  across the
road. Realizing she would either set herself or the town or both
on fire, and knowing that he couldn't take  her into  the tavern

(most refused to  serve gully  dwarves), Tas  decided to  stay out
and  keep  an eye  on her.  After all,  Caramon would  probably be
only a few minutes....
Two hours later, the big man stumbled out.
"Where  in  the  Abyss  have you  been?" Tas  demanded, pounc-
ing on Caramon like a cat.
"Jusht having a... having a little..." Caramon swayed
unsteadily, "one for the... road."
"I'm on a quest!" Tas yelled in  exasperation. "My  first quest,
given  to  me  by  an  Important  Person,  who  may be  in danger.
And I've been stuck out here two  hours with  a gully  dwarf!" Tas
pointed at Bupu, who was asleep in  a ditch.  "I've never  been so
bored in my life, and you're in there soaking up dwarf spirits!"
Caramon glared at him, his lips  pursed into  a pout.  'You know
shomething," the big  man muttered  as he  staggered off  down the
road, "you're st-starting to shound a lot like Tika...."
Things went rapidly downhill from there.
That night they came to the crossroads.
"Let's go this way," Tas said,  pointing. "Lady  Crysania's cer-
tain to know people are going to try  to stop  her. She'll  take a
route that's not very well traveled to try and throw  off pursuit.
I think we should follow  the same  trail we  took two  years ago,
when we left Solace -"
"Nonsense!"  Caramon  snorted.  "She's  a  woman  and  a cleric
to boot. She'll take the easiest road. We'll go by way of Haven."
Tas  had  been  dubious  about  this  decision,  and  his doubts
proved  well-founded.  They  hadn't  traveled  more  than   a  few
miles when they came to another tavern.
Caramon  went  in  to  find  out  if  anyone  had seen  a person
matching  Lady   Crysania's  description,   leaving  Tas   -  once
again - with Bupu. An  hour later  the big  man emerged,  his face
flushed and cheerful.
"Well, has anyone seen her?" Tas asked irritably.
"Seen who? Oh - her. No...."
And  now,  two  days later,  they were  only about  halfway to
Haven.  But  the  kender  could have  written a  book describing
the taverns along the way.
"In the old days," Tas fumed,  "we could  have walked  to Tarsis
and back in this time!"
"I  was  younger  then,  and  immature.  My  body's  mature now,
and I have to build up my strength," Caramon said loftily, "little
by little."

"He's building up something little by little," Tas said to him-
self grimly, "but strength isn't it!"
Caramon  could  not  walk  much  more  than  an hour  before he
was forced to sit down and rest.  Often he  collapsed completely,
moaning in pain, sweat rolling off his body.  It would  take Tas,
Bupu, and the flask of dwarf spirits to get him back on  his feet
again.  He  complained  bitterly   and  continually.   His  armor
chafed, he was hungry, the sun was  too hot,  he was  thirsty. At
night, he insisted that they stop in some wretched inn.  Then Tas
had the thrill of watching the big  man drink  himself senseless.
Tas  and  the  bartender  would  haul  him to  his room  where he
would sleep until half the morning was gone.
After the third day of  this (and  their twentieth  tavern) and
still  no  sign  of  Lady Crysania,  Tasslehoff was  beginning to
think  seriously  about  returning to  Kenderhome, buying  a nice
little house, and retiring from adventuring.
It  was  about  midday when  they arrived  at the  Cracked Mug.
Caramon  immediately  disappeared  inside.  Heaving  a  sigh that
came from  the toes  of his  new, bright  green shoes,  Tas stood
with Bupu, looking at the outside of the  slovenly place  in grim
silence.
"Me  no  like  this  anymore,"  Bupu  announced. She  glared at
Tas accusingly. "You say we go find pretty man in red  robes. All
we  find is  one fat  drunk. I  go back  home, back  to Highbulp,
Phudge I."
"No, don't leave! Not yet!" Tas cried desperately.  "We'll find
the - uh - pretty man. Or  at least  a pretty  lady who  wants to
help  the  pretty  man.  Maybe...  maybe  we'll  learn  something
here."
It  was  obvious Bupu  didn't believe  him. Tas  didn't believe
himself.
"Look," he said, "just wait for me here. It won't be  much far-
ther.  I  know -  I'll bring  you something  to eat.  Promise you
won't leave?"
Bupu smacked  her lips,  eyeing Tas  dubiously. "Me  wait," she
said, plopping down  into the  muddy road.  "At least  till after
lunch."
Tas, his pointed chin jutting out firmly, followed Caramon
into  the  tavern. He  and Caramon  were going  to have  a little
talk -
As it turned out, however, that wasn't necessary.
"Your  health,  gentlemen,"  Caramon said,  raising a  glass to

the slovenly crowd gathered  in the  bar. There  weren't many  - a
couple of traveling dwarves, who sat  near the  door, and  a party
of humans, dressed like rangers, who lifted  their mugs  in return
to Caramon's salute.
Tas  sat down  next to  Caramon, so  depressed that  he actually
returned  a  purse  his  hands  had   (without  his   knowing  it)
removed from the belt of one of the dwarves as he passed.
"I  think you  dropped this,"  Tas mumbled,  handing it  back to
the dwarf, who stared at him in amazement.
"We're  looking  for  a  young  woman,"  Caramon  said, settling
'down  for the  afternoon. He  recited her  description as  he had
recited it in  every tavern  from Solace  on. "Black  hair, small,
delicate, pale face, white robes. She's a cleric -"
"Yeah, we've seen her," said one of the rangers.
Beer spurted from Caramon's mouth. "You have?" he man-
aged to gasp, choking.
Tas perked up. "Where?" he asked eagerly.
"Wandering  about  the  woods  east of  here," said  the ranger,
jerking his thumb.
"Yeah?"  Caramon  said  suspiciously.  "What're  you  doing  out
in the woods yourselves?"
"Chasing goblins. There's a bounty for them in Haven."
"Three  gold  pieces  for goblin  ears," said  his friend,  with a
toothless grin, "if you care to try your luck."
"What about the woman?" Tas pursued.
"She's a crazy one,  I guess."  The ranger  shook his  head. "We
told  her  the  land  out  around here  was crawling  with goblins
and  she shouldn't  be out  alone. She  just said  she was  in the
hands  of  Paladine, or  some such  name, and  he would  take care
of her."
Caramon heaved a sigh and lifted  his drink  to his  lips. "That
sounds like her all right -"
Leaping  up,  Tas  snatched  the  glass from  the big  man's hand.
"What the -" Caramon glared at him angrily.
"Come on!" Tas said, tugging at him. "We've got to go!
Thanks for the help," he panted, dragging Caramon to the
door. "Where did you say you saw her?"
"About ten miles east  of here.  You'll find  a trail  out back,
behind  the  tavern.  Branches off  the main  road. Follow  it and
it'll take you through the forest. Used to be a short cut to Gate-
way, before it got too dangerous to travel."
"Thanks again!" Tas pushed Caramon, still protesting, out

the door.
"Confound  it,  what's  the  hurry,"  Caramon  snarled  angrily,
jerking  away  from  Tas's  prodding  hands.  "We coulda  at least
had dinner.... "
"Caramon!"   said   Tas   urgently,   dancing   up   and   down.
"Think!  Remember!  Don't  you  realize  where  she is,  Ten miles
east  of  here!  Look  -  "Yanking  open one  of his  pouches, Tas
pulled out a  whole sheaf  of maps.  Hurriedly, he  sorted through
them,  tossing  them  onto  the  ground in  his haste.  "Look," he
repeated finally, unrolling  one and  thrusting it  into Caramon's
flushed face.
The big man peered at it, trying to bring it into focus.
"Huh,"
"Oh, for -  Look, here's  where we  are, near  as I  can figure.
And  here's  Haven,  still south  of us.  Across here  is Gateway.
Here's the path they were talking about and  here -"  Tas's finger
pointed.
Caramon squinted. "Dark-dar-dar Darken Wood," he mum-
bled. "Darken Wood. That seems familiar...."
"Of  course  it  seems  familiar!  We  nearly died  there!" Tas
yelled, waving his arms. "It took Raistlin to save us -"
Seeing  Caramon  scowl,  Tas  hurried  on.  "What if  she should
wander in there alone," he asked pleadingly.
Caramon  looked  out into  the forest,  his bleary  eyes peering
at the  narrow, overgrown  trail. His  scowl deepened.  "I suppose
you expect me to stop her," he grumbled.
"Well,  naturally  we'll  have  to stop  her!" Tas  began, then
came  to  a sudden  halt. "You  never meant  to," the  kender said
softly,  staring at  Caramon. "All  along, you  never meant  to go
after her. You were just going to  stumble around  here for  a few
days, have a few drinks, a few laughs, then go back to  Tika, tell
her  you're  a miserable  failure, figuring  she'd take  you back,
same as usual -"
"So  what  did  you  expect  me to  do?" Caramon  growled, turn-
ing  away  from  Tas's  reproachful  gaze.  "How  can I  help this
woman  find  the  Tower  of  High  Sorcery,  Tas?"  He   began  to
whimper. "I don't want to find it! I swore I'd never go  near that
foul  place again!  They destroyed  him there,  Tas. When  he came
out, his skin was  that strange  gold color.  They gave  him those
cursed eyes so that all he sees is death. They shattered his body.
He  couldn't  take  a  breath  without  coughing.  And  they  made
him...  they  made  him  kill  me!"  Caramon  choked   and  buried

his face in his hands, sobbing in pain, trembling in terror.
"He-he  didn't  kill  you,  Caramon,"  Tas  said,  feeling com-
pletely helpless. "Tanis told me. It  was just  an image  of you.
And  he  was  sick  and scared  and hurting  real bad  inside. He
didn't know what he was doing -"
But  Caramon  only  shook  his  head.  And  the  tender-hearted
kender  couldn't  blame  him.  No  wonder he  doesn't want  to go
back  there,  Tas  thought  remorsefully.  Perhaps I  should take
him home. He certainly isn't much good to  anyone in  this state.
But  then  Tas  remembered  Lady Crysania,  out there  all alone,
blundering into Darken Wood....
"I talked to a spirit there once," Tas  murmured, "but  I'm not
certain  they'd  remember  me.  And  there're goblins  out there.
And, while I'm not afraid of them,  I don't  suppose I'd  be much
good fighting off more than three or four."
Tasslehoff was at a loss. If only Tanis were here! The half-elf
always  knew  what to  say, what  to do.  He'd make  Caramon lis-
ten to reason. But Tanis isn't here, said a stern voice inside of
the kender that sounded at times suspiciously like Flint. It's up
to you, you doorknob!
I don't want it to be up to me! Tas wailed,  then waited  for a
moment to see if the voice answered. It didn't. He was alone.
"Caramon,"  Tas  said,  making  his voice  as deep  as possible
and trying very hard to sound like Tanis,  "look, just  come with
us as far as the edges of the Forest of Wayreth. Then you  can go
home. We'll probably be safe after that -"
But Caramon wasn't  listening. Awash  in liquor  and self-pity,
he collapsed onto  the ground.  Leaning back  against a  tree, he
babbled  incoherently  about  nameless  horrors, begging  Tika to
take him back.
Bupu stood up and came to stand  in front  of the  big warrior.
"Me go," she  said in  disgust. "Me  want fat,  slobbering drunk,
me  find plenty  back home."  Nodding her  head, she  started off
down the path. Tas  ran after  her, caught  her, and  dragged her
back.
"No, Bupu! You can't! We're almost there!"
Suddenly  Tasslehoff's  patience  ran  out.  Tanis  wasn't  here.
No one was here to help. It was just like the time when he'd bro-
ken the  dragon orb.  Maybe what  he was  doing wasn't  the right
thing, but it was the only thing he could think of to do.
Tas walked up and kicked Caramon in the shins.
"Ouch!"  Caramon  gulped. Startled,  he stared  at Tas,  a hurt

and puzzled look on his face. "What'dya do that for?"
In  answer,  Tas  kicked  him  again,  hard.  Groaning,  Caramon
grabbed his leg.
"Hey,  now  we  have  some  fun,"  Bupu  said.   Running  forward
gleefully, she kicked Caramon in the other leg. "Me stay now."
The big man roared.  Blundering to  his feet,  he glared  at Tas.
"Blast it, Burrfoot, if this is one of your games -"
"It's no game,  you big  ox!" the  kender shouted.  "I've decided
to kick some sense into you, that's  all! I've  had enough  of your
whining!  All you've  done, all  these years,  is whine!  The noble
Caramon,  sacrificing  everything   for  his   ungrateful  brother.
Loving  Caramon,  always  putting  Raistlin  first!  Well  -  maybe
you did  and maybe  you didn't.  I'm starting  to think  you always
put  Caramon  first!   And  maybe   Raistlin  knew,   deep  inside,
what I'm just beginning to figure out! You only  did it  because it
made  you  feel  good!  Raistlin  didn't  need  you  -  you  needed
him! You lived his life because you're too scared to live a life of
your own!"
Caramon's  eyes  glowed  feverishly, his  face paled  with anger.
Slowly, he stood up, his big fists clenched.  "You've gone  too far
this time, you little bastard -"
"Have  I?"  Tas  was   screaming  now,   jumping  up   and  down.
"Well,  listen  to  this, Caramon!  You're always  blubbering about
how no one  needs you.  Did you  ever stop  to think  that Raistlin
needs  you  now  more  than  he's  ever  needed  you   before?  And
Lady  Crysania  -  she  needs  you!  And  there  you  stand,  a big
blob of quivering jelly with your  brain all  soaked and  turned to
mush!"
Tasslehoff  thought  for  a  moment  he had  gone too  far. Cara-
mon  took  an  unsteady step  forward, his  face blotched  and mot-
tled  and  ugly.  Bupu  gave  a  yelp  and  ducked behind  Tas. The
kender  stood his  ground -  just as  he had  when the  furious elf
lords  had  been  about  to  slice  him  in  two  for  breaking the
dragon  orb.  Caramon  loomed  over  him,  the  big  man's  liquor-
soaked  breath  nearly  making  Tas  gag. Involuntarily,  he closed
his eyes.  Not from  fear, but  from the  look of  terrible anguish
and rage on Caramon's face.
He stood, braced, waiting for the blow that would likely
smash his nose back through to the other side of his head.
But  the  blow  never  fell. There  was the  sound of  tree limbs
ripping apart, huge feet stomping through dense brush.
Cautiously,  Tas  opened  his  eyes.  Caramon  was  gone,  crash-

ing down the trail into the forest. Sighing, Tas stared after him.
Bupu crept out from behind his back.
"That  fun," she  announced. "I  stay after  all. Maybe  we play
game again?"
"I  don't  think  so,  Bupu,"  Tas said  miserably. "Come  on. I
guess we better go after him."
"Oh,  well,"  the gully  dwarf reflected  philosophically. "Some
other game come along, just as fun."
"Yeah," Tas agreed  absently. Turning  around, afraid  that per-
haps  someone  in  the  wretched  inn  had  overheard   and  might
start trouble, the kender's eyes opened wide.
The  Cracked  Mug  tavern  was  gone.  The   dilapidated  build-
ing, the sign  swinging on  one chain,  the dwarves,  the rangers,
the bartender, even the glass Caramon had lifted to his  lips. All
had  disappeared  into  the  midafternoon air  like an  evil dream
upon awakening.

_CHAPTER 7_

Sing as the spirits move you,
Sing to your doubling eye,
Plain Jane becomes Lovable Lindas
When six moons shine in the sky.

Sing to a sailor's courage,
Sing while the elbows bend,
A ruby port your harbor,
Hoist three sheets to the wind.

Sing while the heart is cordial,
Sing to the absinthe of cares,
Sing to the one for the weaving road,
And the dog, and each of his hairs.

All of the waitresses love you,
Every dog is your friend,
Whatever you say is just what you mean,
So hoist three sheets to the wind.

By evening, Caramon was roaring drunk.
Tasslehoff and Bupu caught up with the big man as he was
standing in the middle of the trail, draining the last of the dwarf
spirits from the flask. He leaned his head back, tilting it  to get
every  drop.  When he  finally lowered  the flask,  it was  to peer
inside it in disappointment.  Wobbling unsteadily  on his  feet, he
shook it.
"All gone," Tas heard him mumble unhappily.
The kender's heart sank.
"Now I've done it," Tas said to  himself in  misery. "I  can't tell
him  about  the  disappearing  inn.  Not when  he's in  this condi-
tion! I've only made things worse!"
But he hadn't realized quite how much worse until he came
up to Caramon and tapped him on the shoulder. The big man
whirled around in drunken alarm.
"What ish it? Who'sh there?" He peered around the rapidly
darkening forest.
"Me, down here," said  Tas in  a small  voice. "I  - I  just wanted
to say I was sorry, Caramon, and -"
"Uh? Oh..." Staggering backwards,  Caramon stared  at him,
then grinned foolishly. "Oh, hullo there, little fellow. A
kender" - his gaze wandered to Bupu - "and  a gu-gul-gull-
gullydorf," he finished with a rush. He bowed. "Whashyour-
names?"
"What?" Tas asked.
"Whashyournames?" Caramon repeated with dignity.
"You know me, Caramon," Tas said, puzzled. "I'm Tassle-
hoff."
"Me Bupu," answered the gully dwarf, her face lighting up,
obviously hoping this was another game. "Who youl"
"You  know  who  he  is,"  Tas began  irritably, then  nearly swal-
lowed his tongue as Caramon interrupted.
"I'm Raistlin," said the big man solemnly with another,
unsteady bow. "A - a great  and pow  - pow  - powerful-
magicuser."
"Oh, come off it, Caramon!"  Tas said  in disgust.  "I said  I was
sorry, so don't -"
"Caramon?" The big man's eyes opened wide, then narrowed
shrewdly. "Caramon's dead. I killed him. Long ago  in the
Tow - the Twowr - the TwerHighSorshry."
"By Reorx's beard!" Tas breathed.
"Him not Raistlin!" snorted Bupu. Then she paused, eyeing
him dubiously. "Is him?"
"N-no! Of course not," Tasslehoff snapped.
"This  not fun  game!" Bupu  said with  firm decision.  "Me no
like! Him not pretty man so  nice to  me. Him  fat drunk.  Me go
home." She looked around. "Which way home?"
"Not   now,   Bupu!"   What   was   going  on?   Tas  wondered
bleakly. Clutching at his topknot, he gave his hair a hard yank.
His eyes watered with the pain, and the kender sighed in relief.
For a moment, he thought he'd fallen  asleep without  knowing it
and was walking around in some weird dream.
But apparently it was all real - too real. Or at least for him.
For Caramon, it was quite a different story.
"Watch,"  Caramon  was  saying  solemnly,  weaving   back  and
forth. "I'll casht a magicshpell." Raising his hands, he blurted
out a string of gibberish. "Ashanddust and  ratsnests! Burrung!"
He  pointed  at a  tree. "Poof,"  he whispered,  stumbling back-
ward.  "Up  in  flames!  Up!  Up!  Burning,  burning, burning...
jusht  like  poor  Caramon."  He  staggered   forward,  wobbling
down the trail.
"All of the waitresshes love you," he sang. "Every dog ish
your friend. Whatever you shay is jusht what you m-mean -"
Wringing  his  hands,  Tas  hurried  after  him.  Bupu trotted
along behind.
"Tree not burn," she said to Tas sternly.
"I know!" Tas groaned. "It's just... he thinks -"
"Him one bad magician. My turn." Rummaging around in
the huge bag that kept  tripping her  periodically, Bupu  gave a
triumphant yell and pulled out a very stiff, very dead rat.
"Not now, Bupu -" Tas began, feeling what was left of his
own  sanity  start  to slip.  Caramon, ahead  of them,  had quit
singing  and was  shouting something  about covering  the forest
in cobwebs.
"I going to say secret magic word," Bupu stated. "You  no lis-
ten. Spoil secret."
"I won't listen," Tas said impatiently, trying to catch up with
Caramon,  who,  for  all  his  wobbling, was  moving along  at a
fair rate of speed.
"You listening?" Bupu asked, panting along after him.
"No," Tas said, sighing.
"Why not?"
"You told me not to!" Tas shouted in exasperation.
"But how you know when to no  listen if  you no  listen?" Bupu
demanded  angrily.  "You  try to  steal secret  magic word!  Me go
home."
The  gully  dwarf  came  to  a  dead  stop,  turned  around, and
trotted back down the path. Tas skidded  to a  halt. He  could see
Caramon  now,  clinging  to  a  tree,  conjuring  up  a   host  of
dragons, by the sounds of  it. The  big man  looked like  he would
stay put for a while at least. Cursing under his breath,  the ken-
der turned and ran after the gully dwarf.
"Stop, Bupu!" he cried frantically, catching  hold of  a handful
of filthy rags that  he mistook  for her  shoulder. 'I  swear, I'd
never steal your secret magic word!"
"You stole it!" she shrieked, waving the dead  rat at  him. "You
said it!"
"Said what?" Tasslehoff asked, completely baffled.
"Secret magic word! You say!" Bupu screamed in outrage.
"Here!  Look!"  Holding  out the  dead rat,  she pointed  ahead of
them,  down  the  trail,  and  yelled,  "I  say secret  magic word
now - secret magic word! There. Now we see some hot magic."
Tas put his hand to his head. He felt giddy.
"Look!  Look!"  Bupu  shouted  in  triumph,  pointing  a  grubby
finger. "See? I start fire. Secret magic  word never  fail. Umphf.
Some bad magic-user - him."
Glancing  down  the path,  Tas blinked.  There were  flames vis-
ible ahead of them on the trail.
"I'm  definitely  going  back  to  Kenderhome,"  Tas  mused qui-
etly to himself. "I'll get a little house... or maybe move in with
the folks for a few months until I feel better."
"Who's out there?" called a clear, crystalline voice.
Relief  flooded over  Tasslehoff. "It's  a campfire!"  he babbled,
nearly  hysterical  with joy.  And the  voice! He  hurried foward,
running  through  the  darkness  toward  the  light.  "It's  me  -
Tasslehotf Burrfoot. I've - oof!"
The  "oof"  was  occasioned  by  Caramon  plucking   the  kender
off of his feet, lifting him in his strong arms, and  clapping his
hand over Tas's mouth.
"Shhhh,"  whispered  Caramon  close  to  Tas's  ear.  The  fumes
from  his  breath  made  the kender's  head swim.  "There's shome-
one out there!"
"Mpf blsxtchscat!"  Tas wriggled  frantically, trying  to loosen
Caramon's  hold.  The  kender  was   slowly  being   smothered  to
death.
"That's  who  I  thought  it  was,"  Caramon  whispered, nodding
to  himself solemnly  as his  hand clamped  even more  firmly over
the kender's mouth.
Tas  began  to  see  bright blue  stars. He  fought desperately,
tearing at Caramon's  hands with  all his  strength, but  it would
have been the end of the kender's brief but exciting life  had not
Bupu suddenly appeared at Caramon's feet.
"Secret  magic  word!"  she  shrieked,  thrusting  the  dead rat
into Caramon's face. The  distant firelight  was reflected  in the
corpse's black eyes and glittered off the sharp  teeth fixed  in a
perpetual grin.
"Ayiii!"  Caramon  screamed  and  dropped  the kender.  Tas fell
heavily to the ground, gasping for breath.
"What is going on out there?" said a cold voice.
"We've  come...  to  rescue  you...."  said  Tasslehoff,  standing
up dizzily.
A white-robed figure  cloaked in  furs appeared  on the  path in
front of them. Bupu looked up at it in deep suspicion.
"Secret  magic  word,"  said  the gully  dwarf, waving  the dead
rat at the Revered Daughter of Paladine.

"You'll forgive me if I'm not wildly  grateful," said  Lady Cry-
sania to Tasslehoff as they sat  around the  fire later  that eve-
ning.
"I know. I'm sorry,"  Tasslehoff said,  sitting hunched  in mis-
ery on the ground. "I made a mess of things.  I generally  do," he
continued  woefully.  "Ask anyone.  I've often  been told  I drive
people crazy - but this is the first time I ever did it for real!"
Snuffling,  the  kender' cast  an anxious  gaze at  Caramon. The
big man sat near the fire, huddled  in his  cape. Still  under the
influence  of  the  potent  dwarf  spirits,  he was  now sometimes
Caramon  and  sometimes  Raistlin.  As   Caramon,  he   ate  vora-
ciously,  cramming  food  into  his  mouth  with  gusto.  He  then
regaled  them  with  several  bawdy  ballads -  to the  delight of
Bupu, who clapped  along out  of time  and came  in strong  on the
choruses.  Tas  was torn  by a  strong desire  to giggle  wildly or
crawl beneath a rock and die in shame.
But,  the  kender  decided  with  a   shudder,  he   would  take
Caramon   -  bawdy   songs  and   all  -   over  Caramon/Raistlin.
The transformation  occurred suddenly,  right in  the middle  of a
song,  in  fact.  The  big  man's  frame  collapsed,  he  began to
cough,  then  -  looking  at  them  with narrow  eyes -  he coldly
ordered himself to shut up.

"You  didn't  do  this  to  him,"  Lady  Crysania  said  to  Tas,
regarding  Caramon  with  a  cool  gaze.  "It is  the drink.  He is
gross,  thick-headed,  and  obviously  lacking in  self-control. He
has let his appetites rule him. Odd, isn't it, that he and Raistlin
are  twins'? His  brother is  so much  in control,  so disciplined,
intelligent, and refined."
She  shrugged. "Oh,  there is  no doubt  this poor  man is  to be
greatly  pitied."  Standing  up,  she  walked  over  to  where  her
horse  was  tethered  and  began  to unstrap  her bedroll  from its
place  behind  her  saddle.  "I  shall remember  him in  my prayers
to Paladine."
"I'm sure prayers won't hurt," Tas said  dubiously, "but  I think
some strong tarbean tea might be better just now."
Lady  Crysania  turned  and  regarded the  kender with  a reprov-
ing stare.  "I am  certain you  did not  mean to  blaspheme. There-
fore I will take your  statement in  the sense  it was  uttered. Do
endeavor  to  look  at things  with a  more serious  attitude, how-
ever."
"I  was  serious,"  Tas protested.  "All Caramon  needs is  a few
mugs of good, thick tarbean tea -"
Lady  Crysania's  dark  eyebrows  rose so  sharply that  Tas fell
silent,  though  he hadn't  the vaguest  idea what  he had  said to
upset her. He began to unpack  his own  blankets, his  spirits just
about as low as he  could ever  remember them  being. He  felt just
as  he  had when  he had  ridden dragonback  with Flint  during the
Battle  of  Estwilde  Plains.  The  dragon  had  soared   into  the
clouds,  then  it dove  out, spinning  round and  round. For  a few
moments,   up   had  been   down,  sky   had  been   below,  ground
above,  and  then  -  whoosh!  into  a  cloud,  and  everything was
lost in the haze.
His  mind  felt  just  like  it did  then. Lady  Crysania admired
Raistlin  and  pitied  Caramon.  Tas   wasn't  certain,   but  that
seemed  all  backward.  Then  there  was  Caramon  who  was  Cara-
mon  and  then  wasn't  Caramon.  Inns  that  were  there  one min-
ute  and gone  the next.  A secret  magic word  he was  supposed to
listen  for  so  he'd know  when not  to listen.  Then he'd  made a
perfectly  logical,  common-sense  suggestion  about   tarbean  tea
and been reprimanded for blasphemy!
"After  all,"  he mumbled  to himself,  jerking at  his blankets,
"Paladine  and  I  are  close  personal friends.  He'd know  what I
meant."
Sighing,  the  kender   pillowed  his   head  upon   a  rolled-up

cloak.   Bupu   -   now   quite   convinced   that   Caramon  was
Raistlin  - was  sound asleep,  curled up  with her  head resting
adoringly  on  the big  man's foot.  Caramon himself  was sitting
quietly now, his eyes closed,  humming a  song to  himself. Occa-
sionally  he  would  cough,  and  once  he  demanded  in  a  loud
voice that Tas bring him his spellbook so that he could study his
magic.  But  he  seemed  peaceful  enough.  Tas  hoped  he  would
soon dose and sleep off the effects of the dwarf spirits.
The  fire  burned low.  Lady Crysania  spread out  her blankets
on a bed of pine needles she had gathered to  keep out  the damp.
Tas  yawned.  She  was  certainly  getting  on  better  than he'd
expected.  She  had  chosen  a  good,  sensible location  to make
camp - near the trail, a stream of clear running water  close by.
Just as well not  to have  to wander  too far  in these  dark and
spooky woods -
Spooky  wood...  what  did  that  remind  him  of,  Tas  caught
himself  as he  was slipping  over the  edge of  sleep. Something
important. Spooky wood. Spooks... talk to spooks...
"Darken Wood!" he said in alarm, sitting bolt upright.
"What?" asked Lady Crysania, wrapping her cloak around
her and preparing to lie down.
"Darken Wood!" Tas repeated in alarm. He was now thor-
oughly  awake.  "We're  close  to  Darken Wood.  We came  to warn
you! It's a  horrible place.  You might  have blundered  into it.
Maybe we're in it already -"
"Darken Wood?" Caramon's eyes flared open. He stared
around him vaguely.
"Nonsense,"   Lady   Crysania   said   comfortably,   adjusting
beneath her head a small  traveling pillow  she had  brought with
her. "We are not in Darken Wood, not yet. It is about  five miles
distant.  Tomorrow  we  will  come to  a path  that will  take us
there."
"You - you want to go there!" Tas gasped.
"Of course," Lady Crysania said coldly. "I go  there to  seek the
Forestmaster's help. It would take  me many  long months  to tra-
vel from here to the Forest of Wayreth,  even on  horseback. Sil-
ver  dragons  dwell  in  Darken   Wood  with   the  Forestmaster.
They will fly me to my destination."
"But the spectres,  the ancient  dead king  and his  followers -"
"-  were  released   from  their   terrible  bondage   when  they
answered the  call to  fight the  Dragon Highlords,"  Lady Crysa-
nia said,  somewhat sharply.  "You really  should study  the his-

tory of the war, Tasslehoff. Especially  since you  were involved
in  it. When  the human  and elven  forces combined  to recapture
Qualinesti,  the  spectres of  Darken Wood  fought with  them and
thus  broke  the  dark  enchantment  that  held  them   bound  to
dreadful life. They left this world and have been seen no more."
"Oh," said  Tas stupidly.  After glancing  about for  a moment,
he sat back down on his bedroll. "I talked  to them,"  he contin-
ued wistfully. "They were very polite - sort  of abrupt  in their
comings and goings, but very polite. It's kind of sad to think -"
"I am quite tired," interrupted  Lady Crysania.  "And I  have a
long journey ahead of me tomorrow.  I will  take the  gully dwarf
and  continue  on  to  Darken  Wood. You  can take  your besotted
friend back home where he  will -  hopefully -  find the  help he
needs. Now go to sleep."
"Shouldn't  one  of  us...  stay  on  watch?"  Tas  asked hesi-
tantly.  "Those  rangers  said  -"  He  stopped  suddenly.  Those
"rangers" had been in the inn that wasn't.
"Nonsense. Paladine will  guard our  rest," said  Lady Crysania
sharply.  Closing her  eyes, she  began to  recite soft  words of
prayer.
Tas  gulped.  "I  wonder  if  we  know  the same  Paladine?" he
asked,  thinking  of  Fizban  and feeling  very lonesome.  But he
said it  under his  breath, not  wanting to  be accused  of blas-
phemy  again.  Lying  down,  he  squirmed  in  his  blankets  but
could not get comfortable. Finally, still wide awake, he sat back
up and leaned against  a tree  trunk. The  spring night  was cool
but not unpleasantly chill. The sky was clear,  and there  was no
wind.  The trees  rustled with  their own  conversations, feeling
new life  running through  their limbs,  waking after  their long
winter's sleep. Running his  hand over  the ground,  Tas fingered
the new grass poking up beneath the decaying leaves.
The  kender  sighed.  It  was  a  nice night.  Why did  he feel
uneasy?  Was  that  a  sound?  A twig  breaking? Tas  started and
looked  around,  holding  his  breath  to  hear  better. Nothing.
Silence. Glancing up into the heavens,  he saw  the constellation
of  Paladine,  the  Platinum  Dragon,  revolving around  the con-
stellation  of  Gilean,  the  Scales  of  Balance.   Across  from
Paladine - each keeping careful watch  upon the  other -  was the
constellation  of  the Queen  of Darkness  - Takhisis,  the Five-
Headed Dragon.
"You're awfully far away up  there," Tas  said to  the Platinum
Dragon. "And  you've got  a whole  world to  watch, not  just us.

I'm sure you won't mind if I guard our rest  tonight, too.  No dis-
repect intended, of course. It's just that I have the feeling Some-
one  Else up  there is  watching us  tonight, too,  if you  take my
meaning."  The  kender  shivered.  "I  don't  know  why  I  feel so
queer all of a sudden.  Maybe it's  just being  so close  to Darken
Wood and - well, I'm responsible for everyone apparently!"
It  was  an  uncomfortable   thought  for   a  kender.   Tas  was
accustomed  to  being  responsible  for  himself,  but   when  he'd
traveled  with  Tanis  and  the  others,  there  had   always  been
someone  else  responsible for  the group.  There had  been strong,
skilled warriors -
What  was  that?  He'd  definitely  heard  something  that  time!
Jumping up,  Tas stood  quietly, staring  into the  darkness. There
was silence, then a rustle, then -
A squirrel. Tas heaved a sigh that came from his toes.
"While I'm up, I'll just go put another log on  the fire,"  he said
to  himself.  Hurrying  over,  he  glanced  at  Caramon  and felt.a
pang.  It  would  have  been  much  easier  standing  watch  in the
darkness  if  he  knew  he  could  count  on Caramon's  strong arm.
Instead,  the  warrior  had  fallen  over  on  his  back,  his eyes
closed,   his   mouth   open,   snoring  in   drunken  contentment.
Curled  about  Caramon's  boot,  her  head  on  his   foot,  Bupu's
snores mingled  with his.  Across from  them, as  far away  as pos-
sible,  Lady Crysania  slept peacefully,  her smooth  cheek resting
on her folded hands.
With a trembling sigh, Tas cast  the logs  on the  fire. Watching
it blaze up,  he settled  himself down  to watch,  staring intently
into   the   night-shrouded  trees   whose  whispering   words  now
had an ominous tone. Then, there it was again.
"Squirrel!" Tas whispered resolutely.
Was  that  something  moving  in  the shadows?  There was  a dis-
tinct crack - like a twig snapping  in two.  No squirrel  did that!
Tas  fumbled  about  in  his  pouch  until his  hand closed  over a
small knife.
The forest was moving! The trees were closing in!
Tas tried to scream a warning, but a thin-limbed branch
grabbed hold of his arm....
"Aiiii," Tas shouted, twisting  free and  stabbing at  the branch
with his knife.
There was a curse and yelp of pain. The branch let loose its
hold, and Tas breathed a sigh. No tree he had ever met yelped
in  pain.  Whatever  they  were  facing  was  living, breathing....

"Attack!" the kender yelled, stumbling backward. "Cara-
mon! Help! Caramon -"
Two  years  before,  the  big  warrior  would  have been  on his
feet instantly, his hand closing over the hilt of his sword, alert
and ready for battle. But Tas, scrambling to get  his back  to the
fire, his small knife the only thing keeping  whatever it  was at
bay,  saw  Caramon's  head loll  to one  side in  drunken content-
ment.
"Lady Crysania!" Tas screamed wildly, seeing more dark
shapes creep from the woods. "Wake up! Please, wake up!"
He could feel the heat of the fire  now. Keeping  an eye  on the
menacing  shadows,  Tas  reached  down  and  grabbed   a  smolder-
ing log by one end - he hoped it was the cool end. Lifting  it up,
he thrust the firebrand out before him.
There  was  movement as  one of  the creatures  made a  dive for
him. Tas swiped out with his knife, driving it  back. But  in that
instant, as it came into  the light  of his  brand, he'd  caught a
glimpse of it.
"Caramon!" he shrieked. "Draconians!"
Lady  Crysania  was  awake  now;  Tas  saw  her sit  up, staring
around in sleepy confusion.
"The fire!" Tas shouted to her desperately. "Get near the fire!"
Stumbling over Bupu, the kender kicked Caramon. "Dracon-
ians!" he yelled again.
One of Caramon's eyes opened, then the other, glaring
around muzzily.
"Caramon! Thank the gods!" Tas gasped in relief.
Caramon  sat  up.  Peering  around  the  camp,  completely  dis-
oriented and confused, he was  still warrior  enough to  be hazily
aware of danger.  Rising unsteadily  to his  feet, he  gripped the
hilt of his sword and belched.
"Washit?" he mumbled, trying to focus his eyes.
"Draconians!"  Tasslehoff  screeched,  hopping  around   like  a
small  demon,  waving  his  firebrand  and  his  knife  with  such
vigor that he actually succeeded in keeping his enemies at bay.
"Draconians?"  Caramon  muttered,   staring  around   in  disbe-
lief. Then he caught a glimpse of a twisted reptilian face  in the
light of the dying fire.  His eyes  opened wide.  "Draconians!" he
snarled.  "Tanis!  Sturm!  Come  to  me!  Raistlin  -  your magic!
We'll take them."
Yanking   his   sword   from   its  scabbard,   Caramon  plunged
ahead with a rumbling battle cry - and fell flat on his face.

Bupu clung to his foot.
"Oh, no!" Tas groaned.
Caramon lay on the ground, blinking and shaking his head
in  wonder,  trying  to  figure  out what  hit him.  Bupu, rudely
awakened,  began to  howl in  terror and  pain, then  bit Caramon
on the ankle.
Tas started forward to help the  fallen warrior  - at  least drag
Bupu  off  him  -  when  he  heard  a  cry. Lady  Crysania! Damn!
He'd  forgotten  about her!  Whirling around,  he saw  the cleric
struggling with one of the dragonmen.
Tas  hurtled  forward  and  stabbed  viciously at  the draconian.
With a shriek, it let loose  of Crysania  and fell  backward, its
body turning to stone  at Tas's  feet. Just  in time,  the kender
remembered  to  retrieve  his  knife  or  the stony  corpse would
have kept it fast.
Tas  dragged  Crysania  back  with  him  toward the  fallen Cara-
mon, who was trying to shake the gully dwarf off his leg.
The  draconians  closed  in. Glancing  about feverishly,  Tas saw
they  were  surrounded  by  the creatures.  But why  weren't they
attacking full force? What were they waiting for?
"Are you all right?" he managed to ask Crysania.
"Yes," she said. Though  very pale,  she appeared  calm and  - if
frightened  - was  keeping her  fear under  control. Tas  saw her
lips move - presumably in  silent prayer.  The kender's  own lips
tightened.
"Here,  lady," he  said, shoving  the firebrand  in her  hand. "I
guess you're going to have to fight and pray at the same time."
"Elistan did. So can I,"  Crysania said,  her voice  shaking only
slightly.
Shouted   commands  rang   out  from   the  shadows.   The  voice
wasn't draconian. Tas  couldn't make  it out.  He only  knew that
just hearing it gave him cold  chills. But  there wasn't  time to
wonder about it. The  draconians, their  tongues flicking  out of
their mouths, jumped for them.
Crysania  lashed  out  with  the  smoldering brand  clumsily, but
it was enough to make the draconians hesitate. Tas was still try-
ing  to  pry  Bupu  off  Caramon.  But  it  was a  draconian who,
inadvertantly,  came  to  their  aid.  Shoving Tas  backward, the
dragonman laid a clawed hand on Bupu.
Gully  dwarves  are  noted  throughout  Krynn  for  their extreme
cowardice and total unreliability  in battle.  But -  when driven
into a corner - they can fight like rabid rats.

"Glupsludge!"  Bupu   screamed  in   anger  and,   turning  from
gnawing  on Caramon's  ankle, she  sank her  teeth into  the scaly
hide of the draconian's leg.
Bupu  didn't  have  many  teeth,  but  what  she  did  have were
sharp, and she bit into the draconian's green flesh with  a relish
occasioned by the fact that she hadn't eaten much dinner.
The draconian gave  a hideous  yell. Raising  its sword,  it was
about   to   end   Bupu's   days   upon   Krynn  when   Caramon  -
bumbling   around   trying   to   see   what   was   going   on  -
accidentally sliced off the creature's arm. Bupu sat back, licking
her lips, and looked about eagerly for another victim.
"Hurrah!  Caramon!" Tas  cheered wildly,  his small  knife stab-
bing here and there as swiftly  as a  striking snake.  Lady Crysa-
nia  smashed  one  draconian  with her  firebrand, crying  out the
name of Paladine. The creature pitched over.
There  were  only two  or three  draconians still  standing that
Tas could  see, and  the kender  began to  feel elated.  The crea-
tures lurked just outside the firelight,  eyeing the  big warrior,
Caramon, warily  as he  staggered to  his feet.  Seen only  in the
shadows, he still cut the menacing figure he had in the  old days.
His sword blade gleamed wickedly in the red flames.
"Get  'em,  Caramon!" Tas  yelled shrilly.  "Clunk their  heads -"
The  kender's  voice  died  as  Caramon  turned  slowly   to  face
him, a strange look on his face.
"I'm  not  Caramon," he  said softly.  "I'm his  twin, Raistlin.
Caramon's  dead.  I  killed him."  Glancing down  at the  sword in
his hand, the big warrior  dropped it  as if  it stung  him. "What
am I doing  with cold  steel in  my hands?"  he asked  harshly. "I
can't cast spells with a sword and shield!"
Tasslehoff  choked,  casting  an alarmed  glance at  the dracon-
ians.  He  could  see  them  exchanging  shrewd looks.  They began
to move forward  slowly, though  they all  kept their  gazes fixed
upon the big warrior, probably suspecting a trap of some sort.
"You're  not Raistlin!  You're Caramon!"  Tas cried  in despera-
tion, but it  was no  use. The  man's brain  was still  pickled in
dwarf  spirits.  His  mind  completely  unhinged,  Caramon  closed
his eyes, lifted his hands, and began to chant.
"Antsnests   silverash    bookarah,"   he    murmured,   weaving
back and forth.
The  grinning  face  of  a  draconian  loomed  up   before  Tas.
There  was  a  flash  of steel,  and the  kender's head  seemed to
explode in pain....

Tas  was  on  the  ground.  Warm  liquid  was  running  down his
face,  blinding  him  in  one  eye, trickling  into his  mouth. He
tasted blood. He was tired... very tired....
But  the  pain  was  awful. It  wouldn't let  him sleep.  He was
afraid to move his head, afraid if he did  it might  separate into
two  pieces. And  so he  lay perfectly  still, watching  the world
from one eye.
He  heard  the  gully  dwarf screaming  on and  on, like  a tor-
tured  animal, and  then the  screams suddenly  ended. He  heard a
deep cry  of pain,  a smothered  groan, and  a large  body crashed
to  the  ground  beside him.  It was  Caramon, blood  flowing from
his mouth, his eyes wide open and staring.
Tas couldn't feel sad. He couldn't feel anything except the ter-
rible pain in his  head. A  huge draconian  stood over  him, sword
in hand. He knew that the creature  was going  to finish  him off.
Tas didn't care. End the pain, he pleaded. End it quickly.
Then there was a flurry of white robes and  a clear  voice call-
ing  upon  Paladine.  The  draconian  disappeared   abruptly  with
the  sound  of  clawed  feet  scrambling  through  the  brush. The
white robes knelt beside him, Tas felt the touch of a  gentle hand
upon his  head, and  heard the  name of  Paladine again.  The pain
vanished.  Looking  up, he  saw the  cleric's hand  touch Caramon,
saw the big man's eyelids flutter and close in peaceful sleep.
It's  all  right! Tas  thought in  elation. They've  gone! We're
going to be all right. Then  he felt  the hand  tremble. Regaining
some  of  his  senses  as  the  cleric's  healing  powers  flooded
through  his  body,  the  kender  raised  his head,  peering ahead
with his good eye.
Something  was  coming.  Something  had  called  off  the  dra-
conians. Something was walking into the light of the fire.
Tas  tried  to cry  out a  warning, but  his throat  closed. His
mind  tumbled  over  and over.  For a  moment, too  frightened and
dizzy  to  think  clearly,  he  thought   someone  had   mixed  up
adventures on him.
He  saw  Lady  Crysania  rise  to  her  feet,  her  white  robes
sweeping  the  dirt  near  his  head.  Slowly,  she  began backing
away from the thing that stalked her. Tas heard her call  to Pala-
dine, but the words fell from lips stiff with terror.
Tas himself wanted desperately to close his eyes. Fear and
curiosity warred in his small body. Curiosity won out. Peering
out of  his one  good eye,  Tas watched  the horrible  figure draw
nearer and nearer to  the cleric.  The figure  was dressed  in the
armor  of  a  Solamnic  Knight,  but  that  armor  was  burned and
blackened. As it drew  near Crysania,  the figure  stretched forth
an arm that did not end in  a hand.  It spoke  words that  did not
come from a mouth. Its  eyes flared  orange, its  transparent legs
strode right through the smoldering ashes of  the fire.  The chill
of  the  regions  where it  was forced  to eternally  dwell flowed
from its body, freezing the very marrow in Tas's bones.
Fearfully, Tas  raised his  head. He  saw Lady  Crysania backing
away.  He  saw  the  death  knight  walk  toward  her  with  slow,
steady steps.
The knight raised its right  hand and  pointed at  Crysania with
a pale, shimmering finger.
Tas felt  a sudden,  uncontrollable terror  seize him.  "No!" he
moaned,  shivering,  though  he  had  no  idea  what  awful  thing
was about to happen.
The knight spoke one word.
"Die."
At  that  moment,  Tas  saw  Lady  Crysania  raise her  hand and
grasp the  medallion she  wore around  her neck.  He saw  a bright
flash of pure white light well from her fingers and then  she fell
to the ground as though stabbed by the fleshless finger.
"No!" Tasslehoff heard himself  cry. He  saw the  orange flaring
eyes turn their attention to him, and a chill, dank darkness, like
the  darkness  of  a  tomb, sealed  shut his  eyes and  closed his
mouth....

_CHAPTER 8_

Dalamar approached
the  door  to  the  mage's laboratory  with trepidation,  tracing a
nervous  finger  over  the  runes of  protection stitched  onto the
fabric of his black robes as he hastily rehearsed several spells of
warding  in  his  mind.  A  certain  amount  of  caution  would not
have   been    thought   unseemly    in   any    young   apprentice
approaching  the  inner,  secret  chambers of  a dark  and powerful
master.   But   Dalamar's   precautions  were   extraordinary.  And
with  good  reason. Dalamar  had secrets  of his  own to  hide, and
he dreaded  and feared  nothing more  in this  world than  the gaze
of those golden, hourglass eyes.
And  yet,  deeper than  his fear,  an undercurrent  of excitement
pulsed  in  Dalamar's  blood  as  it  always  did  when   he  stood
before  this  door.  He  had  seen  wonderful  things  inside  this
chamber, wonderful... fearful....
Raising his right hand, he made a  quick sign  in the  air before
the  door  and  muttered  a  few  words in  the language  of magic.
There  was  no  reaction.  The  door  had  no  spell cast  upon it.
Dalamar breathed a bit easier, or perhaps it was  a sigh  of disap-
pointment.  His  master  was  not  engaged  in  any  potent, power-
ful magic, otherwise Raistlin would  have cast  a spell  of holding

upon the door. Glancing down at the floor, the  dark elf  saw no
flickering,  flaring  lights  beaming  from  beneath  the  heavy
wooden  door.  He  smelled  nothing except  the usual  smells of
spice and decay. Dalamar placed the five fingertips of  his left
hand upon the door and waited in silence.
Within the space of time it took the dark elf to draw a breath
came the softly spoken command, "Enter, Dalamar."
Bracing  himself,  Dalamar  stepped  into  the chamber  as the
door swung silently open before him. Raistlin sat at a  huge and
ancient  stone  table,  so large  that one  of the  tall, broad-
shouldered  race  of  minotaurs  living  upon Mithas  might have
lain down upon it, stretched out his full height, and  still had
room to spare. The stone table, in  fact the  entire laboratory,
were part of  the original  furnishings Raistlin  had discovered
when he claimed the Tower of  High Sorcery  in Palanthas  as his
own.
The  great,  shadowy  chamber  seemed  much  larger   than  it
could possibly have been, yet  the dark  elf could  never deter-
mine whether it was the chamber itself that seemed larger  or he
himself  who  seemed  smaller  whenever  he  entered  it.  Books
lined the walls, here as in the mage's study. Runes  and spidery
writing glowed through the dust gathered on their  spines. Glass
bottles and jars of twisted  design stood  on tables  around the
sides  of  the chamber,  their bright-colored  contents bubbling
and boiling with hidden power.
Here, in this laboratory  long ago,  great and  powerful magic
had been wrought. Here,  the wizards  of all  three Robes  - the
White of Good, the Red of Neutrality,  and the  Black of  Evil -
joined in alliance to create the Dragon Orbs - one of  which was
now in  Raistlin's possession.  Here, the  three Robes  had come
together in a final, desperate battle to save their  Towers, the
bastions of their strength, from the Kingpriest of Istar and the
mobs. Here they had failed, believing it was  better to  live in
defeat than fight, knowing  that their  magic could  destroy the
world.
The  mages  had been  forced to  abandon this  Tower, carrying
their spellbooks and other  paraphernalia to  the Tower  of High
Sorcery, hidden deep within  the magical  Forest of  Wayreth. It
was  when  they  abandoned this  Tower that  the curse  had been
cast upon it. The Shoikan Grove had grown to  guard it  from all
comers until - as  foretold -  "the master  of past  and present
shall return with power."

And the master had returned. Now  he sat  in the  ancient labo-
ratory,  crouched  over the  stone table  that had  been dragged,
long ago,  from the  bottom of  the sea.  Carved with  runes that
ward off all enchantments, it was kept free of any outside influ-
ences that might affect the mage's work. The table's  surface was
ground  smooth  and  polished  to  an  almost  mirrorlike finish.
Dalamar could see the nightblue bindings  of the  spellbooks that
sat upon it reflected in the candlelight.
Scattered  about  on  its  surface  were  other objects,  too -
objects  hideous  and  curious, horrible  and lovely:  the mage's
spell  components.  It  was  on these  Raistlin was  working now,
scanning  a  spellbook,  murmuring  soft  words  as   he  crushed
something between his delicate fingers, letting it trickle into a
phial he held.
"Shalafi,"  Dalamar  said  quietly,  using  the elven  word for
"master."
Raistlin looked up.
Dalamar  felt the  stare of  those golden  eyes pierce  his heart
with an indefinable pain. A shiver  of fear  swept over  the dark
elf, the words, He knows! seethed in his brain. But none  of this
emotion  was  outwardly  visible.  The  dark elf's  handsome fea-
tures remained fixed, unchanged, cool.  His eyes  returned Raist-
lin's gaze steadily. His hands remained  folded within  his robes
as was proper.
So  dangerous  was  this  job that  - when  They had  deemed it
necessary  to  plant  a spy  inside the  mage's household  - They
had asked for volunteers, none  of them  willing to  take respon-
sibility  for  cold-bloodedly  commanding  anyone to  accept this
deadly   assignment.   Dalamar   had   stepped   forward  immedi-
ately.
Magic    was    Dalamar's    only    home.    Originally   from
Silvanesti,  he  now  neither  claimed  nor  was claimed  by that
noble race of  elves. Born  to a  low caste,  he had  been taught
only the most rudimentary  of the  magical arts,  higher learning
being  for  those  of  royal  blood. But  Dalamar had  tasted the
power, and it became  his obsession.  Secretly he  worked, study-
ing the forbidden, learning wonders reserved  for only  the high-
ranking  elven  mages.  The  dark  arts  impressed him  most, and
thus,  when he  was discovered  wearing the  Black Robes  that no
true elf could even bear to look  upon, Dalamar  was cast  out of
his home and his nation.  And he  became known  as a  "dark elf,"
one who is outside of the  light. This  suited Dalamar  well for,

early on, he had learned that there is power in darkness.
And  so  Dalamar  had  accepted  the  assignment.   When  asked
to give his reasons why he would willingly risk his life perform-
ing this task, he had answered coldly, "I would risk my  soul for
the chance to study with the  greatest and  most powerful  of our
order who has ever lived!"
"You may well be  doing just  that," a  sad voice  had answered
him.
The  memory  of  that   voice  returned   to  Dalamar   at  odd
moments, generally in the darkness of  the night  - which  was so
very  dark  inside  the Tower.  It returned  to him  now. Dalamar
forced it out of his mind.
"What is it?" Raistlin asked gently.
The mage always spoke gently and softly, sometimes not
even raising his voice above  a whisper.  Dalamar had  seen fear-
ful  storms  rage  in  this  chamber.  The blazing  lightning and
crashing thunder had  left him  partially deaf  for days.  He had
been  present  when   the  mage   summoned  creatures   from  the
planes  above  and  below to  do his  bidding; their  screams and
wails  and  curses  still sounded  in his  dreams at  night. Yet,
through  it all,  he had  never heard  Raistlin raise  his voice.
Always  that  soft,  sibilant  whisper  penetrated the  chaos and
brought it under control.
"Events  are transpiring  in the  outside world,  Shalafi, that
demand your attention."
"Indeed?"  Raistlin  looked  down again,  absorbed in-  his work.
"Lady Crysania -"
Raistlin's  hooded  head  lifted  quickly.   Dalamar,  reminded
forcibly  of  a striking  snake, involuntarily  fell back  a step
before that intense gaze.
"What? Speak!" Raistlin hissed the word.
"You  -  you  should  come,  Shalafi,"  Dalamar  faltered. "The
Live Ones report...."
The dark elf spoke to empty air. Raistlin had vanished.
Heaving a  trembling sigh,  the dark  elf pronounced  the words
that would take him instantly to his master's side.
Far  below  the  Tower  of  High  Sorcery,  deep   beneath  the
ground,  was  a  small  round  room  magically  carved  from  the
rock that  supported the  Tower. This  room had  not been  in the
Tower  originally.  Known  as  the  Chamber  of  Seeing,  it  was
Raistlin's creation.
Within the center of the small room of cold stone was a per-

fectly round  pool of  still, dark  water. From  the center  of the
strange,  unnatural pond  spurted a  jet of  blue flame.  Rising to
the ceiling of  the chamber,  it burned  eternally, day  and night.
And around it, eternally, sat the Live Ones.
Though  the  most  powerful  mage   living  upon   Krynn,  Raist-
lin's  power  was  far  from  complete,  and  no one  realized that
more  than  the  mage  himself.  He  was  always  forcibly reminded
of  his weaknesses  when he  came into  this room  - one  reason he
avoided it, if possible. For  here were  the visible,  outward sym-
bols of his failures - the Live Ones.
Wretched  creatures  mistakenly  created  by  magic   gone  awry,
they were held in thrall  in this  chamber, serving  their creator.
Here they lived out their tortured lives, writhing in a larva-like,
bleeding  mass  about the  flaming pool.  Their shining  wet bodies
made  a horrible  carpet for  the floor,  whose stones,  made slick
with  their  oozings,  could  be  seen  only  when  they  parted to
make room for their creator.
Yet, despite their lives of constant, twisted pain, the Live Ones
spoke no word of  complaint. Far  better their  lot than  those who
roamed the Tower, those known as the Dead Ones.
Raistlin  materialized  within  the  Chamber  of  Seeing,  a dark
shadow  emerging  out  of  darkness.  The  blue flame  sparkled off
the  silver  threads  that  decorated  his robes,  shimmered within
the  black  cloth.  Dalamar  appeared  beside  him,  and   the  two
walked over to stand beside the surface of the still, black water.
"Where?" Raistlin asked.
"Here,  M-master,"  blurbled  one  of the  Live Ones,  pointing a
misshapen appendage.
Raistlin  hurried  to  stand  beside it,  Dalamar walking  by his
side,  their  black  robes  making  a  soft, whispering  sound upon
the slimy stone floor.  Staring into  the water,  Raistlin motioned
Dalamar to do the same.  The dark  elf looked  into the  still sur-
face, seeing for an instant only the reflection of the jet  of blue
flame.  Then  the  flame  and  the water  merged, then  parted, and
he was in a forest. A big  human male,  clad in  ill-fitting armor,
stood  staring  down  at  the  body  of   a  young   human  female,
dressed  in  white robes.  A kender  knelt beside  the body  of the
woman,  holding  her  hand  in  his.  Dalamar  heard  the  big  man
speak as clearly as if he had been standing by his side.
"She's dead...."
"I - I'm not sure, Caramon. I think -"
"I've seen death often enough, believe me. She's dead. And

it's all my fault... my fault...."
"Caramon,  you  imbecile!"  Raistlin  snarled  with  a  curse.
"What happened? What went wrong?"
As  the  mage  spoke, Dalamar  saw the  kender look  up quickly.
"Did  you  say  something?"  the  kender  asked  the  big human,
who was working in the soil.
"No. It was just the wind."
"What are you doing?"
"Digging a grave. We've got to bury her."
"Bury  her?"  Raistlin  gave  a brief,  bitter laugh.  "Oh, of
course, you bumbling idiot! That's all you can think of  to do!"
The  mage  fumed. "  Bury her!  I must  know what  happened!" He
turned to the Live One. "What did you see?"
"T-they c-camp in t-trees, M-master." Froth dribbled  from the
creature's  mouth,  its  speech was  practically unrecognizable.
"D-draco k-kill -"
"Draconians?"  Raistlin repeated  in astonishment.  "Near Sol-
ace? Where did they come from?"
"D-dunno!  Dunno!"  The  Live  One  cowered  in terror.  "I-I -"
"Shhh,"   Dalamar   warned,   drawing  his   master's  attention
back to the pond where the kender was arguing.
"Caramon, you can't bury her! She's -"
"We don't have any choice. I know it's  not proper,  but Pala-
dine will see that  her soul  journeys in  peace. We  don't dare
build a funeral pyre, not with those dragonmen around -"
"But, Caramon, I  really think  you should  come look  at her!
There's not a mark on her body!"
"I don't want to look at her! She's dead! It's my fault! We'll
bury her here, then I'll go back to Solace,  go back  to digging
my own grave -"
"Caramon!"
"Go find some flowers and leave me be!"
Dalamar saw the big man tear up the moist  dirt with  his bare
hands, hurling it aside while tears streamed down his  face. The
kender remained beside  the woman's  body, irresolute,  his face
covered with dried blood, his expression a mixture of  grief and
doubt.
"No  mark,  no  wound,  draconians  coming out  of nowhere..."
Raistlin frowned thoughtfully. Then,  suddenly, he  knelt beside
the Live One, who  shrank away  from him.  "Speak. Tell  me eve-
rything. I must know. Why wasn't I summoned earlier?"
"Th-the d-draco k-kill, M-master," the Live One's voice bub-

bled  in agony.  "B-but the  b-big m-man  k-kill, too.  T-then b-big
d-dark c-come! E-eyes of f-fire. I-I s-scared. I-I f-fraid f-fall in
wa-water...."
"I found the  Live One  lying at  the edge  of the  pool," Dalamar
reported  coolly,  "when  one  of  the  others  told   me  something
strange  was  going on.  I looked  into the  water. Knowing  of your
interest in this human female, I thought you -"
"Quite   right,"   Raistlin   murmured,   cutting   off  Dalamar's
explanation  impatiently.  The  mage's  golden  eyes  narrowed,  his
thin  lips  compressed.  Feeling  his  anger,  the  poor   Live  One
dragged  its  body  as  far  from  the  mage  as  possible.  Dalamar
held his breath. But Raistlin's anger was not directed at them.
"  'Big  dark,  eyes  of  fire' -  Lord Soth!  So, my  sister, you
betray me,"  Raistlin whispered.  "I smell  your fear,  Kitiara! You
coward!  I  could  have  made  you  queen  of  this  world.  I could
have   given   you   wealth   immeasurable,  power   unlimited.  But
no. You are, after all, a weak and petty-minded worm!"
Raistlin stood quietly,  pondering, staring  into the  still pond.
When he spoke next, his voice was soft, lethal.  "I will  not forget
this, my dear sister.  You are  fortunate that  I have  more urgent,
pressing  matters  at  hand,  or  you  would  be  residing  with the
phantom  lord  who  serves  you!"  Raistlin's  thin  fist  clenched,
then - with an obvious effort -  he forced  himself to  relax. "But,
now,  what  to  do  about  this?  I  must  do  something  before  my
brother plants the cleric in a flower bed!"
"Shalafi, what has happened?" Dalamar  ventured, greatly
daring. "This - woman. What is she to you? I do not under-
stand."
Raistlin  glanced  at  Dalamar  irritably  and  seemed   about  to
rebuke  him  for  his  impertinence.  Then  the mage  hesitated. His
golden  eyes  flared  once  with a  flash of  inner light  that made
Dalamar cringe, before returning to their flat, impassive stare.
"Of   course,   apprentice.   You   shall  know   everything.  But
first -"
Raistlin  stopped.  Another figure  had entered  the scene  in the
forest  they  watched  so intently.  It was  a gully  dwarf, bundled
in layers and layers  of bright,  gaudy clothing,  a huge  bag drag-
ging behind her as she walked.
"Bupu!"  Raistlin  whispered,  the rare  smile touching  his lips.
"Excellent. Once more you shall serve me, little one."
Reaching  out  his  hand,  Raistlin touched  the still  water. The
Live  Ones  around  the  pool  cried  out  in  horror, for  they had

seen many  of their  own kind  stumble into  that dark  water, only
to  shrivel  and  wither  and become  nothing more  than a  wisp of
smoke,  rising  with  a shriek  into the  air. But  Raistlin simply
murmured  soft  words,   then  withdrew   his  hand.   The  fingers
were  white  as  marble,  a spasm  of pain  crossed his  face. Hur-
riedly, he slid his hand into a pocket of his robe.
"Watch," he whispered exultantly.
Dalamar stared into the water, watching the gully dwarf
approach the still, lifeless form of the woman.
"Me help."
No, Bupu!"
"You no like my magic! Me go home. But first me help pretty
lady."
"What in the name of the Abyss -" Dalamar muttered.
"Watch!" Raistlin commanded.
Dalamar  watched  as  the  gully   dwarf's  small,   grubby  hand
dove into the bag  at her  side. After  fumbling about  for several
moments, it emerged with a loathsome  object -  a dead,  stiff liz-
ard  with   a  leather   thong  wrapped   around  its   neck.  Bupu
approached  the  woman  and  -  when  the  kender  tried   to  stop
her - thrust her small fist into  his face  warningly. With  a sigh
and  a  sideways  glance  at  Caramon,  who was  digging furiously,
his  face  a  mask  of grief  and blood,  the kender  stepped back.
Bupu  plopped  down  beside  the  woman's  lifeless form  and care-
fully placed the dead lizard on the unmoving chest.
Dalamar gasped.
The woman's chest moved, the white robes shivered. She
began breathing, deeply and peacefully.
The kender let out a shriek.
"Caramon! Bupu's cured her! She's alive! Look!"
"What the -" The big man stopped digging and stumbled
over, staring at the gully dwarf in amazement and fear.
"Lizard cure," Bupu said in triumph. "Work every time."
"Yes, my little one," Raistlin said, still smiling. "It works well
for  coughs,  too,  as  I  remember."  He waved  his hand  over the
still water. The  mage's voice  became a  lulling chant.  "And now,
sleep,  my  brother,  before  you do  anything else  stupid. Sleep,
kender, sleep, little Bupu. And  sleep as  well, Lady  Crysania, in
the realm where Paladine protects you."
Still chanting, Raistlin made a beckoning motion with his
hand. "And now come, Forest of Wayreth. Creep up on them
as  they  sleep.  Sing  them  your  magical  song.  Lure  them onto

your secret paths."
The spell was ended. Rising to his feet, Raistlin  turned to
Dalamar.  "And  you  come,  too, apprentice"  - there  was the
faintest sarcasm in the voice that made the dark elf shudder -
"come to my study. It is time for us to talk."

_CHAPTER 9_

Dalamar sat in the
mage's  study  in  the  same  chair  Kitiara  had occupied  on her
visit. The dark elf was far less comfortable, far less secure than
Kitiara  had been.  Yet his  fears were  well-contained. Outwardly
he  appeared  relaxed,  composed.  A  heightened  flush  upon  his
pale elven features could be attributed,  perhaps, to  his excite-
ment at being taken into his master's confidence.
Dalamar had  been in  the study  often, though  not in  the pres-
ence of his master. Raistlin spent his evenings here  alone, read-
ing,  studying  the  tomes  that  lined  his  walls. No  one dared
disturb  him  then.  Dalamar  entered  the  study only  during the
daylight  hours,  and  then  only  when  Raistlin  was  busy else-
where. At  that time  the dark  elf apprentice  was allowed  - no,
required - to  study the  spellbooks himself,  some of  them, that
is. He had been forbidden  to open  or even  touch those  with the
nightblue binding.
Dalamar  had  done  so   once,  of   course.  The   binding  felt
intensely cold, so cold it burned his skin. Ignoring the  pain, he
managed to open the  cover, but  after one  look, he  quickly shut
it.  The words  inside were  gibberish, he  could make  nothing of
them.  And  he had  been able  to detect  the spell  of protection
cast  over  them.  Anyone looking  at them  too long  without the
proper key to translate them would go mad.
Seeing  Dalamar's  injured  hand,  Raistlin  asked  him  how it
happened. The dark elf replied  coolly that  he had  spilled some
acid  from  a  spell  component  he  was  mixing.   The  archmage
smiled and said nothing. There was no need. Both understood.
But now he was in the study  by Raistlin's  invitation, sitting
here on a more or less equal basis with  his master.  Once again,
Dalamar felt the old fear laced by intoxicating excitement.
Raistlin sat before him at  the carved  wooden table,  one hand
resting  upon  a  thick  nightblue-bound  spellbook.   The  arch-
mage's fingers absently caressed the book, running over  the sil-
ver  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 main-
tained,  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 destruc-
tion.
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 pen-
alty  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 tor-
ment."
"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 under-
stand 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 ambi-
tious.  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  lingerd 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  -" Dala-
mar 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 under-
stand 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?"
"Many times, Shalafi,"  Dalamar said,  his voice  almost rever-
ent. "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!" Raist-
lin 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 cer-
tainly 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, appren-
tice. 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 appren-

tice 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 some-
where 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 Dala-
mar'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," Raist-
lin  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, moan-
ing.  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.

_CHAPTER 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 hid-
den 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 for-
got 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 trem-
bling  hand  and  snatched  the  bottle.  Uncorking  the   top,  he
sniffed at it, smiled, and raised it to his lips.
"Quit staring at me!" he ordered Tas sullenly.
"I'm s-sorry." Tas flushed. He rose  to his  feet. "I-I'll  just go
look after Lady Crysania -"
"Crysania..." Caramon lowered the flask, untasted. He
rubbed  his  gummed  eyes. "Yeah,  I forgot  about her.  Good idea,
you looking after her. Take her and get out of  here, in  fact. You
and  that vermin-ridden  gully dwarf  of yours!  Get out  and leave
me alone!" Raising the  bottle to  his lips  again, Caramon  took a
long  pull.  He  coughed once,  lowered the  bottle, and  wiped his
mouth with  the back  of his  hand. "Go  on," he  repeated, staring
at Tas dully, "get out of here! All of you! Leave me alone!"
"I'm sorry, Caramon," Tas said quietly. "I really wish we
could. But we can't."
"Why?" snarled Caramon.
Tas  drew  a  deep breath.  "Because, if  I remember  the stories
Raistlin told me, I think the Forest of Wayreth has found us."
For  a  moment,  Caramon  stared  at  Tas,  his  blood-shot  eyes
wide.
"That's impossible,"  he said  after a  moment, his  words little
more  than  a  whisper. "We're  miles from  there! I  - it  took me
and  Raist...  it  took  us  months  to  find  the Forest!  And the
Tower is far south of here! It's  clear past  Qualinesti, according
to  your  map."  Caramon  regarded Tas  balefully. "That  isn't the
same map that showed Tarsis by the sea, is it?"
"It could be," Tas hedged, hastily  rolling up  the map  and hid-
ing  it  behind  his  back.  "I  have  so  many...."  He  hurriedly
changed the subject. "But Raistlin said it was  a magic  forest, so
I suppose it could have found us, if it was so inclined."
"It  is  a  magic  forest,"  Caramon  murmured,  his  voice  deep
and trembling. "It's a  place of  horror." He  closed his  eyes and
shook his head, then - suddenly - he  looked up,  his face  full of
cunning. "This is a trick, isn't it? A trick to keep me from drink-
ing! Well, it won't work -"
"It's  no  trick, Caramon."  Tas sighed.  Then he  pointed. "Look
over there. It's just like Raistlin described to me once."
Turning  his  head,  Caramon  saw,  and  he  shuddered,  both  at
the sight  and at  the bitter  memories of  his brother  it brought
back.
The  glade  they  were  camped  in was  a small,  grassy clearing
some  distance  from  the main  trail. It  was surrounded  by maple
trees,  pines,  walnut  trees,  and  even a  few aspens.  The trees
were  just  beginning  to  bud  out.  Caramon  had  looked  at them
while  digging  Crysania's  grave.  The  branches shimmered  in the
early  morning  sunlight  with  the  faint  yellow-green   glow  of
spring.  Wild  flowers bloomed  at their  roots, the  early flowers
of spring - crocuses and violets.
As  Caramon   looked  around   now,  he   saw  that   these  same
trees surrounded them  still -  on three  sides. But  now -  on the
fourth, the southern side - the trees had changed.
These   trees,   mostly  dead,   stood  side-by-side,   lined  up
evenly,  row  after  row.  Here  and  there,  as one  looked deeper
into the  Forest, a  living tree  might be  seen, watching  like an
officer over the silent ranks of his troops. No  sun shone  in this
Forest. A thick, noxious mist  flowed out  of the  trees, obscuring
the  light.  The  trees  themselves  were  hideous  to  look  upon,
twisted and  deformed, their  limbs like  great claws  dragging the

ground.  Their  branches  did  not  move,  no  wind  stirred their
dead  leaves.  But  -  most  horrible -  things within  the Forest
moved.  As  Caramon  and  Tas  watched,  they  could  see  shadows
flitting  among  the  trunks,  skulking  among  the  thorny under-
brush.
"Now,  look  at  this,"  Tas  said.  Ignoring  Caramon's  alarmed
shout, the kender ran straight for the  Forest. As  he did  so, the
trees parted! A path opened wide, leading  right into  the Forest's
dark  heart.  "Can  you  beat  that?" Tas  cried in  wonder, coming
to a  halt right  before he  set foot  upon the  path. "And  when I
back away -"
The  kender  walked  backward,  away  from  the  trees,  and  the
trunks  slid  back  together  again,  closing  ranks,  presenting a
solid barrier.
"You're  right,"  Caramon  said  hoarsely. "It  is the  Forest of
Wayreth.  So  it  appeared,  one  morning, to  us." He  lowered his
head. "I didn't want to go in. I tried to stop Raist. But he wasn't
afraid! The  trees parted  for him,  and he  entered. 'Stay  by me,
my  brother,' he  told me,  'and I  will keep  you from  harm.' How
often had I said those words to him? He wasn't afraid! I was!"
Suddenly,  Caramon  stood  up.  "Let's get  out of  here!" Fever-
ishly  grabbing  his  bedroll  with shaking  hands, he  slopped the
contents of the bottle all over the blanket.
"No good," Tas said laconically. "I tried. Watch."
Turning  his back  on the  trees, the  kender walked  north. The
trees  did  not  move. But  - inexplicably  - Tasslehoff  was walk-
ing  toward  the  Forest once  more. Try  as he  might, turn  as he
might, he always  ended up  walking straight  into the  tree's fog-
bound, nightmarish ranks.
Sighing,  Tas  came  over  to  stand  beside  Caramon.  The  ken-
der  looked  solemnly  up  into  the  big man's  tear-stained, red-
rimmed  eyes  and  reached  out  a  small hand,  resting it  on the
warrior's once-strong arm.
"Caramon,  you're  the   only  one   who's  been   through  here!
You're  the  only  one  who  knows  the  way.  And,  there's  some-
thing  else."  Tas  pointed.  Caramon turned  his head.  "You asked
about Lady Crysania. There she is. She's alive,  but she's  dead at
the same time. Her skin is like ice. Her eyes are fixed in a terri-
ble stare. She's breathing, her heart's beating, but it  might just
as well  be pumping  through her  body that  spicy stuff  the elves
use  to preserve  their dead!"  The kender  drew a  deep, quivering
breath.

"We've  got  to  get  help for  her, Caramon.  Maybe in  there" -
Tas  pointed  to  the Forest  - "the  mages can  help her!  I can't
carry  her." He  raised his  hands helplessly.  "I need  you, Cara-
mon. She needs you! I guess you could say you owe it to her."
"Since it's my fault she's hurt?" Caramon muttered savagely.
"No,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  Tas  said,  hanging  his  head and
brushing his hand across his eyes. "It's no one's fault, I guess."
"No,  it  is  my  fault," Caramon  said. Tas  glanced up  at him,
hearing  a  note  in  Caramon's voice  he hadn't  heard in  a long,
long time. The big man stood, staring at the  bottle in  his hands.
"It's time I faced up to it. I've blamed everyone else  - Raistlin,
Tika.... But all the time  I knew  - deep  inside -  it was  me. It
came to me, in that dream. I was lying  at the  bottom of  a grave,
and I realized - this is the bottom! I can't go any lower. I either
stay here and let them throw dirt on top of  me -  just like  I was
going  to  bury  Crysania  -  or  I climb  out." Caramon  sighed, a
long,  shuddering  sigh.  Then,  in sudden  resolution, he  put the
cork  on the  bottle and  handed it  back to  Tas. "Here,"  he said
softly. "It's going to be long climb, and I'm going to need help, I
expect. But not that kind of help."
"Oh,  Caramon!"  Tas  threw  his  arms   around  the   big  man's
waist as  far as  he could  reach, hugging  him tightly.  "I wasn't
afraid  of  that  spooky  wood,  not  really.  But I  was wondering
how  I was  going to  get through  by myself.  Not to  mention Lady
Crysania and - Oh, Caramon! I'm so glad you're back! I -"
"There,   there,"  Caramon   muttered,  flushing   in  embarrass-
ment  and  shoving  Tasslehoff  gently  away  from  him.  "It's all
right. I'm not sure how much help I'll be - I  was scared  to death
the first time I  went into  that place.  But, you're  right. Maybe
they   can   help  Crysania."   Caramon's  face   hardened.  "Maybe
they  can  answer a  few questions  I have  about Raist,  too. Now,
where's  that  gully dwarf  gotten to?  And" -  he glanced  down at
his belt - "where's my dagger?"
"What  dagger?"  Tas  asked,  skipping  around,  his gaze  on the
Forest.
Reaching  out,  his  face  grim,  Caramon  caught  hold   of  the
kender.  His  gaze  went to  Tas's belt.  Tas's followed.  His eyes
opened wide in astonishment.
"You  mean  that  dagger?  My  goodness,  I  wonder  how  it  got
there?You know," he said thoughtfully, "I'll  bet you  dropped it,
during the fight."
"Yeah,"  Caramon  muttered.  Growling,  he  retrieved   his  dag-

ger and was just putting it  back into  its sheath  when he  heard a
noise  behind  him.  Whirling around  in alarm,  he got  a bucketful
of icy water, right in the face.
"Him   awake   now,"   Bupu   announced   complacently,   dropping
the bucket.

While  drying  his  clothes,  Caramon sat  and studied  the trees,
his face drawn with  the pain  of his  memories. Finally,  heaving a
sigh,   he   dressed,   checked   his   weapons,   then   stood  up.
Instantly, Tasslehoff was right next to him.
"Let's go!" he said eagerly.
Caramon  stopped.  "Into  the  Forest?  he  asked in  a hopeless
voice.
"Well, of course!" Tas said, startled. "Where else?
Caramon  scowled,  then   sighed,  then   shook  his   head.  "No,
Tas,"  he  said  gruffly. "You  stay here  with Lady  Crysania. Now,
look,"  he  said  in  answer  to  the  kender's indignant  squawk of
protest, "I'm just going into the Forest for a little ways - to, er,
check it out."
"You   think  there's   something  in   there,  don't   you?"  Tas
accused  the  big  man.  "That's  why  you're  making  me  stay out!
You'll go in there and there'll be a big fight. You'll probably kill
it, and I'll miss the whole thing!"
"I doubt that," Caramon muttered. Glancing into the fog-
ridden Forest apprehensively, he tightened his sword belt.
"At  least you  might tell  me what  you think  it is,"  Tas said.
"And, say,  Caramon, what  am I  supposed to  do if  it kills  you 7
Can I go in then?How long should  I wait? Could it  kill you  in -
say - five minutes? Ten? Not that I think it  will," he  added hast-
ily,  seeing  Caramon's  eyes widen.  "But I  really should  know, I
mean, since you're leaving me in charge."
Bupu  studied  the  slovenly  warrior  speculatively.  "Me  say -
two  minutes.  It  kill  him in  two minutes.  You make  bet'?" She
looked at Tas.
Caramon glared grimly at both of them, then heaved
another sigh. Tas was only being logical, after all.
"I'm   not   sure   what  to   expect,"  Caramon   muttered.  "I-I
remember  last  time,  we...  we met  this thing...  a wraith.  It -
Raist..."  Caramon  fell  silent.  "I  don't  know  what  you should
do,"  he  said  after  a  moment.  Shoulders  slumping,   he  turned
away  and  began  to  walk  slowly  toward  the  Forest.  "The  best
you can, I guess."

"I got nice snake here, me say he last two minutes," Bupu said
to Tas, rummaging around in her bag. "What stakes you put
Up?
"Shhhh,"   Tas   said   softly,   watching  Caramon   walk  away.
Then, shaking his  head, he  scooted over  to sit  beside Crysania,
who lay on the ground, her sightless  eyes staring  up at  the sky.
Gently, Tas drew  the cleric's  white hood  over her  head, shading
her  from  the  sun's  rays.  He had  tried unsuccessfully  to shut
those staring eyes, but it was as if her flesh  had turned  to mar-
ble.

Raistlin  seemed  to  walk  beside  Caramon  every  step  of  the
way  into  the  Forest.  The  warrior  could  almost hear  the soft
whisper of his brother's red  robes -  they had  been red  then! He
could hear his brother's voice  - always  gentle, always  soft, but
with that faint hiss of sarcasm  that grated  so on  their friends.
But  it  had  never  bothered  Caramon.  He  had  understood  -  or
anyway thought he had.
The   trees  in   the  Forest   suddenly  shifted   at  Caramon's
approach, just as they had shifted at the kender's approach.
Just   as   they   shifted   when   we  approached...   how  many
years  ago,  Caramon  thought.  Seven?  Has  it  only   been  seven
years? No, he realized sadly. It's been a lifetime, a  lifetime for
both of us.
As  Caramon  came  to  the  edge  of  the  wood, the  mist flowed
out along the ground, chilling his ankles with  a cold  that seared
through flesh and bit  into bone.  The trees  stared at  him, their
branches   writhing   in   agony.   He   remembered   the  tortured
woods  of  Silvanesti,  and  that  brought  more  memories  of  his
brother.  Caramon  stood  still  a  moment,  looking into  the For-
est. He  could see  the dark  and shadowy  shapes waiting  for him.
And there was no Raistlin to keep them at bay. Not this time.
"I was never afraid  of anything  until I  entered the  Forest of
Wayreth,"  Caramon said  to himself  softly. "I  only went  in last
time  because  you  were   with  me,   my  brother.   Your  courage
alone  kept  me  going.  How  can I  go in  there now  without you?
It's magic. I don't understand magic! I can't  fight it!  What hope
is there?" Caramon  put his  hands over  his eyes  to blot  out the
hideous sight. "I can't go in there," he said wretchedly. "It's too
much to ask of me!"
Pulling  his  sword from  its sheath,  he held  it out.  His hand
shook  so  he  nearly  dropped  the  weapon.  "Hah!"  he  said bit-

terly. "See? I couldn't fight a child. This is too  much to  ask. No
hope. There is no hope...."
"It  is  easy  to  have  hope  in  the  spring, warrior,  when the
weather  is  warm  and  the  vallenwoods  are green.  It is  easy to
have  hope  in  the  summer,  when  the  vallenwoods   glitter  with
gold.  It is  easy to  have hope  in the  fall when  the vallenwoods
are as  red as  living blood.  But in  the winter,  when the  air is
sharp  and  bitter  and  the  skies  are  gray, does  the vallenwood
die, warrior?"
"Who  spoke?"  Caramon  cried,  staring  around   wildly,  clutch-
ing his sword in his trembling hand.
"What  does  the  vallenwood  do  in  the  winter,  warrior,  when
all is dark and even the ground  is frozen?  It digs  deep, warrior.
It  sends its  roots down,  down, into  the soil,  down to  the warm
heart  of  the  world.  There,  deep  within,  the  vallenwood finds
nourishment  to  help  it  survive  the  darkness  and the  cold, so
that it may bloom again in the spring."
"So?" Caramon asked suspiciously, backing up a step and
looking around.
"So  you  stand  in  the  darkest  winter  of your  life, warrior.
And  so  you  must  dig  deep to  find the  warmth and  the strength
that will help you survive the  bitter cold  and the  terrible dark-
ness. No longer do  you have  the bloom  of spring  or the  vigor of
summer.  You  must  find  the strength  you need  in your  heart, in
your  soul.  Then,  like  the  vallenwoods,   you  will   grow  once
more."
"Your  words  are   pretty  -"   Caramon  began,   scowling,  dis-
trusting this talk of spring and trees. But he could not finish, his
breath caught in his throat.
The Forest was changing before his eyes.
The  twisting,  writhing  trees  straightened  as he  watched, lift-
ing  their  limbs  to  the  skies,  growing,  growing,  growing.  He
bent his head back so far he nearly lost his  balance, but  still he
couldn't  see  their  tops.  They were  vallenwood trees!  Just like
those  in  Solace  before  the   coming  of   the  dragons.   As  he
watched  in awe,  he saw  dead limbs  burst into  life -  green buds
sprouted,  burst  open,  blossomed  into  green   glistening  leaves
that  turned  summer  gold  - seasons  changing as  he drew  a shiv-
ering breath.
The noxious fog vanished, replaced by a sweet fragrance
drifting from beautiful flowers that twined among the roots of
the  vallenwoods.  The  darkness  in  the  forest vanished,  the sun

shed its bright light upon the swaying trees. And as the sunlight
touched the trees' leaves, the calls of birds filled the perfumed
air.

Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected
Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent
As glass, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

Beneath these branches the willing surrender of movement,
The business of birdsong, of love, left on the borders
With all of the fevers, the failures of memory.
Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected.

And light upon light, light as dismissal of darkness,
Beneath these branches no shade, for shade is forgotten
In  the warmth  of the  light and  the cool  smell of  the leaves
Where  we  grow  and  decay;  no  longer,  our trees  ever green.

Here there is quiet, where music turns in upon silence,
Here at the world's imagined edge, where clarity
Completes the senses, at long last where we behold
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent.

Where the tears are dried from our faces, or settle,
Still as a stream in accomplished countries of peace,
And the traveler opens, permitting the voyage of light
As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected
Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent
As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

Caramon's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  The  beauty of  the song
pierced his heart. There was  hope! Inside  the Forest,  he would
find all the answers! He'd find the help he sought.
"Caramon!"   Tasslehoff   was   jumping   up   and   down  with
excitement.  "Caramon,  that's  wonderful!  How  did  you  do it?
Hear the birds'? Let's go! Quickly."
"Crysania  -"  Caramon  said,  starting  to  turn  back. "We'll
have to make a litter. You'll have to help -" But before he could

finish, he stopped,  staring in  astonishment at  two white-robed
figures, who glided out of  the golden  woods. Their  white hoods
were pulled low over their heads, he could  not see  their faces.
Both  bowed  before him  solemnly, then  walked across  the glade
to where Crysania lay in her deathlike  sleep. Lifting  her still
body  with  ease,  they  bore  her gently  back to  where Caramon
stood. Coming to the edge  of the  Forest, they  stopped, turning
their hooded heads, looking at him expectantly.
"I think they're waiting for you to go in first,  Caramon," Tas
said cheerfully. "You go on ahead, I'll get Bupu."
The gully dwarf remained standing in the  center of  the glade,
regarding  the  Forest  with   deep  suspicion,   which  Caramon,
looking at the white-robed figures, suddenly shared.
"Who are you?" he asked.
They did not answer. They simply stood, waiting.
"Who  cares  who  they  are!"  Tas  said,  impatiently grabbing
hold of Bupu  and dragging  her along,  her sack  bumping against
her heels.
Caramon  scowled.  "You go  first." He  gestured at  the white-
robed figures. They said nothing, nor did they move.
"Why  are you  waiting for  me to  enter that  Forest?" Caramon
stepped back a  pace. "Go  ahead" -  he gestured  - "take  her to
the Tower. You can help her. You don't need me -"
The figures did  not speak,  but one  raised his  hand, pointing.
"C'mon,  Caramon,"  Tas  urged.  "Look, it's  like he  was invit-
ing us!"
They  will  not bother  us, brother....  We have  been invited!
Raistlin's words, spoken seven years ago.
"Mages invited us. I don't trust 'em." Caramon softly
repeated the answer he had made then.
Suddenly, the air was  filled with  laughter -  strange, eerie,
whispering  laughter.  Bupu  threw  her  arms   around  Caramon's
leg, clinging to him in terror. Even Tasslehoff seemed a bit dis-
concerted.  And  then  came  a  voice,  as  Caramon had  heard it
seven years before.
Does that include me, dear brother?

_CHAPTER 11_

The hideous appari-
tion came closer and closer to  her. Crysania  was possessed  by a
fear such as  she had  never known,  a fear  she could  never have
believed  existed.  As she  shrank back  before it,  Crysania, for
the first time in her life, contemplated death - her own death. It
was  not  the  peaceful  transition  to  a  blessed realm  she had
always  believed  existed. It  was savage  pain and  howling dark-
ness, eternal days and nights spent envying the living.
She tried to cry out for help, but her  voice failed.  There was
no  help anyway.  The drunken  warrior lay  in a  pool of  his own
blood. Her healing arts  had saved  him, but  he would  sleep long
hours.  The  kender  could not  help her.  Nothing could  help her
against this....
On  and  on  the  dark  figure  walked,  nearer  and  nearer  he
came.  Run!  her  mind  screamed.  Her  limbs  would not  obey. It
was  all  she  could  do  to  creep  backward,  and then  her body
seemed  to move  of its  own volition,  not through  any direction
of  hers.  She  could  not  even  look away  from him.  The orange
flickering lights that were his eyes held her fast.
He raised a hand,  a spectral  hand. She  could see  through it,
see  through  him, in  fact, to  the night-shadowed  trees behind.

The silver moon was in the sky, but  it was  not its  bright light
that  gleamed  off  the  antique  armor  of  a  long-dead Solamnic
Knight.  The  creature  shone  with  an  unwholesome light  of his
own, glowing with the energy of  his foul  decay. His  hand lifted
higher  and  higher,  and  Crysania  knew   that  when   his  hand
reached a level even with her heart, she would die.
Through  lips  numb  with  fear,  Crysania  called  out  a name,
"Paladine,"  she prayed.  The fear  did not  leave her,  she still
could not wrench her  soul away  from the  terrible gaze  of those
fiery eyes.  But her  hand went  to her  throat. Grasping  hold of
the medallion, she ripped it from her  neck. Feeling  her strength
draining,  her  consciousness  ebbing,  Crysania raised  her hand.
The platinum medallion  caught Solinari's  light and  flared blue-
white. The hideous apparition spoke - "Die!"
Crysania felt herself falling. Her body hit the ground,  but the
ground did  not catch  her. She  was falling  through it,  or away
from it.  Falling... falling...  closing her  eyes... sleeping....
dreaming....

She was in a grove  of oak  trees. White  hands clutched  at her
feet,  gaping  mouths  sought  to  drink  her blood.  The darkness
was  endless,  the  trees  mocked  her,  their  creaking  branches
laughing horribly.
"Crysania," said a soft, whispering voice.
What  was  that,  speaking  her  name from  the shadows  of the
oaks? She could see it, standing in a clearing, robed in black.
"Crysania," the voice repeated.
"Raistlin!"  She sobbed  in thankfulness.  Stumbling out  of the
terrifying grove of oak trees, fleeing  the bone-white  hands that
sought  to drag  her down  to join  their endless  torment, Crysa-
nia felt thin arms hold her. She felt the strange burning touch of
slender fingers.
"Rest  easy,  Revered  Daughter," the  voice said  softly. Trem-
bling  in his  arms, Crysania  closed her  eyes. "Your  trials are
over.  You  have  come  through  the   Grove  safely.   There  was
nothing to fear, lady. You had my charm."
"Yes,"  Crysania  murmured.  Her   hand  touched   her  forehead
where  his  lips  had  pressed against  her skin.  Then, realizing
what  she  had  been  through,  and realizing,  too, that  she had
allowed  him  to  see her  give way  to weakness,  Crysania pushed
the  mage's  arms  away.  Standing  back  from  him,  she regarded
him coldly.

"Why  do  you  surround  yourself  with  such foul  things?" she
demanded.  "Why  do  you  feel  the need  for such...  such guard-
ians!" Her voice quavered in spite of herself.
Raistlin looked at her mildly,  his golden  eyes shining  in the
light  of  his  staff.  "What  kind of  guardians do  you surround
yourself  with,  Revered  Daughter?"   he  asked.   "What  torment
would I endure if I set foot upon the Temple's sacred grounds?"
Crysania  opened  her  mouth  for  a  scathing  reply,  but  the
words  died  on  her  lips.  Indeed,  the  Temple  was consecrated
ground.  Sacred  to  Paladine,  if  any  who worshipped  the Queen
of  Darkness  entered  its precincts,  they would  feel Paladine's
wrath. Crysania saw Raistlin smile, his thin lips twitch. She felt
her skin flush. How was he capable  of doing  this to  her'? Never
had  any man  been able  to humiliate  her so!  Never had  any man
cast her mind in such turmoil!
Ever  since  the evening  she had  met Raistlin  at the  home of
Astinus,  Crysania  had  not  been  able  to  banish him  from her
thoughts.  She  had  looked  forward  to  visiting the  Tower this
night, looked forward to it and dreaded it at  the same  time. She
had told Elistan all about her talk with Raistlin, all - that is -
except  the  "charm"  he  had  given her.  Somehow, she  could not
bring herself to tell Elistan that Raistlin had touched her, had -
No, she wouldn't mention it.
Elistan had been upset enough as  it was.  He knew  Raistlin, he
had  known  the  young  man  of  old  -   the  mage   having  been
among  the  companions   who  rescued   the  cleric   from  Vermi-
naard's  prison  at  Pax  Tharkas.  Elistan  had  never  liked  or
trusted Raistlin, but then no one had, not really. The  cleric had
not been  surprised to  hear that  the young  mage had  donned the
Black  Robes.  He  was  not  surprised  to  hear  about Crysania's
warning  from  Paladine.  He  was  surprised  at  Crysania's reac-
tion  to  meeting  Raistlin,  however.  He  was  surprised  -  and
alarmed - at hearing Crysania had been  invited to  visit Raistlin
in  the  Tower  -  a place  where now  beat the  heart of  evil in
Krynn. Elistan  would have  forbidden Crysania  to go,.  but free-
dom of will was a teaching of the gods.
He  told Crysania  his thoughts  and she  listened respectfully.
But she  had gone  to the  Tower, drawn  by a  lure she  could not
begin to understand - although she  told Elistan  it was  to "save
the world."
"The world  is getting  on quite  well," Elistan  replied gravely.
But Crysania did not listen.

"Come inside," Raistlin said. "Some wine  will help  banish the
evil  memories  of  what  you  have  endured."  He  regarded  her
intently. "You  are very  brave, Revered  Daughter," he  said and
she  heard  no  sarcasm  in his  voice. "Few  there are  with the
strength to survive the terror of the Grove."
He  turned  away  from  her  then,  and  Crysania was  glad he
did. She felt herself blushing at his praise.
"Keep  near  me,"  he  warned as  he walked  ahead of  her, his
black robes rustling softly around his  ankles. "Keep  within the
light of my staff."
Crysania did as  she was  bidden, noticing  as she  walked near
him how the staff's light made her white robes shine as coldly as
the light of the silver moon, a striking contrast to  the strange
warmth it shed over Raistlin's soft velvety black robes.
He  led  her through  the dread  Gates. She  stared at  them in
curiosity,  remembering  the  gruesome  story  of  the  evil mage
who  had  cast  himself  down  upon them,  cursing them  with his
dying  breath.   Things  whispered   and  jabbered   around  her.
More than once,  she turned  at the  sound, feeling  cold fingers
upon  her  neck  or the  touch of  a chill  hand upon  hers. More
than once, she saw movement  out of  the corner  of her  eye, but
when  she looked,  there was  never anything  there. A  foul mist
rose up from the  ground, rank  with the  smell of  decay. making
her  bones  ache.  She  began to  shake uncontrollably  and when,
suddenly,  she  glanced  behind  her  and  saw  two  disembodied,
staring eyes - she took a  hurried step  forward and  slipped her
hand around Raistlin's thin arm.
He  regarded  her with  curiosity and  a gentle  amusement that
made her blush again.
"There is no need to be afraid," he said  simply. "I  am master
here. I will not let you come to harm."
"I-I'm not afraid," she said, though she knew he could feel her
body quivering. "I... was just...  unsure of  my steps,  that was
all."
"I  beg  your  pardon,  Revered  Daughter," Raistlin  said, and
now she could not be certain if she heard sarcasm in his voice or
not. He came to a halt. "It was impolite  of me  to allow  you to
walk  this  unfamiliar  ground  without  offering you  my assis-
tance. Do you find the walking easier now?"
"Yes, much," she said, flushing deeply beneath that strange
gaze.
He said nothing, merely smiled. She lowered her eyes,

unable   to   face   him,   and   they  resumed   walking.  Crysania
berated herself for her fear all the way to the  Tower, but  she did
not  remove  her  hand  from  the  mage's   arm.  Neither   of  them
spoke again  until they  reached the  door to  the Tower  itself. It
was a plain  wooden door  with runes  carved on  the outside  of its
surface.  Raistlin  said  no  word,  made  no  motion  that Crysania
could  see,  but  -  at  their  approach -  the door  slowly opened.
Light  streamed out  from inside,  and Crysania  felt so  cheered by
its  bright  and  welcoming  warmth,  that  - for  an instant  - she
did not see another figure standing silhouetted within it.
When she did, she stopped and drew back in alarm.
Raistlin touched her hand with his thin, burning fingers.
"That is only my apprentice, Revered Daughter,"  he said.
"Dalamar is flesh and blood, he walks among the living - at
least for the moment."
Crysania  did  not  understand  that  last  remark,  nor  did  she
pay it  much attention,  hearing the  underlying laughter  in Raist-
lin's voice. She was too startled by the fact that live people lived
here.  How silly,  she scolded  herself. What  kind of  monster have
I  pictured  this  man?  He  is a  man, nothing  more. He  is human,
he is flesh and  blood. The  thought relieved  her, made  her relax.
Stepping  through  the  doorway,  she   felt  almost   herself.  She
extended  her  hand  to  the  young  apprentice  as  she  would have
given it to a new acolyte.
"My apprentice, Dalamar," Raistlin said, gesturing toward
him. "Lady Crysania, Revered Daughter of Paladine."
"Lady  Crysania,"  said  the  apprentice  with  becoming  gravity,
accepting her hand and bringing  it to'  his lips,  bowing slightly.
Then  he  lifted  his  head, and  the black  hood that  shadowed his
face fell back.
"An  elf!"  Crysania  gasped.  Her  hand  remained  in  his. "But,
that's not possible," she began in confusion. "Not serving evil -"
"I-am  a  dark elf,  Revered Daughter,"  the apprentice  said, and
she heard a  bitterness in  his voice.  "At least,  that is  what my
people call me."
Crysania murmured in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I didn't
mean -"
She  faltered  and  fell silent,  not knowing  where to  look. She
could  almost  feel  Raistlin laughing  at her.  Once again,  he had
caught  her  off-balance.  Angrily,  she  snatched  her   hand  away
from  the  apprentice's  cool  grip  and  withdrew  her  other  hand
from Raistlin's arm.

"The  Revered  Daughter  has  had   a  fatiguing   journey,  Dala-
mar,"  Raistlin  said. "Please  show her  to my  study and  pour her
a  glass  of  wine.  With  your  permission,  Lady  Crysania"  - the
mage  bowed  -  "there  are  a  few  matters  that demand  my atten-
tion.  Dalamar,  anything  the  lady requires,  you will  provide at
once."
"Certainly, Shalafi," Dalamar answered respectfully.
Crysania said nothing as Raistlin left, suddenly over-
whelmed  with  a  sense  of  relief and  a numbing  exhaustion. Thus
must the warrior feel, battling for his life against a skilled oppo-
nent,  she observed  silently as  she followed  the apprentice  up a
narrow, winding staircase.
Raistlin's study was nothing like she had expected.
What  had  I  expected,  she  asked  herself.  Certainly  not this
pleasant  room  filled  with  strange  and  fascinating  books.  The
furniture  was  attractive  and  comfortable, a  fire burned  on the
hearth,  filling  the  room  with  warmth  that  was  welcome  after
the  chill  of  the  walk  to  the  Tower.  The  wine  that  Dalamar
poured  was  delicious.  The  warmth  of  the  fire  seemed  to seep
into her blood as she drank a small sip.
Dalamar  brought  forward  a  small,  ornately  carved  table  and
set it at her right hand. Upon this, he placed a  bowl of  fruit and
a loaf of fragrant, still-warm bread.
"What  is  this  fruit!" Crysania  asked, picking  up a  piece and
examining  it  in  wonder.  "I've  never  seen  anything  like  this
before."
"Indeed   not,   Revered   Daughter,"   Dalamar   answered,  smil-
ing.  Unlike  Raistlin,  Crysania  noticed,  the  young apprentice's
smile was  reflected in  his eyes.  "Shalafi has  it brought  to him
from the Isle of Mithas."
"Mithas?"  Crysania  repeated  in  astonishment.  "But  that's  on
the  other  side  of  the  world!  The  minotaurs  live  there. They
allow none to enter their kingdom! Who brings it?"
She  had  a  sudden, terrifying  vision of  the servant  who might
have  been  summoned  to  bring  such delicacies  to such  a master.
Hastily, she returned the fruit to the bowl.
"Try  it,  Lady  Crysania,"  Dalamar  said  without  a   trace  of
amusement  in  his  voice. "You  will find  it quite  delicious. The
Slalafi's health is delicate. There are so few things he  can toler-
ate. He lives on little else but this fruit, bread, and wine."
Crysania's  fear  ebbed.  "Yes,"  she  murmured,  her  eyes  going
to the door involuntarily. "He  is dreadfully  frail, isn't  he. And

that terrible cough..." Her voice was soft with pity.
"Cough?  Oh,  yes,"  Dalamar  said  smoothly,  "his... cough."
He did not continue  and, if  Crysania thought  this odd,  she soon
forgot it in her contemplation of the room.
The  apprentice   stood  a   moment,  waiting   to  see   if  she
required   anything  else.   When  Crysania   did  not   speak,  he
bowed. "If you need nothing more, lady,  I will  retire. I  have my
own studies to pursue."
"Of course. I will be fine  here," Crysania  said, coming  out of
her thoughts with a start. "He is your teacher, then," she  said in
sudden  realization.  Now  it  was  her  turn  to  look  at Dalamar
intently. "Is he a good one! Do you learn from him?"
"He  is  the most  gifted of  any in  our Order,  Lady Crysania,"
Dalamar said softly.  "He is  brilliant, skilled,  controlled. Only
one  has  lived  who was  as powerful  - the  great Fistandantilus.
And my Shalafi is  young, only  twenty-eight. If  he lives,  he may
well -"
"If he lives?" Crysania  repeated, then  felt irritated  that she
had unintentionally let a note of concern creep into her  voice. It
is right to feel concern, she told herself. After all, he is one of
the gods' creatures. All life is sacred.
"The  Art  is  fraught with  danger, my  lady," Dalamar  was say-
ing. "And now, if you will excuse me...."
"Certainly," Crysania murmured.
Bowing  again,  Dalamar  padded quietly  from the  room, shut-
ting  the door  behind him.  Toying with  her wine  glass, Crysania
stared into the dancing flames, lost in thought.  She did  not hear
the door open - if  indeed it  did. She  felt fingers  touching her
hair. Shivering, she looked  around, only  to see  Raistlin sitting
in a high-backed wooden chair behind his desk.
"Can I send  for anything  else? Is  everything to  your liking?"
he asked politely.
"Y-yes,"  Crysania  stammered,  setting  her  wine glass  down so
that he would not  see her  hand shake.  "Everything is  fine. More
than  fine,  actually.  Your  apprentice  -  Dalamar?  He  is quite
charming."
"Isn't he," said Raistlin dryly. He placed the  tips of  the five
fingers of each hand together and rested them upon the table.
"What  marvelous   hands  you   have,"  Crysania   said,  without
thinking. "How slender  and supple  the fingers  are, and  so deli-
cate." Suddenly  realizing what  she had  been saying,  she flushed
and  stammered.  "B-but  I-I  suppose  that  is  requisite  to your

Art -"
"Yes," Raistlin said,  smiling, and  this time  Crysania thought
she saw actual pleasure in  his smile.  He held  his hands  to the
light cast by the flames. "When I was just a child, I  could amaze
and delight my brother with the  tricks these  hands could  - even
then  -  perform." Taking  a golden  coin from  one of  the secret
pockets of his robes, Raistlin placed the  coin upon  the knuckles
of his hand. Effortlessly,  he made  it dance  and spin  and whirl
across his hand. It glistened in and out of his  fingers. Flipping
into the air, it  vanished, only  to reappear  in his  other hand.
Crysania gasped in delight. Raistlin  glanced up  at her,  and she
saw the smile of pleasure twist into one of bitter pain.
"Yes," he said, "it was my one skill, my one talent. It kept the
other  children  amused.  Sometimes  it  kept  them  from  hurting
me."
"Hurting  you?"  Crysania  asked hesitantly,  stung by  the pain
in his voice.
He did not answer at once, his eyes on the golden coin  he still
held  in his  hand. Then  he drew  a deep  breath. "I  can picture
your   childhood,"  he   murmured.  "You   come  from   a  wealthy
family, so they tell me.  You must  have been  beloved, sheltered,
protected,   given   anything  you   wanted.  You   were  admired,
sought after, liked."
Crysania  could  not  reply.  She  felt   suddenly  overwhelmed
with guilt.
"How  different  was my  childhood." Again,  that smile  of bit-
ter  pain.  "My  nickname  was  the  Sly  One.  I  was  sickly and
weak.  And  too  smart.  They  were  such  fools!  Their ambitions
so petty  - like  my brother,  who never  thought deeper  than his
food  dish!  Or  my sister,  who saw  the only  way to  attain her
goals was with her  sword. Yes,  I was  weak. Yes,  they protected
me. But  some day,  I vowed  I wouldn't  need their  protection! I
would rise to greatness on my own, using my gift - my magic!"
His  hand  clenched,  his golden-tinted  skin turned  pale. Sud-
denly  he  began  to  cough,  the  wrenching, wracking  cough that
twisted his frail body. Crysania rose to her feet, her  heart ach-
ing  with  pain.  But  he  motioned  her  to  sit down.  Drawing a
cloth from a pocket, he wiped the blood from his lips.
"And this was the price I paid for  my magic,"  he said  when he
could  speak  again.  His voice  was little  more than  a whisper.
"They  shattered  my  body and  gave me  this accursed  vision, so
that all I look upon I see dying before my eyes. But it  was worth

it, worth it all! For I have what I  sought -  power. I  don't need
them - any of them - anymore."
"But  this  power  is  evil!" Crysania  said, leaning  forward in
her chair and regarding Raistlin earnestly.
"Is it?" asked Raistlin suddenly. His voice  was mild.  "Is ambi-
tion evil? Is the quest for power, for control over others evil? If
so,  then  I fear,  Lady Crysania,  that you  may as  well exchange
those white robes for black."
"How dare you?" Crysania cried, shocked. "I don't -"
"Ah,  but  you  do,"  Raistlin said  with a  shrug. "You  would not
have  worked  so  hard  to  rise to  the position  you have  in the
church without having  your share  of ambition,  of the  desire for
power."  Now  it  was  his  turn  to  lean  forward.  "Haven't  you
always said to yourself - there  is something  great I  am destined
to do? My life will be different from the lives of others. I am not
content to sit and watch the  world pass  by. I  want to  shape it,
control it, mold it!"
Held  fast  by  Raistlin's  burning  gaze,  Crysania   could  not
move  or  utter  a  word.  How  could he  know? she  asked herself,
terrified. Can he read the secrets of my heart?
"Is that evil, Lady Crysania?"  Raistlin repeated  gently, insis-
tently.
Slowly,  Crysania  shook  her  head.   Slowly,  she   raised  her
hand to  her throbbing  temples. No,  it wasn't  evil. Not  the way
he  spoke of  it, but  something wasn't  quite right.  She couldn't
think.  She was  too confused.  All that  kept running  through her
mind was: How alike we are, he and I!
He was silent, waiting for  her to  speak. She  had to  say some-
thing. Hurriedly, she took a gulp of wine to  give herself  time to
collect her scattered thoughts.
"Perhaps I do have those desires," she  said, struggling  to find
the words, "but, if so, my  ambition is  not for  myself. I  use my
skills and talents for others,  to help  others. I  use it  for the
church -"
"The church!" Raistlin sneered.
Crysania's  confusion  vanished,  replaced  by  cold  anger. "Yes,"
she  replied,  feeling  herself  on  safe  and secure  ground, sur-
rounded by the bastion of  her faith.  "It was  the power  of good,
the power of Paladine, that drove away  the evil  in the  world. It
is that power I seek. That power that -"
"Drove away the evil?" Raistlin interrupted.
Crysania blinked. Her thoughts had carried her forward.

She hadn't even been totally aware-of what she was saying.
"Why, yes -"
"But evil and suffering still remain in the world," Raistlin per-
sisted.
"Because of such as you!" Crysania cried passionately.
"Ah,  no,  Revered  Daughter,"  Raistlin  said. "Not  through any
act  of  mine.  Look  -"  He  motioned  her  near  with  one  hand,
while with the other he reached  once again  into the  secret pock-
ets of his robe.
Suddenly  wary  and  suspicious,  Crysania  did  not  move, star-
ing at the object he drew  forth. It  was a  small, round  piece of
crystal, swirling with color, very like a child's marble. Lifting a
silver stand from where it stood on a corner of his  desk, Raistlin
placed  the  marble  on top  of it.  The thing  appeared ludicrous,
much  too  small  for  the  ornate  stand.  Then  Crysania  gasped.
The  marble  was  growing!  Or  perhaps  she  was   shrinking!  She
couldn't be certain. But  the glass  globe was  now the  right size
and rested comfortably upon the silver stand.
"Look into it," Raistlin said softly.
"No,"  Crysania  drew  back,  staring  fearfully  at  the  globe.
"What is that?"
"A dragon orb," Raistlin replied, his gaze holding her  fast. "It
is the only one left on  Krynn. It  obeys my  commands. I  will not
allow   you  to   come  to   harm.  Look   inside  the   orb,  Lady
Crysania - unless you fear the truth."
"How do I know it  will show  me the  truth?" Crysania
demanded, her voice shaking. "How do I know it won't show
me just what you tell it to show me?"
"If  you  know  the  way the  dragons orbs  were made  long ago,"
Raistlin  replied,  "you  know they  were created  by all  three of
the  Robes  -  the  White,  the Black,  and the  Red. They  are not
tools of  evil, they  are not  tools of  good. They  are everything
and  nothing.  You  wear  the  medallion  of  Paladine" -  the sar-
casm had returned  - "and  you are  strong in  your faith.  Could I
force you to see what you did not want to see?"
"What will I see?" Crysania whispered, curiosity and a
strange fascination drawing her near the desk.
"Only what your eyes have seen, but refused to look at."
Raistlin  placed  his  thin  fingers  upon  the  glass,  chanting
words  of  command.  Hesitantly,  Crysania  leaned  over  the  desk
and looked into the  dragon orb.  At first  she saw  nothing inside
the glass globe but  a faint  swirling green  color. Then  she drew

back. There were hands inside the  orb!  Hands that  were reach-
ing out....
"Do  not  fear,"  murmured  Raistlin.  "The  hands come  for me."
And,  indeed,  even  as   he  spoke,   Crysania  saw   the  hands
inside the orb reach out  and touch  Raistlin's hands.  The image
vanished. Wild, vibrant colors whirled madly  inside the  orb for
an  instant,  making Crysania  dizzy with  their light  and their
brilliance. Then they, too, were gone. She saw...
"Palanthas," she said, startled. Floating on the mists of morn-
ing, she could see the entire city, gleaming like a pearl, spread
out before her eyes. And then the city began to  rush up  at her,
or perhaps she was  falling down  into it.  Now she  was hovering
over New City,  now she  was over  the Wall,  now she  was inside
Old City. The Temple of Paladine rose before her,  the beautiful,
sacred  grounds  peaceful  and  serene  in the  morning sunlight.
And then she was behind the Temple, looking over a high wall.
She caught her breath. "What is this?" she asked.
"Have you never seen it?" Raistlin replied. "This alley so near
the sacred grounds?"
Crysania  shook  her  head,  "N-no,"  she  answered,  her voice
breaking. "And, yet, I must have. I have  lived in  Palanthas all
my life. I know all of -"
"No, lady," Raistlin said, his fingertips lightly caressing the
dragon orb's crystalline surface. "No, you know very little."
Crysania  could  not  answer. He  spoke the  truth, apparently,
for she did not know this part of the city. Littered with refuse,
the alley was dark and  dismal. Morning's  sunlight did  not find
its way past the buildings that leaned over the street as if they
had  no  more energy  to stand  upright. Crysania  recognized the
buildings  now.  She  had  seen  them from  the front.  They were
used to store everything  from grain  to casks  of wine  and ale.
But  how  much  different  they  looked from  the front!  And who
were these people, these wretched people?
"They  live  there,"  Raistlin  answered  her  unspoken question.
"Where?" Crysania asked in horror. "There? Why?"
"They  live  where  they  can.  Burrowing into  the heart  of the
city like maggots, they feed off its decay. As for why?" Raistlin
shrugged. "They have nowhere else to go."
"But this is terrible! I'll tell Elistan. We'll help them, give
them money -"
"Elistan knows," Raistlin said softly.
"No, he can't! That's impossible!"

"You knew.  If not  about this,  then you  knew of  other places
in your fair city that are not so fair."
"I  didn't  -"  Crysania began  angrily, then  stopped. Memories
washed  over  her  in  waves  -  her mother  averting her  face as
they rode in  their carriage  through certain  parts of  town, her
father  quickly  drawing shut  the curtains  in the  carriage win-
dows or leaning out to tell the driver to take a different road.
The  scene  shimmered,  the  colors  swirled,  it faded  and was
replaced  by  another,  and  then  another.  Crysania  watched  in
agony as the  mage ripped  the pearl-white  facade from  the city,
showing  her  blackness  and  corruption beneath.  Bars, brothels,
gambling  dens,  the  wharves,  the  docks...  all   spewed  forth
their  refuse of  misery and  suffering before  Crysania's shocked
vision. No longer could  she avert  her face,  there were  no cur-
tains to pull shut. Raistlin dragged her inside, brought her close
to the hopeless, the starving, the forlorn, the forgotten.
"No,"  she pleaded,  shaking her  head and  trying to  back away
from the desk. "Please show me no more."
But Raistlin was pitiless.  Once again  the colors  swirled, and
they  left  Palanthas.  The  dragon  orb  carried them  around the
world,  and  everywhere  Crysania  looked,   she  saw   more  hor-
rors.  Gully  dwarves,  a race  cast off  from their  dwarven kin,
living in squalor in whatever part of Krynn  they could  find that
no  one  else  wanted. Humans  eking out  a wretched  existence in
lands where rain had ceased  to fall.  The Wilder  elves, enslaved
by  their  own  people. Clerics,  using their  power to  cheat and
amass great wealth at the expense of those who trusted them.
It was  too much.  With a  wild cry,  Crysania covered  her face
with  her  hands. The  room swayed  beneath her  feet. Staggering,
she nearly fell.  And then  Raistlin's arms  were around  her. She
felt  that  strange,  burning warmth  from his  body and  the soft
touch  of  the black  velvet. There  was a  smell of  spices, rose
petals,  and  other,  more  mysterious odors.  She could  hear his
shallow breathing rattle in his lungs.
Gently,  Raistlin  led  Crysania  back  to  her  chair.  She sat
down,  quickly  drawing  away  from  his  touch. His  nearness was
both  repelling and  attracting at  the same  time, adding  to her
feelings of loss and confusion. She wished desperately  that Elis-
tan  were  here.  He   would  know,   he  would   understand.  For
there  had  to be  an explanation!  Such terrible  suffering, such
evil  should  not  be  allowed.  Feeling  empty  and  hollow,  she
stared into the fire.

"We are  not so  very different."  Raistlin's voice  seemed to
come from the flames. "I live  in my  Tower, devoting  myself to
my studies. You live in  your Tower,  devoting yourself  to your
faith. And the world turns around us."
"And that is true evil," Crysania said to the flames.  "To sit
and do nothing."
"Now  you  understand," Raistlin  said. "No  longer am  I con-
tent to sit and watch. I have studied long years for one reason,
with one aim. And now that  is within  my grasp.  I will  make a
difference, Crysania. I will change the world. That is my plan."
Crysania looked  up swiftly.  Her faith  had been  shaken, but
its core was strong. "Your plan! It is the plan  Paladine warned
me of in  my dream.  This plan  to change  the world  will cause
the  world's  desruction!" Her  hand clenched  in her  lap. "You
must not go through with it! Paladine -"
Raistlin made an impatient gesture with  his hand.  His golden
eyes flashed  and, for  a moment,  Crysania shrank  back, catch-
ing a glimpse of the smoldering fires within the man.
"Paladine will not  stop me,"  Raistlin said,  "for I  seek to
depose his greatest enemy."
Crysania  stared   at  the   mage,  not   understanding.  What
enemy  could  that  be?  What  enemy  could  Paladine  have upon
this world. Then Raistlin's meaning became clear.  Crysania felt
the blood drain from her face, cold fear  made her  shudder con-
vulsively. Unable  to speak,  she shook  her head.  The enormity
of his ambition and his desires was too fearful,  too impossible
to even contemplate.
"Listen," he said, softly. "I will make it clear...."
And he told her his plans. She  sat for  what seemed  like hours
before the fire, held by the gaze of  his strange,  golden eyes,
mesmerized by the sound of his  soft, whispering  voice, hearing
him tell her of the wonders of his  magic and  of the  magic now
long lost, the wonders discovered by Fistandantilus.
Raistlin's voice fell silent. Cyrsania  sat for  long moments,
lost  and  wandering  in  a  realm  far  from  any she  had ever
known. The fire burned  low in  the gray  hour before  dawn. The
room  became lighter.  Crysania shivered  in the  suddenly chill
chamber.
Raistlin  coughed, and  Crysania looked  up at  him, startled.
He  was  pale  with  exhaustion, his  eyes seemed  feverish, his
hands shook. Crysania rose to her feet.
"I am sorry," she said, her voice low. "I have kept  you awake

all night, and you are not well. I must go."
Raistlin  rose  with  her.  "Do  not  worry about  my health,
Revered Daughter," he said with a twisted smile. "The  fire that
burns  within me  is fuel  enough to  warm this  shattered body.
Dalamar  will  accompany  you  back  through  Shoikan  Grove, if
you like."
"Yes,  thank  you,"  Crysania  murmured.  She   had  forgotten
that she must go  back through  that evil  place. Taking  a deep
breath, she held her hand out to Raistlin. "Thank you  for meet-
ing with me," she began formally. "I hope -"
Raistlin took her hand in his, the touch  of his  smooth flesh
burned.  Crysania  looked  into  his   eyes.  She   saw  herself
reflected there, a colorless  woman dressed  in white,  her face
framed by her dark, black hair.
"You cannot do this,"  Crysania whispered.  "It is  wrong, you
must be stopped." She held onto his hand very tightly.
"Prove to  me that  it is  wrong," Raistlin  answered, drawing
her near. "Show me that this is evil. Convince me that  the ways
of good are the means of saving the world."
"Will  you listen?"  Crysania asked  wistfully. "You  are sur-
rounded by darkness. How can I reach you?"
"The darkness parted, didn't it," Raistlin said. "The darkness
parted, and you came in."
"Yes..."  Crysania  was  suddenly  aware of  the touch  of his
hand,  the  warmth  of  his  body.  Flushing  uncomfortably, she
stepped back. Removing her  hand from  his grasp,  she absently
rubbed it, as if it hurt.
"Farewell,  Raistlin  Majere," she  said, without  meeting his
eyes.
"Farewell, Revered Daughter of Paladine," he said.
The  door  opened and  Dalamar stood  within it,  though Cry-
sania  had  not  heard  Raistlin  summon  the  young apprentice.
Drawing  her  white  hood  up  over  her  hair,  Crysania turned
from  Raistlin  and  walked  through the  door. Moving  down the
gray,  stone  hallway, she  could feel  his golden  eyes burning
through  her  robes.  When  she  arrived  at the  narrow winding
staircase leading down, his voice reached her.
"Perhaps Paladine did  not send  you to  stop me,  Lady Crysa-
nia. Perhaps he sent you to help."
Crysania  paused  and  looked  back.  Raistlin  was  gone, the
gray  hall  was  bleak and  empty. Dalamar  stood beside  her in
silence, waiting.

Slowly, gathering the folds of her white robes in her hand so
that she did not trip, Crysania descended the stairs.
And  kept  on  descending...  down...  down...   into  unend-
ing sleep.

_CHAPTER 12_

The Tower of High
Sorcery in Wayreth had been, for centuries,  the last  outpost of
magic  upon the  continent of  Ansalon. Here  the mages  had been
driven,  when  the Kingpriest  ordered them  from the  other Tow-
ers. Here they had come, leaving  the Tower  in Istar,  now under
the  waters of  the Blood  Sea, leaving  the accursed  and black-
ened Tower in Palanthas.
The   Tower   in   Wayreth   was   an  imposing   structure,  an
unnerving  sight. The  outer walls  formed an  equilateral trian-
gle. A small tower stood at each angle  of the  perfect geometric
shape. In the center stood the two main towers, slanted slightly,
twisting just a little, enough to make the  viewer blink  and say
to himself - aren't those crooked?
The walls were built of black stone. Polished  to a  high gloss,
it shone brilliantly in the sunlight and, in the night, reflected
the light of two moons and  mirrored the  darkness of  the third.
Runes  were  carved  upon  the  surface  of  the stone,  runes of
power  and  strength,  shielding  and  warding; runes  that bound
the stones  to each  other; runes  that bound  the stones  to the
ground. The tops of  the walls  were smooth.  There were  no bat-
tlements for soldiers to man. There was no need.

Far  from  any  centers  of  civilization,  the  Tower  at Wayreth
was  surrounded  by  its  magic  wood.  None  could  enter  who  did
not  belong,  none  came  to  it  without  invitation.  And  so  the
mages protected  their last  bastion of  strength, guarding  it well
from the outside world.
Yet,  the  Tower  was  not  lifeless. Ambitious  apprentice magic-
users  came  from  all over  the world  to take  the rigorous  - and
sometimes  fatal  - Test.  Wizards of  high standing  arrived daily,
continuing  their  studies,  meeting,  discussing,  conducting  dan-
gerous  and  delicate  experiments.  To  these,  the Tower  was open
day  and  night.  They  could  come  and  go as  they chose  - Black
Robes, Red Robes, White Robes.
Though  far  apart  in  philosophies  - in  their ways  of viewing
and of living with the world -  all the  Robes met  in peace  in the
Tower.   Arguments   were   tolerated   only   as  they   served  to
advance the  Art. Fighting  of any  sort was  prohibited -  the pen-
alty was swift, terrible death.
The  Art.  It  was  the  one thing  that united  them all.  It was
their  first  loyalty  -  no  matter  who   they  were,   whom  they
served,  what  color   robes  they   wore.  The   young  magic-users
who  faced  death  calmly  when  they  agreed   to  take   the  Test
understood  this.  The  ancient  wizards  who  came here  to breathe
their  last  and be  entombed within  the familiar  walls understood
this.  The  Art -  Magic. It  was parent,  lover, spouse,  child. It
was soil, fire, air, water. It was life. It was death. It was beyond
death.
Par-Salian thought of  all this  as he  stood within  his chambers
in  the  northernmost  of  the  two  tall  towers,  watching Caramon
and his small retinue advance toward the gates.
As Caramon remembered the past, so, too, did Par-Salian.
Some wondered if it was with regret.
No,  he  said  silently,  watching  Caramon  come  up   the  path,
his  battlesword  clanking  against  his  flabby  thighs.  I  do not
regret the past. I was given a terrible choice and I made it.
Who questions the gods? They demanded a sword. I found
one. And - like all swords - it was two-edged.
Caramon  and  his  group  had  arrived  at  the outer  gate. There
were no guards. A tiny silver bell rang in Par-Salian's quarters.
The old mage raised his hand. The gates swung open.

It was twilight when they entered the outer gates of the
Tower  of  High  Sorcery.  Tas  glanced  around,  startled.  It had

been morning  only moments  ago. Or  at least  it seemed  like it
had been morning!  Looking up,  he could  see red  rays streaking
across the sky, gleaming eerily off the  polished stone  walls of
the Tower.
Tas  shook  his  head.  "How  does  anyone  tell   time  around
here?" he asked  himself. He  stood in  a vast  courtyard bounded
by the outer walls and the  inner two  towers. The  courtyard was
stark and barren. Paved with gray flagstone,  it looked  cold and
unlovely.  No  flowers  grew,  no  trees  broke   the  unrelieved
monotony of  the gray  stone. And  it was  empty, Tas  noticed in
disappointment.  There  was  absolutely  no  one  around,  no one
in sight.
Or  was  there? Tas  caught a  glimpse of  movement out  of the
corner of his eye, a flutter of white. Turning  quickly, however,
he was amazed to see it  was gone!  No one  was there.  And then,
he saw, out of the corner of the other eye, a face and a hand and
a red robed sleeve. He looked at it directly -  and it  was gone!
Suddenly,  Tas  had  the  impression  he  was surrounded  by peo-
ple, coming and going, talking, or just sitting and staring, even
sleeping! Yet - the courtyard was still silent, still empty.
"These  must  be  mages  taking  the  Test!"  Tas said  in awe.
"Raistlin told me they traveled  all over,  but I  never imagined
anything like this! I wonder if they can see  me? Do  you suppose
I could touch one, Caramon, if I - Caramon?"
Tas  blinked.  Caramon  was  gone!  Bupu  was gone!  The white-
robed figures and Lady Crysania were gone. He was alone!
Not for long. There was a flash of yellow light, a  most horri-
ble  smell,  and a  black-robed mage  stood towering  before him.
The mage extended a hand, a woman's hand.
"You have been summoned."
Tas  gulped.  Slowly,  he  held  out his  hand. The  woman's fin-
gers  closed over  his wrist.  He shivered  at their  cold touch.
"Perhaps  I'm  going  to  be  magicked!"   he  said   to  himself
hopefully.
The courtyard, the black stone walls, the  red streaks  of sun-
light, the gray flagstone, all began to dissolve around Tas, run-
ning down the edges of  his vision  like a  rain-soaked painting.
Thoroughly  delighted, the  kender felt  the woman's  black robes
wrap around him. She tucked them up around his chin....

When Tasslehoff  came to  his senses,  he was  lying on  a very
hard, very cold,  stone floor.  Next to  him, Bupu  snored bliss-

fully. Caramon was sitting up,  shaking his  head, trying  to clear
away the cobwebs.
"Ouch."  Tas  rubbed  the  back  of  his  neck.  "Funny  kind  of
accommodations,  Caramon,"  he  grumbled,  getting  to   his  feet.
"You'd  think  they  could  at  least  magic up  beds. And  if they
want a fellow to take a  nap, why  don't they  just say  so instead
of sending - oh -"
Hearing Tas's voice break off in a strange  sort of  gurgle, Car-
amon glanced up quickly.
They were not alone.
"I know this place," Caramon whispered.
They  were  in  a  vast  chamber  carved of  obsidian. It  was so
wide that its perimeter was lost in shadow, so high that  its ceil-
ing  was obscured  in shadow.  No pillars  supported it,  no lights
lit it. Yet light there was, though none could name its  source. It
was a pale light, white - not yellow. Cold  and cheerless,  it gave
no warmth.
The  last  time  Caramon  had  been  in  this chamber,  the light
shone  upon  one  old  man,  dressed  in  white  robes,  sitting by
himself in a great  stone chair.  This time,  the light  shone upon
the same old  man, but  he was  no longer  alone. A  half-circle of
stone  chairs  sat  around  him  -  twenty-one  to  be  exact.  The
white-robed  old  man sat  in the  center. To  his left  were three
indistinct  figures,  whether  male  or   female,  human   or  some
other race, it was difficult to tell. Their  hoods were  pulled low
over their faces. They were dressed in red robes. To their left sat
six  figures,  clothed  all  in  black.  One  chair among  them was
empty.  On the  old man's  right sat  four more  red-robed figures,
and - to their right, six dressed all in  white. Lady  Crysania lay
on  the  floor before  them, her  body on  a white  pallet, covered
with white linen.
Of all the Conclave, only the old man's face was visible.
"Good  evening,"  Tasslehoff  said, bowing  and backing  up and
bowing  and  backing  up  until  he   bumped  into   Caramon.  "Who
are  these  people?"  the  kender whispered  loudly. "And  what are
they doing in our bedroom?"
"The  old  man  in  the  center  is  Par-Salian,"   Caramon  said
softly. "And we're not in a bedroom. This is the central  hall, the
Hall of Mages  or some  such thing.  You better  wake up  the gully
dwarf."
"Bupu!" Tas kicked the snoring dwarf with his foot.
"Gulphphunger  spawn,"  she  snarled,  rolling  over,  her eyes

tightly closed. "Go way. Me sleep."
"Bupu!"  Tas  was  desperate; the  old man's  eyes seemed  to go
right through him. "Hey, wake up. Dinner."
"Dinner!"  Opening  her eyes,  Bupu jumped  to her  feet. Glanc-
ing  around eagerly,  she caught  sight of  the twenty  robed fig-
ures, sitting silently, their hooded faces invisible.
Bupu let out a  scream like  a tortured  rabbit. With  a convul-
sive  leap,  she  threw herself  at Caramon  and wrapped  her arms
around  his ankle  in a  deathlike grip.  Aware of  the glittering
eyes  watching  him,  Caramon  tried  to shake  her loose,  but it
was impossible. She clung to  him like  a leech,  shivering, peer-
ing at the mages in terror. Finally, Caramon gave up.
The old  man's face  creased in  what might  have been  a smile.
Tas  saw  Caramon  look  down   self-consciously  at   his  smelly
clothes. He  saw the  big man  finger his  unshaven jowls  and run
a  hand  through  his  tangled   hair.  Embarrassed,   he  flushed
uncomfortably.  Then  his  expression  hardened.  When  he  spoke,
it was with simple dignity.
"Par-Salian," Caramon said, the words booming out too
loudly in the vast, shadowy hall, "do you remember me?"
"I  remember  you,  warrior,"  said  the  mage.  His  voice  was
soft, yet it carried in the  chamber. A  dying whisper  would have
carried in that chamber.
He  said  nothing  more. None  of the  other mages  spoke. Cara-
mon  shifted  uncomfortably.  Finally he  gestured at  Lady Crysa-
nia. "I  have brought  her here,  hoping you  could help  her. Can
you? Will she be all right?"
"Whether she will be all right or not is not in our hands," Par-
Salian answered. "It is beyond our skill to care for her. In order
to protect her from the spell the death knight cast  upon her  - a
spell  that surely  would have  meant her  death -  Paladine heard
her  last  prayer  and  sent  her  soul to  dwell in  his peaceful
realms."
Caramon's head  bowed. "It's  my fault,"  he said  huskily. "I-I
failed her. I might have been able -"
"To  protect  her?"  Par-Salian shook  his head.  "No, warrior,
you could  not have  protected her  from the  Knight of  the Black
Rose.  You  would  have  lost your  own life  trying. Is  that not
true, kender?"
Tas,  suddenly  finding  the  gaze  of the  old man's  blue eyes
upon him  felt tingling  sparks shoot  through his  body. "Y-Yes,"
he stammered. "I-I saw him - it." Tasslehoff shuddered.

"This  from  one who  knows no  fear," Par-Salian  said mildly.
"No, warrior,  do not  blame yourself.  And do  not give  up hope
for  her.  Though  we ourselves  cannot restore  her soul  to her
body, we know  of those  who can.  But, first,  tell me  why Lady
Crysania sought us out.  For we  know she  was searching  for the
Forest of Wayreth."
"I'm not sure," Caramon mumbled.
"She  came  because of  Raistlin," Tas  chimed in  helpfully. But
his voice sounded  shrill and  discordant in  the hall.  The name
rang  out  eerily.  Par-Salian frowned,  Caramon turned  to glare
at  him. The  mages' hooded  heads shifted  slightly, as  if they
were  glancing  at each  other, their  robes rustled  softly. Tas
gulped and fell silent.
"Raistlin," the name hissed softly  from Par-Salian's  lips. He
stared at Caramon intently. "What does a cleric  of good  have to
do  with  your  brother?  Why  did  she  undertake  this perilous
journey for his sake?"
Caramon shook his head, unwilling or unable to talk.
"You know of his evil?" Par-Salian pursued sternly.
Caramon  stubbornly  refused  to  answer,  his  gaze  was fixed
on the stone floor.
"I  know  -"  Tas  began,  but Par-Salian  made a  slight move-
ment with his hand and the kender hushed.
"You  know  that  now  we  believe  he  intends to  conquer the
world?" Par-Salian continued, his  relentless words  hitting Car-
amon like darts. Tas could see  the big  man flinch.  "Along with
your half-sister, Kitiara -  or the  Dark Lady,  as she  is known
among her troops -  Raistlin has  begun to  amass armies.  He has
dragons, flying citadels. And in addition we know -"
A sneering voice rang through the hall. "You know nothing,
Great One. You are a fool!"
The words fell like drops of water into  a still  pond, causing
ripples  of  movement to  spread among  the mages.  Startled, Tas
turned, searching for the source of the  strange voice,  and saw,
behind  him,  a  figure  emerging  from  the  shadows.  Its black
robes rustled as it walked past them to face Par-Salian.  At that
moment, the figure removed its hood.
Tas felt Caramon stiffen. "What is it?" the kender whispered,
unable to see.
"A dark elf!" Caramon muttered.
"Really?" Tas said, his eyes brightening. "You know, in all the
years I've lived on Krynn, I've never seen a dark elf."  The ken-

der started forward only to be caught by the  collar of  his tunic.
Tas  squawked  in  irritation,  as  Caramon  dragged him  back, but
neither  Par-Salian   nor  the   black-robed  figure   appeared  to
notice the interruption.
"I  think  you  should  explain  yourself,  Dalamar,"  Par-Salian
said quietly. "Why am I a fool?"
"Conquer  the  world!"  Dalamar  sneered.  "He  does not  plan to
conquer  the  world!  The  world  means  nothing  to him.  He could
have the world tomorrow, tonight, if he wanted it!"
"Then what does he want?" This question came from a red-
robed mage seated near Par-Salian.
Tas,  peering  out  around  Caramon's  arm,  saw   the  delicate,
cruel features of the dark elf relax in a smile - a smile that made
the kender shiver.
"He  wants  to  become  a  god,"  Dalamar  answered  softly.  "He
will challenge the Queen of Darkness herself. That is his plan."
The  mages said  nothing, they  did not  move, but  their silence
seemed to stir among  them like  shifting currents  of air  as they
stared at Dalamar with glittering, unblinking eyes.
Then Par-Salian sighed. "I think you overestimate him."
There  was  a  ripping,  rending  sound, the  sound of  cloth being
torn  apart.  Tas saw  the dark  elf's arms  jerk, tearing  open the
fabric of his robes.
"Is this overestimating him?" Dalamar cried.
The mages leaned forward, a gasp whispered through the
vast hall like a chill wind.  Tas struggled  to see,  but Caramon's
hand held him fast. Irritably,  Tas glanced  up at  Caramon's face.
Wasn't he curious? But Caramon appeared totally unmoved.
"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 nar-
rowed 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 cer-
tainly powerful, but I find  this talk  of challenging  a goddess
quite ridiculous... quite ridiculous indeed."
There  were  murmured  assents  from both  halves of  the semi-
circle.
"Oh,  do  you?"  Dalamar asked,  and there  was a  lethal soft-
ness 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  sum-
moned, 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 tor-
tured death at his hands."
"You  cannot  stop  me," Dalamar  said, and  there was  no emo-
tion 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 dubi-
ously. "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 Cara-
mon. "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 com-
pany  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 sud-
denly 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 capa-
ble 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 possi-
ble. "Continue," he said, almost without voice.
Dalamar drew a breath.
"He journeys back in time,  to the  days just  prior to  the Cata-
clysm,  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 Fistan-
dantilus? 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. "Per-
haps  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, sad-
ness 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.' "
Par-Salian  was  interrupted  by  angry  voices,  coming particu-
larly from  those wearing  the black  robes. Par-Salian  glanced at
them,  his  eyes  flashing.  Within that  moment, Tas  saw revealed
the power and authority that lay within the feeble old mage.
"Yes,  perhaps  I  should  have  brought  the  matter  before the
Conclave,"  Par-Salian  said,  his  voice  sharp.  "But  I believed
then - as I believe now -  that it  was my  decision alone.  I knew
well  the  hours  that  the  Conclave  would  spend   bickering,  I
knew  well  none  of  you  would  agree!  I  made  my  decision. Do
any of you challenge my right to do so?"
Tas held his breath, feeling Par-Salian's  anger roll  around the
hall  like  thunder.  The Black  Robes sank  back into  their stone
seats,  muttering.  Par-Salian was  silent for  a moment,  then his
eyes went back to Caramon, and their stern glance softened.
"I chose Raistlin," he said.
Caramon scowled. "Why?" he demanded.
"I  had my  reasons," Par-Salian  said gently.  "Some of  them I
cannot explain to you,  not even  now. But  I can  tell you  this -
he  was  born  with  the  gift.  And  that  is most  important. The
magic  dwells  deep  within  your  brother.  Did  you   know  that,
from the first day Raistlin  attended school,  his own  master held
him  in  fear  and  awe.  How  does  one  teach  a pupil  who knows
more  than  the teacher?  And combined  with the  gift of  magic is
intelligence. Raistlin's mind is never at rest. It seeks knowledge,
demands  answers.  And  he  is  courageous  -  perhaps   more  cou-
rageous than  you are,  warrior. He  fights pain  every day  of his
life.  He  has  faced  death  more  than once  and defeated  it. He
fears nothing - neither the darkness  nor the  light. And  his soul
..."  Par-Salian  paused.  "His  soul  burns  with   ambition,  the
desire  for  power,  the  desire  for more  knowledge. I  knew that
nothing, not even the  fear of  death itself,  would stop  him from
attaining  his  goals.  And  I  knew  that the  goals he  sought to
attain might well benefit the  world, even  if he,  himself, should
choose to turn his back upon it."

Par-Salian  paused.  When  he  spoke, it  was with  sorrow. "But
first he had to take the Test."
"You  should  have  foreseen  the  outcome," the  red-robed mage
said, speaking in the same mild tone.  "We all  knew he  was wait-
ing, biding his time...."
"I had no choice!" Par-Salian snapped,  his blue  eyes flashing.
"Our  time  was  running out.  The world's  time was  running out.
The young man  had to  take the  Test and  assimilate what  he had
learned. I could delay no longer."
Caramon  stared  from  one  to  the other.  "You knew  Raist was
in some kind of danger when you brought him here?"
"There  is  always  danger," Par-Salian  answered. "The  Test is
designed  to  weed  out  those  who  might  be  harmful  to  them-
selves, to the Order, to the innocents in the  world." He  put his
hand  to his  head, rubbing  his brows.  "Remember, too,  that the
Test  is  designed  to  teach  as  well.  We  hoped to  teach your
brother  compassion  to  temper  his  selfish  ambition,  we hoped
to teach him mercy, pity. And,  it was,  perhaps, in  my eagerness
to teach that I made a mistake. I forgot Fistandantilus."
"Fistandantilus?"  Caramon  said  in  confusion.  "What  do  you
mean  -  forgot  him?  From  what  you've said,  that old  mage is
dead."
"Dead?  No."  Par-Salian's  face   darkened.  "The   blast  that
killed  thousands  in  the  Dwarven  Wars  and  laid waste  a land
that is still devastated and barren  did not  kill Fistandantilus.
His  magic  was  powerful  enough  to  defeat  death   itself.  He
moved to another plane of existence,  a plane  far from  here, yet
not  far  enough.   Constantly  he   watched,  biding   his  time,
searching  for  a  body  to  accept  his soul.  And he  found that
body - your brother's."
Caramon  listened  in  tense  silence,  his face  deathly white.
Out of the  corner of  his eye,  Tas saw  Bupu start  edging back-
ward.  He  grabbed  her hand  and held  onto her  tightly, keeping
the terrified gully dwarf  from turning  and fleeing  headlong out
of the hall.
"Who  knows  what  deal  the  two  made  during  the  Test? None
of us, probably." Par-Salian smiled slightly. "I know this. Raist-
lin did superbly, yet his frail health was failing him. Perhaps he
could have survived the final  test -  the confrontation  with the
dark elf - if Fistandantilus had not aided him. Perhaps not."
"Aided him? He saved his life?"
Par-Salian  shrugged.  "We know  only this,  warrior -  it was

not any of us who left your brother  with that  gold-tinted skin.
The  dark  elf  cast a  fireball at  him, and  Raistlin survived.
Impossible, of course -"
"Not for Fistandantilus," interrupted the red-robed mage.
"No," Par-Salian agreed  sadly, "not  for Fistandantilus.  I won-
dered at the time, but I was not able  to investigate.  Events in
the  world were  rushing to  a climax.  Your brother  was himself
when he came out of  the Test.  More frail,  of course,  but that
was only to be expected.  And I  was right"  - Par-Salian  cast a
swift,  triumphant  glance  around  the  semi-circle  -  "he  was
strong in  his magic!  Who else  could have  gained power  over a
dragon orb without years of study?"
"Of course," the  red-robed mage  said, "he  had help  from one
who'd had years of study."
Par-Salian frowned and did not answer.
"Let  me  get  this  straight,"  Caramon  said, glowering  at the
white-robed  mage. "This  Fistandantilus... took  over Raistlin's
soul? He's the one that made Raistlin take the Black Robes."
"Your brother made his own choice," Par-Salian spoke
sharply. "As did we all."
"I don't believe  it!" Caramon  shouted. "Raistlin  didn't make
this  decision.  You're  lying  -  all  of  you! You  tortured my
brother,  and  then  one  of  your old  wizards claimed  what was
left  of  his  body!"  Caramon's words  boomed through  the cham-
ber and sent the shadows dancing in alarm.
Tas saw Par-Salian regard  the warrior  grimly, and  the kender
cringed, waiting for the spell that would  sizzle Caramon  like a
spitted  chicken.  It never  came. The  only sound  was Caramon's
ragged breathing.
"I'm  going  to  get  him  back,"  Caramon said  finally, tears
gleaming in his eyes. "If he can go back in time to meet this old
wizard, so can I.  You can  send me  back. And  when I  find Fis-
tandantilus,  I'll  kill him.  Then Raist  will be..."  He choked
back a sob, fighting for control. "He'll be Raist again. And he'll
forget  all  this  nonsense  about  challenging  th-the  Queen of
Darkness and... becoming a god."
The  semi-circle  broke into  chaos. Voices  raised, clamboring
in  anger.  "Impossible!  He'll change  history! You've  gone too
far, Par-Salian -"
The white-robed mage rose to his feet and, turning, stared at
every mage in the semi-circle, his eyes going to each individu-
ally. Tas could sense the silent  communication, swift  and sear-

ing as lightning.
Caramon wiped his hand across his eyes, staring at the
mages defiantly. Slowly, they all sank back into their seats. But
Tas  saw  hands  clench,  he  saw  faces  that  were unconvinced,
faces filled with anger. The red-robed mage stared  at Par-Salian
speculatively, one eyebrow raised. Then he,  too, sat  back. Par-
Salian cast a final, quick glance around  the Conclave  before he
turned to face Caramon.
"We will consider your offer," Par-Salian said. "It might
work. Certainly, it is not something he would expect -"
Dalamar began to laugh.

_CHAPTER 13_

"Expects'?" Dalamar
laughed until he could scarcely breathe. "He  planned all  of this!
Do  you think  this great  idiot" -  he waved  at Caramon  - "could
have  found  his  way  here  by  himself?  When creatures  of dark-
ness  pursued  Tanis  Half-Elven  and   Lady  Crysania   -  pursued
but  never  caught  them -  who do  you think  sent them?  Even the
encounter  with  the  death  knight,  an  encounter plotted  by his
sister,  an  encounter  that  could  have  wrecked  his plans  - my
Shalafi  has  turned  to  his own  advantage. For,  undoubtedly you
fools will  send this  woman, Lady  Crysania, back  in time  to the
only ones who can heal  her -  the Kingpriest  and his  followers.
You will send her back  in time  to meet  Raistlin! Not  only that,
you'll even provide  her with  this man  - his  brother -  as body-
guard. Just what the Shalafi wants."
Tas  saw  Par-Salian's  clawlike  fingers  clench  over  the cold
stone arms of his chair, the  old man's  blue eyes  gleamed danger-
ously.
"We  have  suffered  enough  of  your  insults,   Dalamar,"  Par-
Salian said. "I begin to think your loyalty to your Shalafi  is too
great. If that is true, your usefulness to this Conclave is ended."
Ignoring  the  threat,  Dalamar smiled  bitterly. "My  Shalafi -"

he  repeated  softly,  then  sighed. A  shudder convulsed  his slen-
der  body,  he  gripped  the  torn robes  in his  hand and  bowed his
head. "I am  caught in  the middle,  as he  intended," the  dark elf
whispered.  "I  don't  know  who  I  serve  anymore, if  anyone." He
raised  his  dark  eyes,  and  their haunted  look made  Tas's heart
ache. "But I  know this  - if  any of  you came  and tried  to enter
the  Tower  while  he was  gone, I  would kill  you. That  much loy-
alty I owe him. Yet, I am just as frightened of him as you are. I'll
help you, if I can."
Par-Salian's  hands   relaxed,  though   he  still   continued  to
regard  Dalamar  sternly. "I  fail to  understand why  Raistlin told
you  of  his  plans? Surely  he must  know we  will move  to prevent
him from succeeding in his terrifying ambitions."
"Because  -  like  me  -  he has  you where  he wants  you," Dala-
mar  said.  Suddenly  he  staggered,  his  face  pale with  pain and
exhaustion.  Par-Salian  made  a  motion,  and  a   chair  material-
ized  out  of  the  shadows.  The  dark  elf  slumped into  it. "You
must  go along  with his  plans. You  must send  this man  back into
time"  -  he  gestured at  Caramon -  "along with  the woman.  It is
the only way he can succeed -"
"And it is the only  way we  can stop  him," Par-Salian  said, his
voice  low.  "But   why  Lady   Crysania?  What   possible  interest
could he have in one so good, so pure -"
"So  powerful,"  Dalamar  said  with  a  grim  smile.  "From  what
he  has  been  able to  gather from  the writings  of Fistandantilus
that still survive, he will need a cleric to go with him to face the
dread  Queen.  And  only  a  cleric  of  good  has  power  enough to
defy  the  Queen  and  open  the  Dark   Door.  Oh,   Lady  Crysania
was not the Shalafi's first choice. He  had vague  plans to  use the
dying Elistan -  but I  won't relate  that. As  it turned  out, how-
ever,  Lady  Crysania fell  into his  hands -  one might  say liter-
ally. She is good, strong in her faith, powerful -"
"And drawn to evil as a moth is drawn to the flame," Par-
Salian murmured, looking at Crysania with deep pity.
Tas,  watching  Caramon,  wondered  if  the   big  man   was  even
absorbing  half  of  this. He  had a  vague, dull-witted  look about
him, as if he wasn't  quite certain  where -  or who  - he  was. Tas
shook  his  head  dubiously.  They're  going  to  send  him  back in
time? the kender thought.
"Raistlin has other reasons for wanting both this woman and
his brother back in time with him, of that you may be certain,"
the  red-robed mage  said to  Par-Salian. "He  has not  revealed his

game, not by any  means. He  has told  us -  through our  agent -
just enough to leave us confused. I say we thwart his plans!"
Par-Salian did not reply. But, lifting his  head, he  stared at
Caramon  for  long moments  and in  his eyes  was a  sadness that
pierced  Tas's  heart.  Then,  shaking his  head, he  lowered his
gaze, looking fixedly at the  hem of  his robes.  Bupu whimpered,
and  Tas  patted  her absently.  Why that  strange look  at Cara-
mon?  the  kender  wondered uneasily.  Surely they  wouldn't send
him off to certain death? Yet, wasn't that  what they'd  be doing
if  they sent  him back  the way  he was  now -  sick, depressed,
confused? Tas shifted from one  foot to  the other,  then yawned.
No one was paying any attention to  him. All  this talk  was bor-
ing.  He  was hungry,  too. If  they were  going to  send Caramon
back in time, he wished they'd just do it.
Suddenly, he felt one part of his mind (the part that  was lis-
tening  to  Par-Salian)  tug  at the  other part.  Hurriedly, Tas
brought both parts together to listen to what was being said.
Dalamar was talking. "She spent the  night in  his study.  I do
not know what was discussed,  but I  know that  when she  left in
the  morning,  she  appeared  distraught  and  shaken.  His  last
words to her were these, 'Has  it occurred  to you  that Paladine
did not send you to stop me but to help me?' "
"And what answer did she make?"
"She did not answer him," Dalamar replied. "She walked
back  through  the  Tower  and  then through  the Grove  like one
who can neither see nor hear."
"What  I do  not understand  is why  Lady Crysania  was travel-
ing here to seek our help in sending her  back'? Surely  she must
have  known  we  would  refuse  such  a  request!"  the red-robed
mage stated.
"I  can  answer  that!"  Tasslehoff  said,  speaking  before he
thought.
Now  Par-Salian  was  paying  attention  to  him,  now  all the
mages  in  the semi-circle  were paying  attention to  him. Every
head turned in his direction. Tas had talked to spirits in Darken
Wood, he had  spoken at  the Council  of White  Stone but,  for a
moment,  he  was  awed  at  this  silent, solemn  audience. Espe-
cially when it occurred to him what he had to say.
"Please,  Tasslehoff  Burrfoot,"  Par-Salian  spoke  with great
courtesy,  "tell  us  what  you  know."  The mage  smiled. "Then,
perhaps, we can bring this meeting to  a close  and you  can have
your dinner."

Tas  blushed,  wondering  if  Par-Salian  could,   perhaps,  see
through his head and read his thoughts printed  on his  brain like
he read words printed on a sheet of parchment.
"Oh!  Yes,  dinner would  be great.  But, now,  um -  about Lady
Crysania."  Tas  paused  to  collect  his thoughts,  then launched
into his tale. "Well, I'm not certain about this, mind you. I just
know from what little I was  able to  pick up  here and  there. To
begin  at  the  beginning,  I  met  Lady  Crysania  when I  was in
Palanthas  visiting  my  friend, Tanis  Half-Elven. You  know him?
And  Laurana,  the  Golden  General?  I  fought  with them  in the
War  of  the  Lance.  I  helped  save  Laurana  from the  Queen of
Darkness."  The  kender  spoke  with pride.  "Have you  ever heard
that story? I was in the Temple at Neraka -"
Par-Salian's  eyebrows raised  ever so  slightly, and  Tas stut-
tered.
"Uh, w-well, I'll tell that later. Anyway,  I met  Lady Crysania
at Tanis's home and I heard their plans to travel to Solace to see
Caramon.  As  it  happened, I-I  sort of...  well, found  a letter
Lady  Crysania  had  written  to  Elistan.  I  think it  must have
fallen out of her pocket."
The kender paused  for breath.  Par-Salian's lips  twitched, but
he refrained from smiling.
"I read it," Tas continued,  now enjoying  the attention  of his
audience, "just to see if it was important.  After all,  she might
have thrown it away. In the letter, she  said she  was more  - uh,
how did it go - 'firmly convinced  than ever,  after my  talk with
Tanis,  that  there was  good in  Raistlin' and  that he  could be
'turned from his evil path. I must convince the mages of this  - '
Anyhow, I saw that the letter was important, so I took it  to her.
She was very grateful  to get  it back,"  Tas said  solemnly. "She
hadn't realized she'd lost it."
Par-Salian put his fingers on his lips to control them.
"I said I could tell her lots  of stories  about Raistlin,  if she
wanted to hear them. She said she'd like that a lot, so I told her
all the stories I could think of. She was  particularly interested
in the ones I told her about Bupu -
" 'If only I could find  the gully  dwarf!' she  said to  me one
night.  'I'm  certain I  could convince  Par-Salian that  there is
hope, that he may be reclaimed!' "
At this, one of the Black Robes snorted loudly. Par-Salian
glanced sharply in that direction, the wizards hushed. But Tas
saw  many  of them  - particularly  the Black  Robes -  fold their

arms across their chests in anger. He could see their eyes glitter-
ing from the shadows of their hoods.
"Uh,  I'm  s-sure  I didn't  mean to  offend," Tas  stuttered. "I
know  I  always  thought  Raistlin  looked much  better in  black -
with that golden skin  of his  and all.  I certainly  don't believe
everyone  has  to  be  good,  of  course.  Fizban  -   he's  really
Paladine  - we're  great personal  friends, Paladine  and I  - Any-
way,  Fizban said  that there  had to  be a  balance in  the world,
that we were fighting to restore  the balance.  So that  means that
there has to be Black Robes as well as White, doesn't it?"
"We  know  what  you  mean,  kenderken,"  Par-Salian   said  gen-
tly. "Our brethren take no offense  at your  words. Their  anger is
directed elsewhere. Not everyone  in the  world is  as wise  as the
great Fizban the Fabulous."
Tas  sighed.  "I  miss  him,  sometimes.  But,  where was I? Oh,
yes,  Bupu. That's  when I  had my  idea. Maybe,  if Bupu  told her
story,  the  mages  would  believe  her, I  said to  Lady Crysania.
She agreed and I  offered to  go and  find Bupu.  I hadn't  been to
Xak  Tsaroth  since  Goldmoon  killed  the  black  dragon   and  it
was  just  a  short  hop  from  where  we  were  and Tanis  said it
would be fine  with him.  He seemed  quite pleased  to see  me off,
actually.
"The Highpulp  let me  take Bupu,  after a  - uh  - small  bit of
discussion and some interesting items that  I had  in my  pouch. I-
took  Bupu  to  Solace,  but  Tanis  had  already  gone and  so had
Lady  Crysania.  Caramon   was  -"   Tas  stopped,   hearing  Cara-
mon  clear  his  throat  behind  him. "Caramon  was -  wasn't feel-
ing  too  good,  but  Tika  -  that's  Caramon's  wife and  a great
friend  of  mine  -  anyway,  Tika  said  we had  to go  after Lady
Crysania,  because  the  Forest  of  Wayreth  was a  terrible place
and  - No  offense meant,  I'm certain,  but did  you ever  stop to
think  that  your  Forest  is  really  nasty?  I  mean,  it  is not
friendly" - Tas glared at  the mages  sternly -  "and I  don't know
why you let it wander around loose! I think it's irresponsible!"
Par-Salian's shoulders quivered.
"Well,  that's all  I know,"  Tas said.  "And, there's  Bupu, and
she can -" Tas stopped, looking around. "Where'd she go?"
"Here,"  Caramon  said  grimly,  dragging  the  gully  dwarf  out
from  behind  his  back  where  she  had  been  cowering  in abject
terror. Seeing the mages  staring at  her, the  gully dwarf  gave a
shriek and collapsed  onto the  floor, a  quivering bundle  of rag-
ged clothes.

"I think you had  better tell  us her  story," Par-Salian  said to
Tas. "If you can, that is."
"Yes,"  Tas  replied,  suddenly  subdued.  "I  know  what  it  was
Lady  Crysania  wanted  me  to  tell.  It  happened back  during the
war,  when  we  were  in  Xak  Tsaroth.  The  only  ones   who  knew
anything   about   that   city   were   gully   dwarves.   But  most
wouldn't  help us.  Raistlin cast  a charm  spell on  one of  them -
Bupu.  Charmed  wasn't  exactly  the word  for what  it did  to her.
She  fell in  love with  him." Tas  paused, sighing,  then continued
in a remorseful tone. "Some  of us  thought it  was funny,  I guess.
But  Raistlin  didn't.  He  was  really  kind  to  her, and  he even
saved  her  life,  once,  when draconians  attacked us.  Well, after
we  left  Xak  Tsaroth,  Bupu  came  with us.  She couldn't  bear to
leave Raistlin."
Tas's  voice  dropped.  "One  night,  I  woke  up.  I  heard  Bupu
crying. I started to go to her, but  I saw  Raistlin had  heard her,
too.  She  was  homesick.  She  wanted  to  go  back to  her people,
but she couldn't leave him. I  don't know  what he  said, but  I saw
him lay his  hand on  her head.  And it  seemed that  I could  see a
light  shining  all  around  Bupu.  And,  then,  he  sent  her home.
She  had to  travel through  a land  filled with  terrible creatures
but,  somehow,  I  knew she  would be  safe. And  she was,"  Tas fin-
ished solemnly.
There was a moment's silence, then it seemed that all the
mages began to talk at once. Those of the Black Robes shook
their heads. Dalamar sneered.
"The kender was dreaming," he said scornfully.
"Who believes kender anyway?" said one.
Those of the Red Robes and the White Robes appeared
thoughtful and perplexed.
"If  this  is  true," said  one, "perhaps  we have  misjudged him.
Perhaps we should take this chance, however slim."
Finally Par-Salian raised a hand for silence.
"I admit I find this difficult to believe," he said at last. "I mean
no  disparagement  to  you,  Tasslehoff  Burrfoot,"  he  added  gen-
tly,  smiling  at  the  indignant  kender. "But  all know  your race
has  a  most  lamentable tendency  to, uh,  exaggerate. It  is obvi-
ous  to  me that  Raistlin simply  charmed this  - this  creature" -
Par-Salian spoke with disgust - "to use her and -"
"Me no creature!"
Bupu lifted her tear-stained, mud-streaked face from the
floor, her hair frizzed up like an angry cat's. Glaring at Par-

Salian, she stood up and  started forward,  tripped over  the bag
she  carried,  and  sprawled  flat on  the floor.  Undaunted, the
gully dwarf picked herself up and faced Par-Salian.
"Me   know   nothing   'bout   big,  powerful   wizards."  Bupu
waved  a   grubby  hand.   "Me  know   nothing  'bout   no  charm
spell. Me know magic is in this"  - she  scrabbled around  in the
bag, then drew forth the dead  rat and  waved it  in Par-Salian's
direction - "and me know  that man  you talk  'bout here  is nice
man.  Him  nice  to  me." Clutching  the dead  rat to  her chest,
Bupu stared tearfully at Par-Salian. "The others  - the  big man,
the kender - they laugh at  Bupu. They  look at  me like  me some
sort of bug."
Bupu rubbed her eyes.  There was  a lump  in Tas's  throat, and
he felt lower than a bug himself.
Bupu  continued,  speaking  softly.  "Me  know  how  me  look."
Her  filthy  hands  tried in  vain to  smooth her  dress, leaving
streaks of dirt down it. "Me know me not pretty, like  lady lying
there." The gully  dwarf snuffled,  but then  she wiped  her hand
across her nose and  - raising  her head  - looked  at Par-Salian
defiantly. "But him not call me 'creature!'  Him call  me 'little
one.' Little one," she repeated.
For   a   moment,   she  was   quiet,  remembering.   Then  she
heaved a gusty sigh. "I-I want to stay with him. But him tell me,
'no,' Him say he must walk roads that  be dark.  Him tell  me, he
want  me  to  be  safe.  Him  lay  his  hand on  my head"  - Bupu
bowed  her  head,  as if  in memory  - "and  I feel  warm inside.
Then him tell me, 'Farewell, Bupu.' Him call  me 'little  one.' "
Looking  up,  Bupu  glanced  around  at  the   semi-circle.  "Him
never  laugh at  me," she  said, choking.  "Never!" She  began to
cry.
The  only  sounds in  the room,  for a  moment, were  the gully
dwarf's  sobs.  Caramon put  his hands  over his  face, overcome.
Tas drew a  shuddering breath  and fished  around for  a handker-
chief.  After  a  few  moments,  Par-Salian  rose from  his stone
chair and came  to stand  in front  of the  gully dwarf,  who was
regarding him with suspicion and hiccuping at the same time.
The  great  mage  extended  his  hand.  "Forgive me,  Bupu," he
said gravely, "if I  offended you.  I must  confess that  I spoke
those  cruel  words  on  purpose,  hoping   to  make   you  angry
enough to tell your story. For, only then, could we be certain of
the truth." Par-Salian laid his hand on Bupu's head, his face was
drawn  and tired,  but he  appeared exultant.  "Maybe we  did not

fail,  maybe  he  did  learn   some  compassion,"   he  murmured.
Gently he  stroked the  gully dwarf's  rough hair.  "No, Raistlin
would never laugh  at you,  little one.  He knew,  he remembered.
There were too many who had laughed at him."
Tas  couldn't  see  through  his  tears,  and he  heard Caramon
weeping  quietly  beside  him. The  kender blew  his nose  on his
handkerchief,  then  went  up  to  retrieve  Bupu, who  was blub-
bering into the hem of Par-Salian's white robe.
"So  this  is  the  reason Lady  Crysania made  this journey?"
Par-Salian  asked  Tas  as  the  kender   came  near.   The  mage
glanced at the still, white, cold form  lying beneath  the linen,
her  eyes  staring  sightlessly into  the shadowy  darkness. "She
believes  that she  can rekindle  the spark  of goodness  that we
tried to light and failed?"
"Yes,"  Tas  answered,  suddenly  uncomfortable   beneath  the
gaze of the mage's penetrating blue eyes.
"And  why  does  she  want  to  attempt this?"  Par-Salian per-
sisted.
Tas  dragged  Bupu  to  her  feet and  handed her  his handker-
chief, trying to ignore the fact that she stared at it in wonder,
obviously having no idea  what she  was supposed  to do  with it.
She blew her nose on the hem of her dress.
"Uh, well, Tika said -" Tas stopped, flushing.
"What did Tika say?" Par-Salian asked softly.
"Tika said" - Tas swallowed - "Tika said she was doing it...
because she I-loved him - Raistlin."
Par-Salian  nodded.  His  gaze  went  to  Caramon.  "What about
you,  twin?"  he  asked  suddenly.  Caramon's  head  lifted,  he
stared at Par-Salian with haunted eyes.
"Do you love  him still?  You have  said you  would go  back to
destroy Fistandantilus.  The danger  you face  will be  great. Do
you love  your brother  enough to  undertake this  perilous jour-
ney? To risk  your life  for him,  as this  lady has  done? Remem-
ber, before you answer, you do  not go  back on  a quest  to save
the world. You go back on a quest to save  a soul,  nothing more.
Nothing less."
Caramon's lips moved, but no sound came from them. His
face was lighted by joy,  however, a  happiness that  sprang from
deep within him. He could only nod his head.
Par-Salian turned to face the assembled Conclave.
"I have made my decision," he began.
One of the Black Robes  rose and  cast her  hood back.  Tas saw

that it  was the  woman who  had brought  him here.  Anger burned
in her eyes. She made a swift, slashing motion with her hand.
"We challenge this decision, Par-Salian," she said in a low
voice. "And you know that means you cannot cast the spell."
"The Master of the Tower  may cast  the spell  alone, Ladonna,"
Par-Salian replied grimly. "That power is given  to all  the Mas-
ters.  Thus  did  Raistlin  discover  the  secret when  he became
Master  of the  Tower in  Palanthas. I  do not  need the  help of
either Red or Black."
There  was  a  murmur  from  the  Red  Robes,  as  well;  many
looking  at  the  Black  Robes  and  nodding  in  agreement with
them. Ladonna smiled.
"Indeed, Great One," she said, "I  know this.  You do  not need
us for the casting of the spell, but you need us nonetheless. You
need our cooperation, Par-Salian, our  silent cooperation  - else
the shadows of our magic will rise and blot out the light  of the
silver moon. And you will fail."
Par-Salian's face grew cold and gray. "What of the life of this
woman?" he demanded, gesturing at Crysania.
"What  is  the life  of a  cleric of  Paladine to  us?" Ladonna
sneered. "Our concerns are far  greater and  not to  be discussed
among   outsiders.   Send   these   away"   -  she   motioned  at
Caramon - "and we will meet privately."
"I believe that is wise, Par-Salian,"  said the  red-robed mage
mildly. "Our guests  are tired  and hungry,  and they  would find
our family disagreements most boring."
"Very well," Par-Salian said  abruptly. But  Tas could  see the
white-robed mage's anger  as he  turned to  face them.  "You will
be summoned."
"Wait!" Caramon shouted, "I demand to be present! I -"
The  big  man  stopped,  nearly  strangling himself.  The Hall
was  gone,  the  mages  were  gone, the  stone chairs  were gone.
Caramon was yelling at a hat stand.
Dizzily,  Tas  looked  around.  He  and  Caramon and  Bupu were
in a cozy  room that  might have  come straight  from the  Inn of
the  Last  Home.  A fire  burned in  the grate,  comfortable beds
stood at one end. A table laden with food was near the  fire, the
smells  of  fresh-baked  bread  and roasted  meat made  his mouth
water. Tas sighed in delight.
"I think this is the most wonderful place in the  whole world,"
he said.

_CHAPTER 14_

The    old,   white-
robed mage sat in a study that was much  like Raistlin's  in the
Tower  of  Palanthas,  except  that the  books which  lined Par-
Salian's shelves were bound in white  leather. The  silver runes
traced upon their spines and covers  glinted in  the light  of a
crackling  fire.  To anyone  entering, the  room seemed  hot and
stuffy. But Par-Salian was feeling  the chill  of age  enter his
bones. To him, the room was quite comfortable.
He sat at his desk, his eyes staring into the flames. He started
slightly at a soft knock upon his door, then, sighing, he called
softly, "Enter."
A  young,  white-robed  mage  opened the  door, bowing  to the
black-robed mage  who walked  past him  - as  was proper  to one
of  her  standing.  She  accepted  the  homage  without comment.
Casting her  hood aside,  she swept  past him  into Par-Salian's
chamber  and  stopped,  just  inside  the  doorway.  The  white-
robed  mage gently  shut the  door behind  her, leaving  the two
heads of their Orders alone together.
Ladonna cast a quick, penetrating glance about the room.
Much of it was lost in shadow, the fire casting the  only light.
Even the drapes had been closed, blotting  out the  moons' eerie

glow.  Raising  her  hand,  Ladonna murmured  a few,  soft words.
Several items in the room began  to gleam  with a  weird, reddish
light indicating that they had magical properties - a staff lean-
ing up against the wall, a crystal prism on Par-Salian's  desk, a
branched  candelabra,  a  gigantic  hourglass, and  several rings
on the  old man's  fingers among  others. These  did not  seem to
alarm  Ladonna,  she  simply  looked  at  each and  nodded. Then,
satisfied,  she sat  down in  a chair  near the  desk. Par-Salian
watched her with a slight smile on his lined face.
"There are  no Creatures  from Beyond  lurking in  the corners,
Ladonna, I assure you," the old  mage said  dryly. "Had  I wanted
to banish you from this  plane, I  could have  done so  long ago,
my dear."
"When  we  were  young?"  Ladonna  cast  aside her  hood. Iron-
gray hair, woven into an intricate braid  coiled about  her head,
framed  a  face  whose  beauty  seemed enhanced  by the  lines of
age that appeared to have been  drawn by  a masterful  artist, so
well did they highlight her intelligence  and dark  wisdom. "That
would have been a contest indeed, Great One."
"Drop  the  title,  Ladonna," Par-Salian  said. "We  have known
each other too long for that."
"Known  each  other  long and  well, Par-Salian,"  Ladonna said
with a smile. "Quite well," she murmured  softly, her  eyes going
to the fire.
- "Would you go back to our youth, Ladonna'?" Par-Salian
asked.
She did not  answer for  a moment,  then she  looked up  at him
and  shrugged. "To  trade power  and wisdom  and skill  for what?
Hot blood? Not likely, my dear. What about you?"
"I  would  have  answered  the  same  twenty  years  ago," Par-
Salian said, rubbing his temples. "But now... I wonder."
"I did not come to relive old times,  no matter  how pleasant,"
Ladonna said, clearing her throat, her  voice suddenly  stern and
cold.  "I  have  come to  oppose this  madness." She  leaned for-
ward, her dark eyes flashing. "You are not serious, I  hope, Par-
Salian?  Even you  cannot be  soft-hearted or  soft-headed enough
to send that stupid human back in  time to  try and  stop Fistan-
dantilus?  Think  of  the  danger!  He  could change  history! We
could all cease to exist!"
"Bah! Ladonna, you think!" Par-Salian snapped. "Time is a
great flowing river, vaster and wider than any river we know.
Throw  a  pebble into  the rushing  water -  does the  water sud-

denly stop? Does  it begin  to flow  backward? Does  it turn  in its
course  and  flow  another  direction?  Of  course  not!  The pebble
creates a few ripples on the  surface, perhaps,  but then  it sinks.
The river flows onward, as it has ever done."
"What are you saying?" Ladonna asked, regarding Par-
Salian warily.
"That  Caramon  and  Crysania  are  pebbles,  my  dear.  They will
no  more affect  the flow  of time  than two  rocks thrown  into the
Thon-Tsalarian  would  affect  its  course. They  are pebbles  -" he
repeated.
"We   underestimate  Raistlin,   Dalamar  says,"   Ladonna  inter-
rupted.  "He  must be  fairly certain  of his  success, or  he would
not take this risk. He is no fool, Par-Salian."
"He is  certain of  acquiring the  magic. In  that we  cannot stop
him.  But  that  magic  will  be  meaningless  to  him  without  the
cleric.   He   needs   Crysania."   The  white-robed   mage  sighed.
"And that is why we must send her back in time."
"I fail to see -"
"She must die, Ladonna!" Par-Salian snarled. "Must I con-
jure a vision for you?  She must  be sent  back to  a time  when all
clerics  passed from  this land.  Raistlin said  that we  would have
to  send  her  back.  We  would  have  no  choice.  As   he  himself
said - this is the one way we can thwart his plans! It is his great-
est hope - and  his greatest  fear. He  needs to  take her  with him
to  the Gate,  but he  needs her  to come  willingly! Thus  he plans
to shake her faith,  disillusion her  enough so  that she  will work
with  him."  Par-Salian  waved  his  hand  irritably. "We  are wast-
ing time. He leaves in the morning. We must act at once."
"Then  keep  her  here!"  Ladonna  said  scornfully.  "That  seems
simple enough."
Par-Salian  shook  his  head.  "He  would  simply return  for her.
And  -  by  then  he will  have the  magic. He  will have  the power
to do what he chooses."
"Kill her."
"That has been tried and failed. Besides, could even you,
with  your  arts,  kill her  while she  is under  Paladine's protec-
tion!"
"Perhaps the god will prevent her going, then?"
"No. The augury I cast was neutral. Paladine has left the
matter  in  our  hands. Crysania  is nothing  but a  vegetable here,
nor will  ever be  anything more,  since none  alive today  have the
power  to  restore her.  Perhaps Paladine  intends her  to die  in a

place  and  time  where  her death  will have  meaning so  that she
may fulfill her life's cycle."
"So  you  will  send  her  to   her  death,"   Ladonna  murmured,
looking  at  Par-Salian  in  amazement. "Your  white robes  will be
stained red with blood, my old friend."
Par-Salian  slammed  his  hands  upon  the  table, his  face con-
torted in agony. "I don't enjoy this, damn it! But  what can  I do?
Can't you see the  position I'm  in? Who  sits now  as the  Head of
the Black Robes?"
"I do," Ladonna replied.
"Who sits as the Head if he returns victorious?"
Ladonna frowned and did not answer.
"Precisely.  My  days  are  numbered,   Ladonna.  I   know  that.
Oh"  -  he  gestured  - "my  powers are  still great.  Perhaps they
have  never  been  greater.  But  every  morning  when  I  awake, I
feel the fear. Will today be the day  it fails?  Every time  I have
trouble recalling a spell, I shiver.  Someday, I  know, I  will not
be able  to remember  the correct  words." He  closed his  eyes. "I
am  tired,  Ladonna, very  tired. I  want to  do nothing  more than
stay  in  this  room,  near  this  warm fire,  and record  in these
books  the  knowledge  I  have  acquired through  the years.  Yet I
dare not step down now, for I know who would take my place."
The  old  mage  sighed.  "I will  choose my  successor, Ladonna,"
he  said  softly.  "I  will not  have my  position wrested  from my
hands. My stake in this is greater than any of yours."
"Perhaps  not,"  Ladonna  said,  staring  at  the flames.  "If he
returns victorious, there will no  longer be  a Conclave.  We shall
all be his servants." Her hand clenched. "I still oppose this, Par-
Salian! The danger is too great! Let her remain here,  let Raistlin
learn  what  he  can  from  Fistandantilus.  We  can deal  with him
when he returns! He is powerful, of  course, but  it will  take him
years to master  the arts  that Fistandantilus  knew when  he died!
We can use that time to arm ourselves against him! We can -"
There  was  rustling  in  the  shadows   of  the   room.  Ladonna
started  and  turned,  her  hand  darting  immediately to  a hidden
pocket in her robe.
"Hold,  Ladonna,"  said  a  mild  voice.  "You  need   not  waste
your energies  on a  shield spell.  I am  no Creature  from Beyond,
as  Par-Salian  has already  stated." The  figure stepped  into the
light of the fire, its red robes gleaming softly.
Ladonna  settled  back  with  a sigh,  but there  was a  glint of
anger  in  her  eyes  that  would  have  made  an  apprentice start

back  in alarm.  "No, Justarius,"  she said  coolly, "you  are no
Creature  from  Beyond.  So  you  managed  to hide  yourself from
me?  How  clever  you  have  become,  Red Robe."  Twisting around
in her chair, she regarded Par-Salian with  scorn. "You  are get-
ting old, my friend, if you required help to deal with me!"
"Oh, I'm sure Par-Salian is just as surprised to see me here as
you  are,  Ladonna,"  Justarius  stated.  Wrapping his  red robes
around  him,  he  walked slowly  forward to  sit down  in another
chair before Par-Salian's desk. He limped as he walked,  his left
foot dragging the  ground. Raistlin  was not  the only  mage ever
injured in the Test.
Justarius  smiled.  "Though  the  Great  One  has  become quite
adept at hiding his feelings," he added.
"I  was aware  of you,"  Par-Salian said  softly. "You  know me
better than that, my friend."
Justarius shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. I was interested
in hearing what you had to say to Ladonna -"
"I would have said the same to you."
"Probably  less,  for I  would not  have argued  as she  has. I
agree with you, I have from  the beginning.  But that  is because
we know the truth, you and I."
"What  truth?"  Ladonna  repeated.  Her  gaze went  from Justa-
rius to Par-Salian, her eyes dilating with anger.
"You will have to show her," Justarius said, still in  the same
mild voice. "She will not  be convinced  otherwise. Prove  to her
how great the danger is."
"You  will  show  me  nothing!" Ladonna  said, her  voice shak-
ing. "I would believe nothing you two devised -"
"Then let her do it herself," Justarius suggested, shrugging.
Par-Salian  frowned,  then  -  scowling -  he shoved  the crystal
prism upon the desk  toward her.  He pointed.  "The staff  in the
corner belonged to Fistandantilus -  the greatest,  most powerful
wizard  who  has  ever lived.  Cast a  Spell of  Seeing, Ladonna.
Look at the staff."
Ladonna  touched  the  prism  hesitantly,  her   glance  moving
suspiciously  once  more  from  Par-Salian  to   Justarius,  then
back.
"Go ahead!" Par-Salian snapped. "I have not tampered with
it." His gray eyebrows came together. "You know  I cannot  lie to
you, Ladonna."
"Though you may lie to others," Justarius said softly.
Par-Salian cast the red-robed mage  an angry  look but  did not

reply.
Ladonna  picked  up  the crystal  with sudden  resolution. Hold-
ing it in her hand, she raised it to her eyes, chanting words that
sounded  harsh  and  sharp.  A  rainbow of  light beamed  from the
prism to the plain wooden staff  that leaned  up against  the wall
in  a  dark  corner  of  the  study.  The  rainbow expanded  as it
welled out from the crystal  to encompass  the entire  staff. Then
it  wavered  and  coalesced,  forming  into  the  shimmering image
of the owner of the staff.
Ladonna  stared  at  the  image  for  long moments,  then slowly
lowered  the  prism  from  her  eye. The  moment she  withdrew her
concentration  from  it,  the  image  vanished, the  rainbow light
winked out. Her face was pale.
"Well,  Ladonna,"  Par-Salian  asked  quietly,  after  a moment.
"Do we go ahead?"
"Let me see the Time Travel spell," she said, her voice taut.
Par-Salian  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "You  know that  is not
possible, Ladonna! Only the Masters of the Tower may know
this spell -"
"I  am  within  my  rights  to see  the description,  at least,"
Ladonna  returned  coldly.  "Hide  the  components  and  the words
from  my sight,  if you  will. But  I demand  to see  the expected
results." Her expression hardened. "Forgive me if  I do  not trust
you,  old  friend,  as  I  might  once have  done. But  your robes
seem to be turning as gray as your hair."
Justarius smiled, as if this amused him.
Par-Salian sat for a moment, irresolute.
"Tomorrow morning, friend," Justarius murmured.
Angrily,  Par-Salian  rose  to  his  feet. Reaching  beneath his
robes, he drew forth a  silver key  that he  wore around  his neck
on a silver chain - the key  that only  the Master  of a  Tower of
High  Sorcery  may  use.  Once  there  were  five,  now  only  two
remained.  As  Par-Salian  took  the  key  from  around  his  neck
and  inserted  it into  an ornately  carved wooden  chest standing
near his desk, all three mages present were wondering  silently if
Raistlin was - even now -  doing the  same thing  with the  key he
possessed,   perhaps   even  drawing   out  the   same  spellbook,
bound  in  silver.  Perhaps  even  turning  slowly  and reverently
through the same  pages, casting  his gaze  upon the  spells known
only to the Masters of the Towers.
Par-Salian  opened  the  book,  first  muttering  the prescribed
words  that  only  the  Masters  know.  If  he  had not,  the book

would  have  vanished  from  beneath  his  hand.  Arriving   at  the
correct page, he lifted  the prism  from where  Ladonna had  set it,
then  held  it  above  the  page,  repeating  the same  harsh, sharp
words Ladonna had used.
The  rainbow  light  streamed  down  from  the   prism,  brighten-
ing  the  page. At  a command  from Par-Salian,  the light  from the
prism beamed out to strike a bare wall opposite them.
"Look," Par-Salian said, his  anger still  apparent in  his voice.
"There, upon the wall. Read the description of the spell."
Ladonna  and  Justarius  turned  to  face  the  wall  where  they
could  read  the  words  as  the  prism  presented   them.  Neither
Ladonna  nor  Justarius  could  read   the  components   needed  or
the   words   required.   Those   appeared  as   gibberish,  either
through  Par-Salian's  art  or  the  condititions  imposed  by  the
spell itself. But the description of the spell was clear.
The  ability  to  travel  back  in  time  is  available  to elves,
humans,  and  ogres,  since  these  were  the  races created  by the
gods at the beginning of  time and  so travel  within its  flow. The
spell  may  not be  used by  dwarves, gnomes,  or kender,  since the
creation of these  races was  an accident,  unforeseen by  the gods.
(Refer  to  the  Gray  Stone  of  Gargath,  see  Appendix   G.)  The
introduction  of  any  of  these  races  into  a previous  time span
could  have  serious  repercussions  on  the present,  although what
these  might  be  is  unknown.  (A  note  in  Par-Salian's  wavering
handwriting  had  the  word,  'draconain'  inked  in among  the for-
bidden races.)
There  are  dangers,  however,  that the  spellcaster needs  to be
fully  aware  of before  proceeding. If  the spellcaster  dies while
back in time, this will affect nothing in the future, for it will be
as if the spellcaster died this day in the present. His or her death
will affect neither the past nor the present nor the  future, except
as  it  would  have normally  affected those.  Therefore, we  do not
waste power on any type of protection spell.
The spellcaster  will not  be able  to change  or affect  what has
occurred  previously  in  any  way. That  is an  obvious precaution.
Thus this spell is really useful only for study.  That was  the pur-
pose  for  which  it  was designed.  (Another note,  this time  in a
handwriting   much   older   than    Par-Salian's   adds    on   the
margin  -  "It  is  not  possible  to prevent  the Cataclysm.  So we
have  learned  to  our great  sorrow and  at a  great cost.  May his
soul rest with Paladine.")
"So that's what happened to him," Justarius said with a low

whistle of surprise. "That was a well-kept secret."
"They  were  fools  to even  try it,"  Par-Salian said,  "but they
were desperate."
"As are we," Ladonna  added bitterly.  "Well, is  there more?"
"Yes, the next page," Par-Salian replied.
If  the  spellcaster  is  not  going himself  but is  sending back
another  (please  note racial  precaution on  previous page),  he or
she  should  equip  the  one  traveling  with a  device that  can be
activated  at  will  and  so return  the traveler  to his  own time.
Descriptions  of  such  devices  and  their  making  will  be  found
following -
"And  so  forth,"  Par-Salian  said.  The  rainbow   light  disap-
peared,  swallowed  in  the  mage's   hand  as   Par-Salian  wrapped
his  fingers  around  it.  "The  rest  is  devoted to  the technical
details  of making  such a  device. I  have an  ancient one.  I will
give it to Caramon."
His   emphasis   on   the   man's   name   was   unconscious,  but
everyone  in  the  room  noticed  it.  Ladonna  smiled   wryly,  her
hands  softly  caressing  her  black  robes.  Justarius   shook  his
head.  Par-Salian  himself,  realizing  the implications,  sank down
in his chair, his face lined with sorrow.
"So  Caramon  will use  it alone,"  Justarius said.  "I understand
why  we  send  Crysania,  Par-Salian.  She  must  go back,  never to
return. But Caramon?"
"Caramon  is  my  redemption,"   Par-Salian  said   without  look-
ing up. The old mage  stared at  his hands  that lay,  trembling, on
the open spellbook. "He is going  on a  journey to  save a  soul, as
I told him. But  it will  not be  his brother's."  Par-Salian looked
up, his eyes filled  with pain.  His gaze  went first  to Justarius,
then  to  Ladonna.  Both   met  that   gaze  with   complete  under-
standing.
"The truth could destroy him," Justarius said.
"There  is  very little  left to  destroy, if  you ask  me," Ladonna
remarked  coldly. She  rose to  her feet.  Justarius rose  with her,
staggering a little until he  obtained his  balance on  his crippled
leg. "As long as you get rid of the  woman, I  care little  what you
do  about  the  man,  Par-Salian. If  you believe  it will  wash the
blood  from  your  robes,  then  help  him,   by  all   means."  She
smiled grimly. "In a way, I  find this  quite funny.  Maybe -  as we
get older - we aren't so different after all, are we, my dear?"
"The  differences  are  there,  Ladonna,"  Par-Salian  said, smil-
ing wearily. "It is the crisp, clear outlines that begin to fade and

blur in our sight. Does this mean the Black  Robes will  go along
with my decision?"
"It  seems  we  have  no choice,"  Ladonna said  without emo-
tion. "If you fail -"
"Enjoy my downfall," Par-Salian said wryly.
"I will,"  the woman  answered softly,  "the more  so as  it will
probably be the last thing I enjoy in  this life.  Farewell, Par-
Salian."
"Farewell, Ladonna," he said.
"A  wise  woman,"  Justarius  remarked  as  the door  shut behind
her.
"A  rival  worthy of  you, my  friend." Par-Salian  returned to
his seat behind the desk. "I will enjoy watching you two  do bat-
tle for my position."
"I sincerely hope you have  the opportunity  to do  so," Justa-
rius said, his hand on the door. "When will you cast the spell?"
"Early morning," Par-Salian said,  speaking heavily.  "It takes
days  of  preparation. I  have already  spent long  hours working
on it."
"What about assistance?"
"No  one,  not even  an apprentice.  I will  be exhausted  at the
end.  See  to  the  disbanding  of the  Conclave, will  you, my
friend?"
"Certainly. And the kender and the gully dwarf?"
"Return  the  gully  dwarf  to her  home with  whatever small
treasures you think she  would like.  As for  the kender"  - Par-
Salian  smiled  - "you  may send  him wherever  he would  like to
go - barring the moons, of course. As  for treasure,  I'm certain
he will have acquired a  sufficient amount  before he  leaves. Do
a surreptitious check on his pouches, but, if it's nothing impor-
tant, let him keep what he finds."
Justarius nodded. "And Dalamar?"
Par-Salian's  face  grew  grim.  "The  dark  elf  has undoubtedly
left already. He  would not  want to  keep his  Shalafi waiting."
Par-Salian's  fingers  drummed  on  the  desk, his  brow furrowed
in frustration. "It is  a strange  charm Raistlin  possesses! You
never met him, did you? No. I felt it myself and I  cannot under-
stand...."
"Perhaps I  can," Justarius  said. "We've  all been  laughed at
one time in our lives. We've all  been jealous  of a  sibling. We
have felt pain and suffered, just as he  has suffered.  And we've
all longed - just once - for the power to  crush our  enemies! We

pity him. We hate him. We fear him - all because there is a little
of him in each of us, though we admit it to ourselves only  in the
darkest part of the night."
"If we admit it to ourselves at all.  That wretched  cleric! Why
did she have to get involved!" Par-Salian clasped his head  in his
shaking hands.
"Farewell, my friend," Justarius said gently.  "I will  wait for
you outside the laboratory  should you  need help  when it  is all
over."
"Thank  you,"  Par-Salian  whispered  without  raising  his  head.
Justarius  limped  from  the  study. Shutting  the door  too hast-
ily, he caught the hem of his red robe and was  forced to  open it
again to free himself. Before he closed the  door again,  he heard
the sound of weeping.

_CHAPTER 15_

Tasslehoff Burrfoot
was bored.
And,  as  everyone  knows,  there  is  nothing  more  dangerous
on Krynn than a bored kender.
Tas  and  Bupu  and  Caramon  had  finished their  meal -  a very
dull one.  Caramon, lost  in his  thoughts, never  said a  word but
sat  wrapped  in  bleak  silence  while  absent-mindedly  devouring
nearly  everything  in  sight. Bupu  did not  even sit.  Grabbing a
bowl, she scooped  out the  contents with  her hands,  shoveling it
into her  mouth with  a rapidity  learned long  ago at  gully dwarf
dining  tables.  Putting  that  one  down,  she started  on another
and  polished  off  a  dish  of  gravy, the  butter, the  sugar and
cream, and finally half a dish  of milk  potatoes before  Tas real-
ized what she was doing. He just barely saved a salt cellar.
"Well,"  said  Tas  brightly.  Pushing back  his empty  plate, he
tried to ignore the sight of Bupu grabbing it and licking it clean.
"I'm  feeling  much  better.  How  about  you,  Caramon?  Let's  go
explore!"
"Explore!"  Caramon  gave  him  such  a  horrified look  that Tas
was  momentarily  taken  aback.  "Are  you  mad?  I   wouldn't  set
foot outside that door for all the wealth in Krynn!"

"Really?"  Tas  asked  eagerly.  "Why not?  Oh, tell  me, Cara-
mon! What's out there?"
"I don't  know." The  big man  shuddered. "But  it's bound  to be
awful."
"I didn't see any guards -"
"No, and there's a damn good reason for that," Caramon
snarled. "Guards aren't  needed around  here. I  can see  that look
in your eye, Tasslehoff, and you  just forget  about it  right now!
Even  if  you  could  get  out"  -  Caramon  gave  the door  to the
room  a  haunted  look  -  "which  I  doubt,  you'd  probably  walk
into the arms of a lich or worse!"
Tas's  eyes  opened  wide.  He  managed,  however, to  squelch an
exclamation  of  delight.  Looking  down  at  his  shoes,  he  mut-
tered,  "Yeah,  I  guess  you're  right,  Caramon.   I'd  forgotten
where we were."
"I  guess  you did,"  Caramon said  severely. Rubbing  his aching
shoulders, the big man groaned. "I'm  dead tired.  I've got  to get
some  sleep.  You  and  what's-er-name  there  turn  in,  too.  All
right?"
"Sure, Caramon," Tasslehoff said.
Bupu,  belching contently,  had already  wrapped herself  up in
a rug before  the fire,  using the  remainder of  the bowl  of milk
potatoes for a pillow.
Caramon   eyed   the   kender   suspiciously.  Tas   assumed  the
most  innocent  look  a  kender could  possibly assume,  the result
of which was that Caramon shook his finger at him sternly.
"Promise  me  you  won't  leave  this room,  Tasslehoff Burrfoot.
Promise just like you'd promise... say, Tanis, if he were here."
"I promise," Tas said solemnly, "just like I'd promise Tanis - if
he were here."
"Good."   Caramon   sighed   and  collapsed   onto  a   bed  that
creaked  in  protest,  the  mattress  sagging  clear  to  the floor
beneath  the  big  man's  weight.  "I guess  someone'll wake  us up
when they decide what they're going to do."
"Will  you  really  go back  in time,  Caramon?" Tas  asked wist-
fully, sitting down on  his own  bed and  pretending to  unlace his
boots.
"Yeah,  sure.  'S  no  big  thing," Caramon  murmured sleepily.
"Now  get  some   sleep  and...   thanks,  Tas.   You've  been...
you've  been...  a  big help....  "His words  trailed off  into a
snore.
Tas held perfectly still, waiting until Caramon's breathing

became even and  regular. That  didn't take  long because  the big
man  was   emotionally  and   physically  exhausted.   Looking  at
Caramon's  pale,  careworn,  and  tear-streaked  face,  the kender
felt  a  moment's  twinge  of  conscience.  But kender  are accus-
tomed  to  dealing  with twinges  of conscience  - just  as humans
are accustomed to dealing with mosquito bites.
"He'll never know I've  been gone,"  Tas said  to himself  as he
sneaked  across  the  floor  past  Caramon's  bed.  "And  I really
didn't  promise  him  I  wouldn't go  anywhere. I  promised Tanis.
And Tanis isn't here, so the promise  doesn't count.  Besides, I'm
certain he  would have  wanted to  explore, if  he hadn't  been so
tired."
By the time Tas  crept past  Bupu's grubby  little body,  he had
firmly  convinced  himself  that  Caramon   had  ordered   him  to
look around before going  to bed.  He tried  the door  handle with
misgivings,   remembering   Caramon's   warning.  But   it  opened
easily. We are guests then, not prisoners. Unless there was a lich
standing  guard  outside.  Tas  poked  his  head around  the door-
frame. He looked up  the hall,  then down  the hall.  Nothing. Not
a lich in sight. Sighing a bit in disappointment, Tas  slipped out
the door, then shut it softly behind him.
The hallway ran to his left and to  his right,  vanishing around
shadowy corners at  either end.  It was  barren, cold,  and empty.
Other  doors  branched  off from  the hallway,  all of  them dark,
all of  them closed.  There were  no decorations  of any  kind, no
tapestries hung on the walls, no carpets covered the  stone floor.
There  weren't  even any  lights, no  torches, no  candles. Appar-
ently the mages were  supposed to  provide their  own if  they did
any wandering about after dark.
A window at one end did allow the light of Solinari, the sil-
ver moon, to filter through its glass panes, but that was all. The
rest  of the  hallway was  completely dark.  Too late  Tas thought
of sneaking  back into  the room  for a  candle. No.  If Caramon
woke  up,  he  might not  remember he  had told  the kender  to go
exploring.
"I'll just pop into one of these other rooms  and borrow  a can-
dle," Tas said to  himself. "Besides,  that's a  good way  to meet
people."
Gliding  down  the   hall  quieter   than  the   moonbeams  that
danced on the floor, Tas reached  the next  door. "I  won't knock,
in  case  they're asleep,"  he reasoned  and carefully  turned the
doorknob.  "Ah,  locked!"  he  said,  feeling  immensely  cheered.

This would give him something to do for a.few minutes  at least.
Pulling out his lockpicking tools, he held them up to  the moon-
light to select the proper size wire for this particular lock.
"I hope it's not  magically locked,"  he muttered,  the sudden
thought  making  him  grow cold.  Magicians did  that sometimes,
he knew - a habit  kender consider  highly unethical.  But maybe
in  the  Tower  of  High  Sorcery,  surrounded  by  mages,  they
wouldn't figure it would  be worthwhile.  "I mean,  anyone could
just come along and blow the door down," Tas reasoned.
Sure enough, the lock  opened easily.  His heart  beating with
excitement,  Tas  shoved  the  door  open  quietly   and  peered
inside. The room was lit only by the faint glow of a dying fire.
He listened. He couldn't hear anyone in it, no sounds of snoring
or breathing, so he walked  in, padding  softly. His  sharp eyes
found the bed. It was empty. No one home.
"Then they won't mind if  I borrow  their candle,"  the kender
said to himself happily. Finding a candlestick, he lit  the wick
with a glowing coal. Then he gave himself up to the  delights of
examining the occupant's belongings, noticing as he did  so that
whoever resided in this room was not a very tidy person.
About  two  hours  and  many  rooms  later,  Tas  was  wearily
returning to his  own room,  his pouches  bulging with  the most
fascinating  items -  all of  which he  was fully  determined to
return to their owners  in the  morning. He  had picked  most of
them up off the  tops of  tables where  they had  obviously been
carelessly tossed. He found  more than  a few  on the  floor (he
was  certain  the  owners had  lost them)  and had  even rescued
several from the pockets  of robes  that were  probably destined
to be laundered, in which case these items would  certainly have
been misplaced.
Looking down the hall,  he received  a severe  shock, however,
when he saw light streaming out from under their door!
"Caramon!"  He  gulped,  but  at  that  moment  a   hundred  pos-
sible excuses  for being  out of  the room  entered his  brain. Or
perhaps  Caramon  might  not  even  have  missed  him  yet.  Maybe
he was into the dwarf spirits.  Considering this  possibility, Tas
tiptoed up to the closed door of  their room  and pressed  his ear
against it, listening.
He  heard  voices.  One  he  recognized  immediately  -  Bupu's.
The  other...  he  frowned.  It  seemed  familiar... where  had he
heard it?
"Yes, I am going to send you back  to the  Highpulp, if  that is

where you want to go? But first you must tell where the
Highpulp is."
The  voice  sound faintly  exasperated. Apparently,  this had
been going on for some time. Tas put his eye to the keyhole. He
could see Bupu, her  hair clotted  with milk  potatoes, glaring
suspiciously at a  red-robed figure.  Now Tas  remembered where
he'd heard the voice - that was  the man  at the  Conclave, who
kept questioning Par-Salian!
"Highbulp!" Bupu repeated indignantly. "Not Highpulp!
And Highbulp is home. You send me home."
"Yes, of course. Now where is home?"
"Where Highbulp is."
"And  where is  the Highpul-bulp?"  the red-robed  mage asked
in hopeless tones.
"Home," Bupu stated succinctly. "I tell you that  before. You
got  ears under  that hood?  Maybe you  deaf." The  gully dwarf
disappeared from Tas's sight for a moment, diving into her bag.
When she reappeared, she  held another  dead lizard,  a leather
thong wrapped around its tail. "Me cure. You stick tail  in ear
and -"
"Thank you," said the mage hastily, "but my hearing  is quite
perfect, I assure you. Uh, what do you call your home?  What is
the name?"
"The  Pitt.  Two  Ts.  Some  fancy  name,  huh?"   Bupu  said
proudly.  "That  Highbulp's  idea. Him  ate book  once. Learned
lots. All right here." She patted her stomach.
Tas clapped his hand over  his mouth  to keep  from giggling.
The  red-robed  mage  was  experiencing  similiar  problems  as
well. Tas saw the man's shoulders shake beneath his  red robes,
and it took him a while to respond. When he did, his  voice had
a faint quiver.
"What... what do humans call the name of your - the -
uh - Pitt?"
Tas  saw  Bupu  scowl.  "Dumb name.  Sound like  someone spit
up. Skroth."
"Skroth," the red-robed  mage repeated,  mystified. "Skroth,"
he  muttered.  Then he  snapped his  fingers. "I  remember. The
kender said it in the Conclave. Xak Tsaroth?"
"Me say that once already. You sure you not want  lizard cure
for ears? You put tail -"
Heaving a sigh of relief,  the red-robed  mage held  his hand
out over  Bupu's head.  Sprinkling what  looked like  dust down

over her (Bupu sneezed violently), Tas heard the mage chant
strange words.
"Me go home now?" Bupu asked hopefully.
The mage did not answer, he kept chanting.
"Him not nice," she muttered to herself, sneezing again as the
dust slowly coated her  hair and  body. "None  of them  nice. Not
like  my pretty  man." She  wiped her  nose, snuffling.  "Him not
laugh... him call me 'little one.' "
The dust on the gully dwarf began to glow  a faint  yellow. Tas
gasped  softly.  The  glow grew  brighter and  brighter, changing
color, turning  yellow-green, then  green, then  green-blue, then
blue and suddenly -
"Bupu!" Tas whispered.
The gully dwarf was gone!
"And I'm next!" Tas realized in horror.  Sure enough,  the red-
robed  mage  was limping  across the  room to  the bed  where the
thoughtful  kender  had  made  up  a  dummy  of  himself  so that
Caramon wouldn't be worried in case he woke up.
"Tasslehoff  Burrfoot,"  the red-robed  mage called  softly. He
had passed  beyond Tas's  sight. The  kender stood  frozen, wait-
ing for the  mage to  discover he  was missing.  Not that  he was
afraid of getting caught. He was used to  getting caught  and was
fairly certain he could talk his way out of it. But he was afraid
of  being  sent  home! They  didn't really  expect Caramon  to go
anywhere without him, did they?
"Caramon  needs  me!"  Tas  whispered  to  himself   in  agony.
"They  don't  know  what  bad  shape  he's  in.  Why,  what would
happen if he didn't have me along to drag him out of bars?"
"Tasslehoff,"  the  red-robed  mage's  voice repeated.  He must
be nearing the bed.
Hurriedly, Tas's hand dove into his pouch. Pulling out  a fist-
ful  of junk,  he hoped  against hope  he'd found  something use-
ful. Opening his small hand, he held it up to the candlelight. He
had  come  up  with  a  ring, a  grape, and  a lump  of moustache
wax.  The  wax  and  the  grape  were  obviously  out.  He tossed
them to the floor.
"Caramon!"  Tas  heard  the  red-robed  mage  say  sternly. He
could  hear  Caramon  grunt  and  groan  and  pictured  the mage
shaking him. "Caramon, wake up. Where's the kender?"
Trying to ignore what was happening in the room, Tas con-
centrated on examining the ring. It was probably magical. He'd
picked it up in the third room to the left. Or was it the fourth?

And  magical  rings  usually  worked  just by  being worn.  Tas was
an  expert  on  the  subject.  He'd accidentally  put on  a magical
ring once that had teleported him right into the  heart of  an evil
wizard's  palace.  There was  every possibility  this might  do the
same. He had no idea what it did.
Maybe there was some sort of clue on the ring?
Tas turned  it over,  nearly dropping  it in  his haste.  Thank the
gods Caramon was so hard to wake up!
It was a plain ring,  carved out  of ivory,  with two  small pink
stones. There were some runes  traced on  the inside.  Tas recalled
his magical Glasses of Seeing with a  pang, but  they were  lost in
Neraka, unless some draconian was wearing them.
"Wha... wha..." Caramon was babbling. "Kender? I told
him... don't go out there... liches...."
"Damn!" The red-robed mage was heading for the door.
Please,  Fizban!  the  kender  whispered, if  you remember  me at
all,  which I  don't suppose  you do,  although you  might -  I was
the  one  who  kept finding  your hat.  Please, Fizban!  Don't let
them  send  Caramon off  without me.  Make this  a Ring  of Invisi-
bility. Or at least a Ring of  Something that  will keep  them from
catching me!
Closing his  eyes tightly  so he  wouldn't see  anything Horrible
he  might accidentally  conjure up,  Tas thrust  the ring  over his
thumb.  (At  the  last  moment  he  opened  his  eyes,  so  that he
wouldn't miss seeing anything Horrible he might conjure up.)
At  first,  nothing  happened.  He   could  hear   the  red-robed
mage's halting footsteps coming nearer and nearer the door.
Then  -  something  was  happening,   although  not   quite  what
Tas  expected.  The  hall was  growing! There  was a  rushing sound
in the kender's ears as the walls  swooped past  him and  the ceil-
ing  soared  away  from  him.  Open-mouthed,  he  watched   as  the
door grew larger and larger, until it was an immense size.
What  have  I  done?  Tas  wondered  in  alarm.  Have I  made the
Tower  grow?  Do  you suppose  anyone'll notice?  If they  do, will
they be very upset?
The  huge  door  opened  with a  gust of  wind that  nearly flat-
tened  the  kender.  An  enormous  red-robed  'figure   filled  the
doorway.
A giant!  Tas gasped.  I've not  only made  the Tower  grow! I've
made the mages grow, too! Oh,  dear. I  guess they'll  notice that!
At least they will the first time they try to  put on  their shoes!
And I'm sure they'll be upset. I would be if I was twenty feet tall

and none of my clothes fit.
But  the  red-robed  mage  didn't seem  at all  perturbed about
suddenly  shooting  up  in  height,  much to  Tas's astonishment.
He just peered up and down the  hall, yelling,  "Tasslehoff Burr-
foot!"
He even looked right  at where  Tas was  standing -  and didn't
see him!
"Oh,  thank  you,  Fizban!"  the   kender  squeaked.   Then  he
coughed.  His  voice certainly  did sound  funny. Experimentally,
he said, "Fizban?" again. Again, he squeaked.
At that moment, the red-robed mage glanced down.
"Ah,  ha!  And  whose room  have you  escaped from,  my little
friend'?" the mage said.
As  Tasslehoff  watched  in awe,  a giant  hand reached  down -
it  was  reaching  down  for  him!  The  fingers  got  nearer and
nearer.  Tas  was  so  startled  he couldn't  run or  do anything
except wait for that  gigantic hand  to grab  him. Then  it would
be  all  over!  They'd send  him home  instantly, if  they didn't
inflict  a  worse  punishment  on him  for enlarging  their Tower
when he wasn't at all certain that they wanted it enlarged.
The  hand  hovered  over  him and  then picked  him up  by his
tail.
"My  tail!"  Tas  thought  wildly, squirming  in midair  as the
hand lifted him off the floor. "I haven't got a tail! But I must!
The hand's got hold of me by something!"
Twisting his head around, Tas saw  that indeed,  he did  have a
tail! Not only a tail, but four pink feet!  Four! And  instead of
bright blue leggings, he was wearing white fur!
"Now, then," boomed a  stern voice  right in  one of  his ears,
"answer me, little rodent! Whose familiar are you?"

_CHAPTER 16_

Familliar! Tasslehoff
clutched  at  the  word. Familiar....  Talks with  Raistlin came
back to his fevered mind.
"Some  magi  have  animals  that  are bound  to do  their bid-
ding," Raistlin had told him once. "These animals,  or familiars
as they are  called, can  act as  an extension  of a  mage's own
senses. They can go places he cannot, see things he is unable to
see, hear conversations he has not been invited to share."
At  the  time,  Tasslehoff  had thought  it a  wonderful idea,
although  he  recalled  Raistlin  had  not  been  impressed.  He
seemed to consider  it a  weakness, to  be so  heavily dependent
upon another living being.
"Well,  answer  me?"  the  red-robed  mage  demanded,  shaking
Tasslehoff by the tail. Blood rushed to the kender's  head, mak-
ing him dizzy, plus being held by the tail was quite painful, to
say nothing of the  indignity! All  he could  do, for  a moment,
was to give thanks that Flint couldn't see him.
I suppose, he thought bleakly, that familiars can talk. I hope
they  speak  Common,  not  something strange  - like  Mouse, for
example.
"I'm -  I -  uh -  belong to"  - what  was a  good name  for a

mage?  -  "Fa  -  Faikus,"   Tas  squeaked,   remembering  hearing
Raistlin use this name in  connection with  a fellow  student long
ago.
"Ah,"  the  red-robed  mage  said  with a  frown, "I  might have
known.  Were  you  out  upon  some  errand  for  your   master  or
simply roaming around loose?"
Fortunately for Tas,  the mage  changed his  hold upon  the ken-
der, releasing his tail to grasp him firmly in his hand.  The ken-
der's  front  paws  rested  quivering  on  the   red-robed  mage's
thumb,  his  now  beady,  bright-red eyes  stared into  the mage's
cool, dark ones.
What shall I answer? Tas wondered frantically. Neither
choice sounded very good.
"It - it's my n-night off,"  Tas said  in what  he hoped  was an
indignant tone of squeak.
"Humpf!"  The  mage  sniffed.  "You've  been  around  that  lazy
Faikus too long, that's for certain.  I'll have  a talk  with that
young  man  in  the  morning. As  for you,  no, you  needn't start
squirming!  Have  you  forgotten  that  Sudora's  familiar  prowls
the  halls  at  night?  You  could  have  been  Marigold's desert!
Come  along  with  me.  After  I'm  finished  with  this evening's
business, I'll return you to your master."
Tas, who had just been ready to sink his sharp little teeth into
the  mage's  thumb,  suddenly  thought better  of the  idea. "Fin-
ished with this evening's business!"  Of course,  that had  to be
Caramon!  This  was  better  than being  invisible! He  would just
go along for the ride!
The  kender  hung  his  head  in  what he  imagined was  a mousy
expression of meekness and  contrition. It  seemed to  satisfy the
red-robed  mage,  for  he  smiled  in  a  preoccupied  manner  and
began to search the pocket of his robes for something.
"What   is   it,   Justarius?"   There   was   Caramon,  looking
befuddled and still  half asleep,  He peered  vaguely up  and down
the hallway. "You find Tas?"
"The  kender?  No."  The  mage smiled  again, this  time rather
ruefully. "It may  be a  while before  we find  him, I'm  afraid -
kender being very adept at hiding."
"You  won't  hurt  him?"  Caramon   asked  anxiously,   so  anx-
iously Tas felt sorry for the big man and longed to reassure him.
"No, of course not," Justarius replied soothingly, still search-
ing  through  his robes.  "Though," he  added as  an afterthought,
"he  might  inadvertently  hurt himself.  There are  objects lying

around  here  it  wouldn't be  advisable to  play with.  Well, now,
are you ready?"
"I really don't want to go until Tas is back and I know  he's all
right," Caramon said stubbornly.
"I'm  afraid  you  haven't any  choice," the  mage said,  and Tas
heard  the  man's  voice grow  cool. "Your  brother travels  in the
morning.  You  must  be  prepared  to  go  then  as well.  It takes
hours  for  Par-Salian  to  memorize and  cast this  complex spell.
Already he has started. I have  stayed too  long searching  for the
kender, in fact. We are late. Come along."
"Wait... my things..." Caramon said pathetically. "My
sword..."
"You  need  not  worry  about any  of that,"  Justarius answered.
Apparently  finding  what  he  had  been searching  for, he  drew a
silken bag out of the pocket  of his  robes. "You  may not  go back
in  time  with  any  weapon or  any device  from this  time period.
Part of the spell will see to it that you are suitably  dressed for
the period you journey within."
Caramon   looked   down   at   his   body,   bewildered.  "Y-you
mean,  I'll  have  to  change  clothes?  I  won't have  a sword?
What -"
And  you're  sending  this  man  back  in  time  by  himself! Tas
thought  indignantly.  He'll  last five  minutes. Five  minutes, if
that long! No, by all the gods, I'm -
Just  exactly  what  the  kender  was going  to do  was lost  as he
suddenly found himself popped headfirst into the silken bag!
Everything  went  inky  black.  He  tumbled  down  to   the  bot-
tom of the bag, feet  over tail,  landing on  his head.  From some-
where inside of him came  a horrifying  fear of  being on  his back
in a vulnerable position. Frantically, he fought to  right himself,
scrabbling wildly at the  slick sides  of the  bag with  his clawed
feet. Finally he was right side up, and  the terrible  feeling sub-
sided.
So that's what it's like to be  panic-stricken, Tas  thought with
a sigh. I don't think much of it, that's certain. And I'm very glad
kender don't get that way, as a general rule. Now what?
Forcing himself to calm down and his little  heart to  stop rac-
ing, Tas crouched  in the  bottom of  the silken  bag and  tried to
think  what to  do next.  He appeared  to have  lost track  of what
was  going  on  in his  wild scrambling,  for -  by listening  - he
could  hear  two  pairs  of  footsteps walking  down a  stone hall;
Caramon's  heavy,  booted  feet  and  the  mage's  shuffling tread.

He  also  experienced  a  slight  swaying motion,  and he  could hear
the  soft  sounds  of  cloth  rubbing  against  cloth.   It  suddenly
occurred  to  him  that  the  red-robed  mage  had  undoubtedly  sus-
pended the sack he was in from his belt!
"What  am  I supposed  to do  back there?  How'm I  supposed to
get back here afterwards -"
That  was  Caramon's  voice,  muffled a  bit by  the cloth  bag but
still fairly clear.
"All  that  will  be explained  to you."  The mage's  voice sounded
overly  patient.  "I  wonder   -  Are   you  having   doubts,  second
thoughts perhaps. If so, you should tell us now -"
"No,"  Caramon's  voice  sounded  firm,  firmer  than  it had  in a
long  time.  "No,  I'm  not having  doubts. I'll  go. I'll  take Lady
Crysania back.  It's my  fault she's  hurt, no  matter what  that old
man says. I'll see  that she  gets the  help she  needs and  111 take
care of this Fistandantilus for you."
"M-m-m-m."
Tas heard that "m-m-m-m," though he doubted Caramon
could.  The  big  man  was  rambling  on about  what he  would do
to  Fistandantilus  when  he  caught  up with  him. But  Tas felt
chilled, as  he had  when Par-Salian  gave Caramon  that strange,
sad  look  in  the  Hall.  The kender,  forgetting where  he was,
squeaked in frustration.
"Shhhh,"  Justarius  murmured  absently,   patting  the   bag  with
his hand. "This is only for  a short  while, then  you'll be  back in
your cage, eating corn."
"Huh?"  Caramon  said.  Tas   could  almost   see  the   big  man's
startled  look.  The  kender  gnashed  his  small  teeth.   The  word
"cage"  called  up  a  dreadful  picture  in  his  mind  and  a truly
alarming  thought  occurred  to him  - what  if I  can't get  back to
being myself?
"Oh, not you!" the mage  said hastily.  "I was  talking to  my lit-
tle furry friend here. He's getting restless. If we weren't late, I'd
take  him  back  right  now."  Tas  froze. "There,  he seems  to have
settled down. Now, what were you saying'?"
Tas  didn't  pay  any more  attention. Miserably,  he clung  to the
bag  with  his  small  feet  as  it  swayed  back and  forth, bumping
gently  against  the  mage's  thigh  as he  limped along.  Surely the
spell could be reversed by simply taking off the ring?
Tas's fingers itched to try it and see. The last magic ring he'd
put on he hadn't been able to get off! What if this was the same?
Was  he  doomed to  a life  of white  fur and  pink feet  forever? At

the  thought,  Tas  wrapped  one  foot  around  the  ring  that  was
still stuck to a toe (or whatever) and almost pulled it off, just to
make sure.
But the thought of suddenly bursting out  of a  silk bag,  a full-
grown  kender,  and landing  at the  mage's feet  came to  his mind.
He forced his quivering little paw to  stop. No.  At least  this way
he  was  being  taken  to  wherever  Caramon  was  being  taken.  If
nothing  else,  maybe  he  could go  back with  him in  mouse shape.
There might be worse things....
How was he going to get out of the bag!
The  kender's  heart  sank to  his hind  feet. Of  course, getting
out  was  easy  if  he turned  back into  himself. Only  then they'd
catch  him  and  send  him  home!  But  if he  stayed a  mouse, he'd
end  up  eating  corn  with  Faikus!  The  kender  groaned  and hun-
kered  down,  his  nose  between  his  paws.  This  was  by  far the
worst  predicament  he'd  ever  been  in  in  his entire  life, even
counting  the  time  the  two  wizards caught  him running  off with
their  woolly  mammoth.  To  top it  off, he  was beginning  to feel
queasy,   what   with  the   swaying  motion   of  the   bag,  being
cooped  up,  the  funny  smell  inside  the  bag,  and  the  bumping
around and all.
"The  whole  mistake  lay  in  saying  a  prayer  to  Fizban," the
kender  told  himself  gloomily.  "He  may  be Paladine  in reality,
but  I  bet  somewhere  that  wacky  old  mage  is  getting  a  real
chuckle out of this."
Thinking  about  Fizban  and   how  much   he  missed   the  crazy
old  mage  wasn't  making  Tas  feel  any  better,  so  he  put  the
thought  out  of  his  mind and  tried once  more to  concentrate on
his surroundings, hoping to  figure a  way out.  He stared  into the
silky darkness and suddenly -
"You idiot!" he told himself excitedly.  "You lamebrained
doorknob of a kender,  as Flint  would say!  Or lamebrained
mouse, because I'm not a kender anymore! I'm a mouse... and
I have teeth!"
Hurriedly   Tas  took   an  experimental   nibble.  At   first  he
couldn't  get  a  grip  on the  slick fabric  and he  despaired once
more.
"Try  the  seam,  fool,"  he  scolded  himself severely,  and sank
his teeth into the  thread that  held the  fabric together.  It gave
way  almost  instantly  as  his  sharp  little  teeth  sheared right
through.  Tas  quickly  nibbled  away  several  more   stitches  and
soon  he  could  see  something  red  -  the  mage's  red  robes! He

caught a whiff  of fresh  air (what  had that  man been  keeping in
here!)  and  was  so  elated  he quickly  started to  chew through
some more.
Then  he  stopped.  If he  enlarged the  hole anymore,  he'd fall
out. And he wasn't ready to, at least not yet.  Not until  they got
to  wherever it  was they  were going.  Apparently that  wasn't far
off. It occurred to Tas  that they  had been  climbing a  series of
stairs  for  some  time  now.  He   could  hear   Caramon  wheezing
from  the  unaccustomed  exercise  and  even  the   red-robed  mage
appeared a bit winded.
"Why  can't  you  just  magic  us up  to this  laboratory place?"
Caramon grumbled, panting.
"No!" Justarius answered softly,  his voice  tinged with  awe. "I
can  feel  the  very  air tingle  and crackle  with the  power Par-
Salian  extends  to  perform  this  spell.  I  would have  no minor
spell of mine disturb the forces that are at work here this night!"
Tas  shivered at  this beneath  his fur,  and he  thought Caramon
might  have  done  the same,  for he  heard the  big man  clear his
throat  nervously  and  then  continue  to  climb in  silence. Sud-
denly, they came to a halt.
"Are we here?" Caramon asked, trying to keep his voice
steady.
"Yes,"  came  the  whispered  answer.  Tas  strained to  hear. "I
will take you up  these last  few stairs,  then -  when we  come to
the door at the top  - I  will open  it very  softly and  allow you
to  enter.  Speak  no   word!  Say   nothing  that   might  disturb
Par-Salian  in  his  concentration.  This   spell  takes   days  of
preparation -"
"You  mean  he  knew days  ago he  was going  to be  doing this?"
Caramon interrupted harshly.
"Hush!"  Justarius  ordered,  and  his  voice  was   tinged  with
anger. "Of course, he knew  this was  a possibility.  He had  to be
prepared. It was well he did so, for  we had  no idea  your brother
intended  to  move  this  fast!"  Tas  heard  the  man draw  a deep
breath.  When  he  spoke  again, it  was in  calmer tones.  "Now, I
repeat, when we climb these  last few  stairs -  speak no  word! Is
that understood?"
"Yes." Caramon sounded subdued.
"Do exactly as Par-Salian commands you to do. Ask no
questions! Just obey. Can you do that?"
"Yes." Caramon sounded more subdued still. Tas heard a
small tremor in the big man's reply.

He's   scared,   Tas   realized.  Poor   Caramon.  Why   are  they
doing  this  to  him?  I  don't  understand.  There's more  going on
here than meets the eye. Well, that makes it final. I don't  care if
I do break Par-Salian's concentration.  I'll just  have to  risk it.
Somehow,   someway   -   I'm   going   to   go   with   Caramon!  He
needs me. Besides - the  kender 'sighed  - to  travel back  in time!
How wonderful....
"Very  well."  Justarius hesitated,  and Tas  could feel  his body
grow  tense  and  rigid.  "I  will say  my farewells  here, Caramon.
May  the  gods  go  with  you.  What  you  are  doing  is  dangerous
...  for  us  all.  You  cannot  begin  to  comprehend  the danger."
This  last was  spoken so  softly only  Tas heard  it, and  the ken-
der's  ears  twitched  in  alarm.  Then  the red-robed  mage sighed.
"I wish I could say I thought your brother was worth it."
"He is," Caramon said firmly. "You will see."
"I pray Gilean you are right.... Now, are you ready?"
"Yes."
Tas  heard  a rustling  sound, as  if the  hooded mage  nodded his
head.  Then  they  began   to  move   again,  climbing   the  stairs
slowly.  The kender  peered out  of the  hole in  the bottom  of the
sack,  watching  the  shadowy  steps  slide  by  underneath  him. He
would have seconds only, he knew.
The stairs came  to an  end. He  could see  a broad  stone landing
beneath  him. This  is it!  he told  himself with  a gulp.  He could
hear  the  rustling sound  again and  feel the  mage's body  move. A
door  creaked.  Quickly,  Tas's  sharp  teeth  sliced   through  the
remaining  threads  that  held  the  seam  together. He  heard Cara-
mon's  slow steps,  entering the  door. He  heard the  door starting
to close....
The seam gave way.  Tas fell  out of  the sack.  He had  a passing
moment  to  wonder  if  mice  always  landed  on  their feet  - like
cats. (He had once dropped a cat off the  roof of  his house  to see
if that old saying was true. It is.) And then he hit the stone floor
running.  The  door  was  shut,  the   red-robed  mage   had  turned
away.   Without  stopping   to  look   around,  the   kender  darted
swiftly and silently across  the floor.  Flattening his  small body,
he  wriggled  through  the  crack  between  the  door and  the floor
and dove beneath a bookcase that was standing near the wall.
Tas paused to catch his breath and listen.
What if Justarius discovered him missing? Would he come
back and look for him?
Stop  this,  Tas  told  himself  sternly.  He  won't know  where I

fell  out.  And  he  probably  wouldn't  come back  here, anyway.
Might disturb the spell.
After  a  few  moments,  the  kender's  tiny  heart  slowed down
its pace so  that he  could hear  over the  blood pounding  in his
ears. Unfortunately, his ears told him very little. He  could hear
a  soft  murmuring,  as  if  someone were  rehearsing lines  for a
street play. He could hear Caramon  try to  catch his  breath from
the long climb and still keep his breathing muffled  so as  not to
disturb  the  mage.  The  big  man's leather  boots creaked  as he
shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
But that was all.
"I have  to see!"  Tas said  to himself.  "Otherwise I  won't know
what's going on."
Creeping out from underneath the bookcase, the kender
truly  began to  experience this  tiny, unique  world he  had tum-
bled into. It was a world  of crumbs,  a world  of dust  balls and
thread,  of  pins  and  ash,  of  dried rose  petals and  damp tea
leaves. The insignificant was suddenly a  world in  itself. Furni-
ture soared above him, like trees  in a  forest, and  served about
the  same  purpose -  it provided  cover. A  candle flame  was the
sun, Caramon a monstrous giant.
Tas circled the man's huge  feet warily.  Catching a  glimpse of
movement out of one corner  of his  eye, he  saw a  slippered foot
beneath a white  robe. Par-Salian.  Swiftly, Tas  made a  dart for
the opposite end  of the  room, which  was, fortunately,  lit only
by candles.
Then Tas skidded  to a  stop. He  had been  in a  mage's labora-
tory once before this, when  he'd been  wearing that  cursed tele-
porting ring.  The strange  and wonderful  sights he'd  seen there
remained  with  him,  and  now  he halted  just before  he stepped
inside  a  circle  drawn on  the stone  floor with  silver powder.
Within the center of the circle that glistened in  the candlelight
lay Lady Crysania, her sightless eyes still staring up at nothing,
her face as white as the linen that shrouded her.
This was where the magic would be performed!
The fur  rising on  the back  of his  neck, Tas  hastily scrambled
back,  out  of  the  way, cowering  beneath an  overturned chamber
pot.  On the  outside of  the circle  stood Par-Salian,  his white
robes  glowing  with  an  eerie light.  In his  hands, he  held an
object  encrusted  with  jewels  that sparkled  and flashed  as he
turned it. It looked like a sceptre Tas had  seen a  Nordmaar king
holding  once,  yet this  device looked  far more  fascinating. It

was faceted  and jointed  in the  most unique  fashion. Parts  of it
moved,  Tas  saw,  while  -  more  amazing   still  -   other  parts
moved  without  moving!  Even  as  he  watched,   Par-Salian  deftly
manipulated  the  object,  folding and  bending and  twisting, until
it  was  no bigger  than an  egg. Muttering  strange words  over it,
the archmage dropped it into the pocket of his robe.
Then,  though  Tas  could  have  sworn  Par-Salian  never  took  a
step, he was  suddenly standing  inside the  silver circle,  next to
Crysania's  inert  figure.  The  mage  bent  over  her, and  Tas saw
him  place  something  in the  folds of  her robes.  Then Par-Salian
began  to  chant  the   language  of   magic,  moving   his  gnarled
hands  above  her  in  ever-widening  circles.  Glancing  quickly at
Caramon,  Tas  saw  him   standing  near   the  circle,   a  strange
expression  on  his  face.  It  was  the  expression  of one  who is
somewhere unfamiliar, yet who feels completely at home.
Of course, Tas thought wistfully, he grew up with magic.
Maybe this is just like being back with his brother again.
Par-Salian rose to his  feet, and  the kender  was shocked  at the
change  that had  come over  the man.  His face  had aged  years, it
was  gray  in  color,  and  he  staggered  as  he  stood. He  made a
beckoning   motion   to   Caramon   and   the   man   came  forward,
walking  slowly,  stepping  carefully  over  the silver  powder. His
face fixed in a dreamlike trance, he stood silently beside the still
form of Crysania.
Par-Salian  removed  the  device  from  his  pocket  and  held  it
out  to  Caramon.  The  big man  placed his  hand on  it and,  for a
moment,  the  two  stood  holding  it  together.  Tas  saw Caramon's
lips  move,  though  he heard  no sound.  It was  as if  the warrior
were   reading   to  himself,   memorizing  some   magically  commu-
nicated   information.   Then   Caramon   ceased   to   speak.  Par-
Salian  raised  his  hands  and,  with  the  motion,  lifted himself
from  the  floor and  floated backward  out of  the circle  into the
shadowy darkness of the laboratory.
Tas could no  longer see  him, but  he could  hear his  voice. The
chanting  grew  louder  and  louder  and suddenly  a wall  of silver
light  sprang  from  the  circle traced  upon the  floor. It  was so
bright  it  made Tas's  red mouse  eyes burn,  but the  kender could
not  look  away. Par-Salian  cried out  now with  such a  loud voice
that  the  very  stones of  the chamber  themselves began  to answer
in a chorus of voices that rose from the depths of the ground.
Tas's  gaze  was  fixed  upon  that  shimmering curtain  of power.
Within  it,  he  could  see  Caramon  standing near  Crysania, still

holding the device in his  hand. Then  Tas gasped  a tiny  gasp that
made  no  more  sound  in  the  chamber  than  a mouse's  breath. He
could  still  see  the  laboratory  itself  through  that shimmering
curtain, but now it seemed to wink on  and off,  as if  fighting for
its  own  existence.  And  -  when  it  winked  out  -   the  kender
caught  a  glimpse of  somewhere else!  Forests, cities,  lakes, and
oceans  blurred in  his vision,  coming and  going, people  seen for
an instant than vanishing, replaced by others.
Caramon's  body  began  to  pulse  with  the  same  regularity  as
the strange visions as  he stood  within the  column of  light. Cry-
sania, too, was there and then she wasn't.
Tears  streaked  down  past  Tas's  quivering  nose,  sliding down
his  whiskers.  "Caramon's going  on the  greatest adventure  of all
time!"   the   kender   thought  bleakly.   "And  he's   leaving  me
behind!"
For  one  wild  moment,  Tas   fought  with   himself.  Everything
inside  of  him that  was logical  and conscientious  and Tanis-like
told him - Tasslehoff, don't be a  fool. This  is Big  Magic. You're
likely to really Mess Things Up! Tas  heard that  voice, but  it was
being  drowned  out  by  all  the  chanting  and the  stones singing
and, soon, it vanished altogether....

Par-Salian  never  heard  the  small squeak.  Lost in  his casting
of the  spell, he  caught only  the barest  glimpse of  movement out
of the corner of  his eye.  Too late,  he saw  the mouse  streak out
of its hiding place, heading straight for the silvery wall of light!
Horrified, Par-Salian  ceased his  chant, the  voices of  the stones
rang hollow and  died. In  the silence  he could  now hear  the tiny
voice,  "Don't  leave  me,  Caramon!  Don't   leave  me!   You  know
what trouble you'll get into without me!"
The  mouse  ran  through  the  silver  powder, scattering  a spar-
kling trail behind it, and burst into the lighted circle. Par-Salian
heard  a  small,  tinging  sound  and  saw  a  ring  roll  round and
round  on  the stone  floor. He  saw a  third figure  materialize in
the  circle,  and  he  gasped  in horror.  Then the  pulsing figures
were gone. The  light of  the circle  was sucked  into a  great vor-
tex, the laboratory was plunged into darkness.
Weak and exhausted, Par-salian collapsed onto the floor. His
last thought, before he lost consciousness, was a terrible one.
He had sent a kender back in time.

_ * BOOK 2 * _

_CHAPTER 1_

Denubis   walked  with
slow steps through the wide, airy halls  of the  light-filled Temple
of the  Gods in  Istar. His  thoughts were  abstracted, his  gaze on
the  marble  floor's  intricate patterns.  One might  have supposed,
seeing  him  walk  thus  aimlessly and  preoccupied, the  cleric was
insensible of the fact that he was walking in the heart of  the uni-
verse.  But  Denubis was  not insensible  of this  fact, nor  was it
one  he  was  likely  to  forget.  Lest  he  should,  the Kingpriest
reminded him of it daily in his morning call to prayers.
"We  are  the  heart of  the universe,"  the Kingpriest  would say
in  the voice  whose music  was so  beautiful one  occasionally for-
got to listen to the words. "Istar, city beloved of the gods, is the
center of the universe and we -  being at  the heart  of the  city -
are therefore the heart  of the  universe. As  the blood  flows from
the heart, bringing  nourishment to  even the  smallest toe,  so our
faith and our teachings flow from  this great  temple to  the small-
est,  most  insignificant  among  us.  Remember   this  as   you  go
about  your  daily  duties,  for you  who work  here are  favored of
the gods. As one touch  upon the  tiniest strand  of the  silken web
will  send  tremors  through the  entire web,  so your  least action
could spread tremors throughout Krynn."

Denubis  shivered.  He  wished  the  Kingpriest would  not use
that  particular  metaphor. Denubis  detested spiders.  He hated
all insects, in fact; something he  never admitted  and, indeed,
felt guilty about. Was he not commanded  to love  all creatures,
except,  of  course,  those  created by  the Queen  of Darkness?
That included ogres, goblins, trolls, and other evil  races, but
Denubis  was  not  certain  about  spiders.  He kept  meaning to
ask, but he knew  this would  entail an  hour-long philosophical
argument  among  the Revered  Sons, and  he simply  didn't think
it was worth it. Secretly, he would continue to hate spiders.
Denubis  slapped  himself  gently  on  his  balding  head. How
had his mind wandered to  spiders? I'm  getting old,  he thought
with a sigh. I'll soon be like poor Arabacus, doing  nothing all
day but sitting in the  garden and  sleeping until  someone wak-
ens me for dinner.  At this,  Denubis sighed  again, but  it was
nearer a sigh of envy than one of  pity. Poor  Arabacus, indeed!
At least he is spared -
"Denubis...."
Denubis paused. Glancing this way and that around the
large  corridor, he  saw no  one. The  cleric shuddered.  Had he
heard that soft voice, or just imagined it?
"Denubis," came the voice again.
This  time  the  cleric  looked  more  closely into  the shadows
formed by the huge  marble columns  supporting the  gilded ceil-
ing. A darker shadow, a patch of  blackness within  the darkness
was now discernible. Denubis checked  an exclamation  of irrita-
tion. Supressing the second  shudder that  swept over  his body,
he halted in his course and moved slowly over to the figure that
stood  in  the  shadows,  knowing  that  the figure  would never
move out of the shadows to meet him. It was  not that  light was
harmful to the one who awaited Denubis, as  light is  harmful to
some of the creatures of darkness. In fact, Denubis  wondered if
anything on  the face  of this  world could  be harmful  to this
man. No,  it was  simply that  he preferred  shadows. Theatrics,
Denubis thought sarcastically.
"You  called  me,  Dark  One?"  Denubis asked  in a  voice he
tried hard to make sound pleasant.
He saw  the face  in the  shadows smile,  and Denubis  knew at
once that all of his thoughts were well-known to this man.
"Damn it!" Denubis cursed (a habit frowned upon by the
Kingpriest but one which Denubis, a simple man, had never
been  able  to  overcome).  "Why  does  the Kingpriest  keep him

around  the  court? Why  not send  him away,  as the  others were
banished?"
He said this to himself, of course, because  - deep  within his
soul  -  Denubis  knew the  answer. This  one was  too dangerous,
too powerful. This one was  not like  the others.  The Kingpriest
kept him as a man  keeps a  ferocious dog  to protect  his house;
he  knows  the dog  will attack  when ordered,  but he  must con-
stantly make certain that the dog's leash is secure. If the leash
ever broke, the animal would go for his throat.
"I am sorry to disturb you, Denubis," said the man in  his soft
voice,  "especially  when  I  see  you  absorbed in  such weighty
thought.  But  an event  of great  importance is  happening, even
as  we speak.  Take a  squadron of  the Temple  guards and  go to
the  marketplace.  There,  at  the  crossroads,  you will  find a
Revered  Daughter  of  Paladine.  She is  near death.  And there,
also, you will find the man who assaulted her."
Denubis's  eyes  opened  wide, then  narrowed in  sudden suspi-
cion.
"How do you know this?" he demanded.
The  figure  within  the  shadows stirred,  the dark  line formed
by  the  thin  lips  widened  - the  figure's approximation  of a
laugh.
"Denubis,"  the  figure  chided,  "you   have  known   me  many
years. Do you  ask the  wind how  it blows?  Do you  question the
stars to find out why they shine?  I know,  Denubis. Let  that be
enough for you."
"But -" Denubis put  his hand  to his  head in  confusion. This
would entail explanations, reports to the proper authorities.
One did not simply conjure up a squadron of Temple guards!
"Hurry,  Denubis,"  the  man  said gently.  "She will  not live
long...."
Denubis   swallowed.   A   Revered   Daughter    of   Paladine,
assaulted!  Dying  -  in  the  marketplace!  Probably  surrounded
by  gaping  crowds.   The  scandal!   The  Kingpriest   would  be
highly displeased -
The  cleric opened  his mouth,  then shut  it again.  He looked
for a moment at the figure in the shadows, then, finding  no help
there,  Denubis  whirled  about and,  in a  flurry of  robes, ran
back down  the corridor  the way  he had  come, his  leather san-
dals slapping on the marble floor.
Reaching the central headquarters of the Captain of the
Guard, Denubis managed to gasp  out his  request to  the lieuten-

ant on duty. As he had foreseen, this caused  all sorts  of commo-
tion.  Waiting  for the  Captain himself  to appear,  Denubis col-
lapsed in a chair and tried to catch his breath.
The identity of the creator of  spiders might  be open  to ques-
tion,  Denubis  thought  sourly,  but  there was  no doubt  in his
mind at all about the creator  of that  creature of  darkness who,
no  doubt,  was  standing back  there in  the shadows  laughing at
him.

"Tasslehoff!"
The  kender  opened  his  eyes.  For  a  moment,  he had  no idea
where he  was or  even who  he was.  He had  heard a  voice speak-
ing  a  name  that  sounded vaguely  familiar. Confused,  the ken-
der looked  around. He  was lying  on top  of a  big man,  who was
flat  on  his back  in the  middle of  a street.  The big  man was
regarding  him  with  utter  astonishment,  perhaps   because  Tas
was perched upon his broad stomach.
"Tas?" the big man repeated, and  this time  his face  grew puz-
zled. "Are you supposed to be here?"
"I-I'm really not sure,"  the kender  said, wondering  who "Tas"
was. Then  it all  came back  to him  - hearing  Par-Salian chant-
ing, ripping the ring off his thumb, the blinding light, the sing-
ing stones, the mage's horrified shriek....
"Of course,  I'm supposed  to be  here," Tas  snapped irritably,
blocking out the memory of Par-Salian's  fearful yell.  "You don't
think they'd  let you  come back  here by  yourself, do  you?" The
kender was practically nose to nose with the big man.
Caramon's  puzzled  look darkened  to a  frown. "I'm  not sure,"
he muttered, "but I don't think you -"
"Well,  I'm  here."  Tas  rolled  off  Caramon's rotund  body to
land on the cobblestones  beneath them.  "Wherever 'here'  is," he
muttered beneath  his breath.  "Let me  help you  up," he  said to
Caramon,  extending  his  small  hand,  hoping  this  action would
take  Caramon's  mind  off  him.  Tas didn't  know whether  or not
he could be sent back, but he didn't intend to find out.
Caramon struggled to sit up, looking for all  the world  like an
overturned  turtle, Tas  thought with  a giggle.  And it  was then
the  kender  noticed  that  Caramon  was dressed  much differently
than  he had  been when  they left  the Tower.  He had  been wear-
ing his own armor (as much of it that fit), a  loose-fitting tunic
made of fine cloth, sewn together with Tika's loving care.
But, now, he was wearing coarse cloth, slovenly stitched

together.  A  crude  leather  vest  hung  from his  shoulders. The
vest  might  have had  buttons once,  but, if  so, they  were gone
now.  Buttons  weren't  needed  anyway,  Tas  thought,  for  there
was  no  way  the  vest  would  have stretched  to fit  over Cara-
mon's  sagging  gut.  Baggy leather  breeches and  patched leather
boots with a big  hole over  one toe  completed the  unsavory pic-
ture.
"Whew!"  Caramon  muttered,  sniffing.  "What's   that  horrible
smell?"
"You,"  Tas  said,  holding  his  nose  and  waving his  hand as
though  this  might dissipate  the odor.  Caramon reeked  of dwarf
spirits!  The  kender  regarded  him  closely.  Caramon  had  been
sober when they'd  left, and  he certainly  looked sober  now. His
eyes,  if  confused,  were  clear and  he was  standing, straight,
without weaving.
The  big  man  looked  down and,  for the  first time,  saw him-
self.
"What? How?" he asked, bewildered.
"You'd  think,"  Tas  said  sternly,  regarding  Caramon's clothes
in disgust,  "that the  mages could  afford something  better than
this!  I mean,  I know  this spell  must be  hard on  clothes, but
surely -"
A  sudden  thought  occurred  to  him.  Fearfully,   Tas  looked
down at his clothes, then breathed a sigh  of relief.  Nothing had
happened to him.  Even his  pouches were  with him,  all perfectly
intact.  A  nagging  voice  inside  him  mentioned  that  this was
probably  because  he  wasn't  supposed  to  have come  along, but
the kender conveniently ignored it.
"Well, let's have a look around,"  Tas said  cheerfully, suiting
his action to his  words. He'd  already been  able to  guess where
they  were  by  the odor  - in  a alley.  The kender  wrinkled his
nose.  He'd  thought  Caramon  smelled  bad!  Filled  with garbage
and  refuse of  every kind,  the alley  was dark,  overshadowed by
a huge stone building. But it was daylight, Tas could tell, glanc-
ing  down  at  the  end  of  the  alley  where  he could  see what
appeared  to  a  busy  street,  thronged  with  people   who  were
coming and going.
"I think that's a market," Tas said  with interest,  starting to
walk nearer the end of the  alley to  investigate. "What  city did
you say they sent us to?"
"Istar,"  he  heard  Caramon  mumble  from  behind   him.  Then,
"Tas!"

Hearing  a  frightened  tone  in  Caramon's  voice,   the  kender
turned around  hurriedly, his  hand going  immediately to  the lit-
tle knife he carried  in his  belt. Caramon  was kneeling  by some-
thing lying the alley.
"What is it?" Tas called, running back.
"Lady Crysania," Caramon said, lifting a dark cloak.
"Caramon!"  Tas  drew  a  horrified  breath.  "What  did  they do
to her? Did their magic go wrong?"
"I  don't  know,"  Caramon  said  softly, "but  we've got  to get
help."  He  carefully  covered  the  woman's  bruised   and  bloody
face with the cloak.
"I'll go," Tas offered, "you stay here with her. This doesn't
look like a really good part of town, if you take my meaning."
"Yeah," Caramon said, sighing heavily.
"It'll be all right," Tas said, patting the big man on his shoul-
der  reassuringly.  Caramon  nodded  but   said  nothing.   With  a
final  pat,  Tas  turned  and ran  back down  the alley  toward the
street. Reaching the end, he darted out onto the sidewalk.
"Hel -" he began, but just  then a  hand closed  over his  arm in
a grip of iron, hoisting him clear up off the sidewalk.
"Here, now," said a stern voice, "where are you going?"
Tas  twisted  around  to see  a bearded  man, his  face partially
covered  by  the shining  visor of  his helm,  staring at  him with
dark, cold eyes.
Townguard,  the  kender  realized  quickly,  having  had  a great
deal of experience with this type of official personage.
"Why, I was coming to look for you," Tas said, trying to
wriggle free and assume an innocent air at the same time.
"That's a likely story from  a kender!"  The guard  snorted, get-
ting  an  even  firmer  grasp  on  Tas.  "It'd be  a history-making
event in Krynn, if it was true, that's for certain."
"But it is true," Tas said,  glaring at  the man  indignantly. "A
friend of ours is hurt, down there."
He  saw  the  guard  glance  over  at  a man  he had  not noticed
before - a  cleric, dressed  in white  robes. Tas  brightened. "Oh?
A cleric? How -"
The guard clapped his hand over the kender's mouth.
"What do you think, Denubis? That's Beggar's Alley down
there.  Probably  a  knifing,  nothing  more  than  thieves falling
out."
The  cleric  was  a  middle-aged  man  with  thinning hair  and a
rather  melancholy,  serious  face.  Tas  saw  him look  around the

marketplace and shake  his head.  "The Dark  One said  the cross-
roads, and this is it - or near enough. We should investigate."
"Very  well."  The  guardsman  shrugged.  Detailing  two  of his
men,  he  watched   them  advance   cautiously  down   the  filthy
alleyway.  He  kept  his hand  over the  kender's mouth,  and Tas,
slowy being smothered, made a pathetic, squeaking sound.
The  cleric,  gazing  anxiously  after  the   guards,  glanced
around.
"Let him breathe, Captain," he said.
"We'll  have  to  listen  to  him  chatter," the  captain grumbled
irritably, but he removed his hand from Tas's mouth.
"He'll be quiet, won't you?"  the cleric  asked, looking  at Tas
with eyes that were kind  in a  preoccupied fashion.  "He realizes
how serious this is, don't you?"
Not  quite  certain  whether  the cleric  was addressing  him or
the captain or both, Tas thought it best simply  to nod  in agree-
ment. Satisfied, the cleric turned back to  watch the  guards. Tas
twisted enough in the captain's grasp  so that  he, too,  was able
to see. He saw  Caramon stand  up, gesturing  at the  dark, shape-
less bundle lying beside  him. One  of the  guards knelt  down and
drew aside the cloak.
"Captain!"   he   shouted   as   the  other   guard  immediately
grabbed  hold  of  Caramon.  Startled  and  angry  at   the  rough
treatment,  the  big  man  jerked  out of  the guard's  grasp. The
guard  shouted,  his  companion  rose  to  his  feet. There  was a
flash of steel.
"Damn!"  swore the  captain. "Here,  watch this  little bastard,
Denubis!" He thrust Tasslehoff in the cleric's direction.
"Shouldn't I  go?" Denubis  protested, catching  hold of  Tas as
the kender stumbled into him.
"No!"  The  captain  was  already  running  down the  alley, his
own   shortsword   drawn.   Tas   heard   him   mutter   something
about "big brute... dangerous."
"Caramon  isn't  dangerous,"  Tas protested,  looking up  at the
cleric  called  Denubis  in  concern. "They  won't hurt  him, will
they? What's wrong?"
"I'm  afraid  we'll  find out  soon enough,"  Denubis said  in a
stern voice, but holding Tas in such a gentle grip that the kender
could easily have broken free.  At first  Tas considered  escape -
there was no better place in  the world  to hide  than in  a large
city market. But the thought was a reflexive one, just  like Cara-
mon's  breaking  away  from  the  guard.  Tas  couldn't  leave his

friend.
"They won't hurt him, if he comes peacefully." Denubis
sighed. "Though if he's  done -"  The cleric  shivered and  for a
moment paused. "Well, if he's done that, he might find an easier
death here."
"Done  what?"  Tas   was  growing   more  and   more  confused.
Caramon,  too,  appeared  confused,  for  Tas  saw him  raise his
hands in a protestation of innocence.
But even as he argued,  one of  the guards  came up  behind the
big man and struck him in the back  of his  knees with  the shaft
of  his  spear.  Caramon's  legs  buckled.  As he  staggered, the
guard in front  of him  knocked the  big man  to the  ground with
an almost nonchalant blow to the chest.
Caramon  hadn't  even  hit  the  pavement  before the  point of
the spear was at his throat. He lifted his hands feebly in a ges-
ture of surrender. Quickly, the guards rolled  him over  onto his
stomach  and,  grasping  his  hands,  tied  them behind  his back
with rapid expertise.
"Make  them stop!"  Tas cried,  straining forward.  "They can't
do that -"
The cleric caught him. "No, little friend, it would be best for
you to stay with me. Please," Denubis  said, gently  gripping Tas
by  the shoulders.  "You cannot  help him,  and trying  will only
make things worse for you."
The  guards dragged  Caramon to  his feet  and began  to search
him  thoroughly,  even  reaching  their   hands  down   into  his
leather breeches. They found  a dagger  at his  belt -  this they
handed to  their captain  - and  a flagon  of some  sort. Opening
the top, they sniffed and then tossed it away in disgust.
One of  the guards  motioned to  the dark  bundle on  the pave-
ment. The captain knelt down and  lifted the  cloak. Tas  saw him
shake his head. Then the  captain, with  the other  guard's help,
carefully lifted the bundle and turned to walk out of  the alley.
He  said  something  to  Caramon  as  he  passed.  Tas  heard the
filthy  word  with  riveting shock,  as did  Caramon, apparently,
for the big man's face went deathly white.
Glancing up at Denubis, Tas saw the cleric's lips  tighten, the
fingers on Tas's shoulder trembled.
Then Tas understood.
"No," he whispered  softly in  agony, "oh,  no! They  can't think
that!  Caramon  wouldn't  harm  a  mouse!  He  didn't  hurt  Lady
Crysania! He  was only  trying to  help her!  That's why  we came

here.  Well,  one reason  anyway. Please!"  Tas whirled  around to
face  Denubis, clasping  his hands  together. "Please,  you've got
to believe me!  Caramon's a  soldier. He's  killed things  - sure.
But  only  nasty  things  like  draconians  and  goblins.  Please,
please believe me!"
But Denubis only looked at him sternly.
"No!  How  could  you think  that? I  hate this  place! I  want to
go  back home!"  Tas cried  miserably, seeing  Caramon's stricken,
confused expression. Bursting  into tears,  the kender  buried his
face in his hands and sobbed bitterly.
Then Tas felt a  hand touch  him, hesitate,  then pat  him gently.
"There,  there,  now,"  Denubis  said.  "You'll  have a  chance to
tell your story. Your friend will, too.  And, if  you're innocent,
no harm will come to you." But  Tas heard  the cleric  sigh. "Your
friend had been drinking, hadn't he?"
"No!" Tas  snuffled, looking  up at  Denubis pleadingly.  "Not a
drop, I swear...."
The kender's voice  died, however,  at the  sight of  Caramon as
the guards led him out of the alley into the street where  Tas and
the  cleric  stood.  Caramon's  face  was  covered  with  muck and
filth from the alley, blood dribbled from  a cut  on his  lip. His
eyes  were  wild  and  blood-shot,  the  expression  on  his  face
vacant and filled  with fear.  The legacy  of past  drinking bouts
was marked plainly  in his  puffy, red  cheeks and  shaking limbs.
A  crowd, which  had begun  to form  at the  sight of  the guards,
began to jeer.
Tas  hung  his  head.  What  was  Par-Salian doing?  he wondered
in  confusion,  Had  something  gone  wrong?  Were  they  even  in
Istar?  Were  they  lost somewhere?  Or maybe  this was  some ter-
rible nightmare....
"Who  -  What  happened?"  Denubis  asked  the  captain. "Was
the Dark One right?"
"Right?  Of  course,  he  was  right.  Have  you ever  known him
to  be  wrong?"  the  captain  snapped.  "As  for  who  -  I don't
know  who she  is, but  she's a  member of  your order.  Wears the
medallion  of  Paladine around  her neck.  She's hurt  pretty bad,
too. I thought she was dead, in fact, but there's a faint lifebeat
in her neck."
"Do you think she was... she was..." Denubis faltered.
"I  don't  know," the  captain said  grimly. "But  she's been
beaten up. She's had some kind of fit, I guess. Her eyes  are wide
open, but she doesn't seem to see or hear anything."

"We  must  convey  her  to  the  Temple  at  once,"  Denubis said
briskly,  though  Tas  heard  a  tremor  in  the  man's  voice. The
guards were  dispersing the  crowd, holding  their spears  in front
of them and pushing back the curious.
"Everything's  in   hand.  Move   along,  move   along.  Market's
about to close for  the day.  You best  finish your  shopping while
there's still time."
"I  didn't  hurt  her!"  Caramon said  bleakly. He  was shivering
in terror. "I didn't hurt her," he  repeated, tears  streaking down
his face.
"Yeah!"  the  captain said  bitterly. "Take  these two  to the
prisons," he ordered his guards.
Tas  whimpered.  One  of  the  guards  grabbed  him  roughly, but
the  kender  -  confused  and  stunned -  caught hold  of Denubis's
robes and refused to let go. The cleric, his  hand resting  on Lady
Crysania's  lifeless  form,  turned  around when  he felt  the ken-
der's clinging hands.
"Please," Tas begged, "please, he's telling the truth."
Denubis's stern face softened. "You  are a  loyal friend,"  he said
gently. "A rather unusual trait to find  in a  kender. I  hope your
faith in this man is justified." Absently, the cleric stroked Tas's
topknot of hair, his expression  sad. "But,  you must  realize that
sometimes,  when  a  man  has  been  drinking,  the   liquor  makes
him do things -"
"Come  along,  you!"  the  guard  snarled,  jerking  Tas back-
ward. "Quit your little act. It won't work."
"Don't  let  this  upset  you,  Revered  Son," the  captain said.
"You know kender!"
"Yes," Denubis replied, his  eyes on  Tas as  the two  guards led
the  kender  and   Caramon  away   through  the   rapidly  thinning
crowd  in  the  marketplace.  "I  do  know  kender.  And  that's  a
remarkable  one."  Then, shaking  his head,  the cleric  turned his
attention  back  to Lady  Crysania. "If  you will  continue holding
her, Captain," he said softly, "I will ask Paladine to convey us to
the Temple with all speed."
Tas,  twisting around  in the  guard's grip,  saw the  cleric and
the  Captain  of  the  Guard  standing  alone  in  the marketplace.
There was a shimmer of white light, and they were gone.
Tas  blinked  and,  forgetting  to  look  where  he   was  going,
stumbled  over  his  feet.  He  tumbled  to  the  cobblestone pave-
ment,  skinning  his  knees and  his hands  painfully. A  firm grip
on  his  collar  jerked him  upright, and  a firm  hand gave  him a

shove in the back.
"Come along. None of your tricks."
Tas moved forward, too miserable and  upset to  even look
around at his surroundings.  His gaze  went to  Caramon, and
the kender  felt his  heart ache.  Overwhelmed by  shame and
fear,  Caramon plodded  down the  street blindly,  his steps
unsteady.
"I didn't hurt her!" Tas heard him mumble. "There must be
some sort of mistake...."

_CHAPTER 2_

The beautiful elven
voices rose higher and higher, their sweet notes spiraling  up the
octaves  as though  they would  carry their  prayers to  the heav-
ens  simply  by  ascending  the  scales.  The  faces of  the elven
women, touched by  the rays  of the  setting sun  slanting through
the tall crystal windows, were tinged a delicate pink,  their eyes
shone with fervent inspiration.
The listening pilgrims wept for the beauty, causing  the choir's
white  and  blue  robes -  white robes  for the  Revered Daughters
of Paladine, blue robes for the  Daughters of  Mishakal -  to blur
in their  sight. Many  would swear  later that  they had  seen the
elven women transported skyward, swathed in fluffy clouds.
When  their  song  reached  a crescendo  of sweetness,  a chorus
of  deep,  male  voices joined  in, keeping  the prayers  that had
been  sweeping  upward  like  freed  birds  tied  to the  ground -
clipping  the  wings,  so  to  speak,  Denubis thought  sourly. He
supposed  he  was jaded.  As a  young man,  he, too,  had cleansed
his  soul  with  tears  when  he  first  heard  the  Evening Hymn.
Then, years later,  it had  become routine.  He could  well remem-
ber  the  shock  he  had  experienced when  he first  realized his
thoughts  had  wandered  to  some pressing  piece of  church busi-

ness during  the singing.  Now it  was worse  than routine.  It had
become  an  irritant,  cloying  and  annoying.   He  had   come  to
dread  this  time  of  day, in  fact, and  took advantage  of every
opportunity to escape.
Why?  He  blamed  much  of   it  on   the  elven   women.  Racial
prejudice,  he  told himself  morosely. Yet,  he couldn't  help it.
Every  year  a  party  of  elven   women,  Revered   Daughters  and
those   in  training,   journeyed  from   the  glorious   lands  of
Silvanesti to spend  a year  in Istar,  devoting themselves  to the
church.  This  meant  they  sang  the  Evening  Hymn   nightly  and
spent  their days  reminding all  around them  that the  elves were
the favored of the gods - created first of all the races, granted a
lifespan  of  hundreds  of  years.  Yet  nobody but  Denubis seemed
to take offense at this.
Tonight,  in particular,  the singing  was irritating  to Denubis
because   he   was   worried   about   the   young  woman   he  had
brought  to  the  Temple  that  morning.  He  had, in  fact, almost
avoided  coming  this  evening but  had been  captured at  the last
moment  by  Gerald,  an   elderly  human   cleric  whose   days  on
Krynn  were  numbered  and  who  found  his  greatest   comfort  in
attending   Evening    Prayers.   Probably,    Denubis   reflected,
because  the  old  man  was  almost  totally  deaf. This  being the
case,  it  had  been  completely  impossible  to explain  to Gerald
that  he  - Denubis  - had  somewhere else  to go.  Finally Denubis
gave up and  gave the  old cleric  his arm  in support.  Now Gerald
stood  next  to  him,  his  face  rapt, picturing  in his  mind, no
doubt,   the   beautiful   plane  to   which  he,   someday,  would
ascend.
Denubis   was   thinking   about   this   and  about   the  young
woman,  whom  he  had  not  seen  or  heard  anything  about  since
he  had brought  her to  the Temple  that morning,  when he  felt a
gentle  touch  upon  his  arm.  The   cleric  jumped   and  glanced
about  guiltily,  wondering  if his  inattention had  been observed
and would  be reported.  At first  he couldn't  figure out  who had
touched  him,  both  of  his  neighbors  apparently  lost  in their
prayers. Then he felt  the touch  again and  realized it  came from
behind.  Glancing  in  back  of  him,  he  saw  a hand  had slipped
unobtrusively  through  the  curtain  that  separated  the  balcony
on   which   the   Revered   Sons   stood  from   the  antechambers
around the balcony.
The  hand  beckoned,  and  Denubis,  puzzled,  left his  place in
line  and  fumbled  awkwardly  with  the  curtain, trying  to leave

without calling undue attention to himself.  The hand  had with-
drawn and Denubis couldn't find the separation  in the  folds of
the heavy velvet curtains. Finally, after  he was  certain every
pilgrim in the place must have his eyes fixed on him in disgust,
he found the opening and stumbled through it.
A  young acolyte,  his face  smooth and  placid, bowed  to the
flushed and perspiring cleric as if nothing were amiss.
"My   apologies   for   interrupting  your   Evening  Prayers,
Revered  Son,  but the  Kingpriest requests  that you  honor him
with a few moments of your time, if it is convenient."  The aco-
lyte spoke the prescribed words with  such casual  courtesy that
it  would not  have seemed  unusual to  any observer  if Denubis
had replied, "No, not now. I  have other  matters I  must attend
to directly. Perhaps later?"
Denubis, however, said nothing of the sort. Paling visibly, he
mumbled  something  about  "being   much  honored,"   his  voice
dying off at the end. The acolyte was  accustomed to  this, how-
ever,  and  -  nodding  acknowledgement  -  turned  and  led the
way through the vast, airy, winding halls of  the Temple  to the
quarters of the Kingpriest of Istar.
Hurrying  behind  the  youth,  Denubis had  no need  to wonder
what  this  could  be  about.  The  young  woman, of  course. He
had  not been  in the  Kingpriest's presence  for well  over two
years, and it  could not  be coincidence  that brought  him this
summons  on  the  very  day  he  had  found  a  Revered Daughter
lying near death in an alley.
Perhaps she has  died, Denubis  thought sadly.  The Kingpriest
is going to tell me in person. It would certainly be kind of the
man.  Out of  character, perhaps,  in one  who had  such weighty
affairs as the fate of nations on his mind, but certainly kind.
He hoped she hadn't died. Not just for her  sake, but  for the
sake of the human and the  kender. Denubis  had been  thinking a
lot about them, too.  Particularly the  kender. Like  others on
Krynn,  Denubis  hadn't  much  use  for   kender,  who   had  no
respect at all for rules or personal property - either their own
or other people's. But this kender  seemed different.  Most ken-
der Denubis  knew (or  thought he  knew) would  have run  off at
the first sign of trouble. This one had stayed by his big friend
with touching loyalty  and had  even spoken  up in  his friend's
defense.
Denubis shook his  head sadly.  If the  girl died,  they would
face  -  No,  he couldn't  think about  it. Murmuring  a sincere

prayer to  Paladine to  protect everyone  concerned (if  they were
worthy),   Denubis   wrenched   his   mind  from   its  depressing
thoughts  and   forced  it   to  admire   the  splendors   of  the
Kingpriest's private residence in the Temple.
He  had  forgotten  the beauty  - the  milky white  walls, glow-
ing with a soft light of their own that came - so legend had  it -
from  the  very  stones  themselves.  So  delicately   shaped  and
carved were they, that they glistened like great white rose petals
springing  up  from  the  polished  white  floor.  Running through
them were faint veins of  light blue,  softening the  harshness of
the stark white.
The  wonders  of the  hallway gave  way to  the beauties  of the
antechamber.  Here  the  walls  flowed   upward  to   support  the
dome  overhead,  like  a  mortal's  prayer  ascended to  the gods.
Frescoes  of  the  gods were  painted in  soft colors.  They, too,
seemed  to  glow  with their  own light  - Paladine,  the Platinum
Dragon,  God  of  Good;  Gilean  of the  Book, God  of Neutrality;
even  the  Queen  of  Darkness  was  represented  here  -  for the
Kingpriest  would  offend  no  god overtly.  She was  portrayed as
the  five-headed  dragon,   but  such   a  meek   and  inoffensive
dragon  Denubis  wondered  she  didn't  roll  over and  lick Pala-
dine's foot.
He  thought  that  only later,  however, upon  reflection. Right
now,  he  was  much  too  nervous  to even  look at  the wonderful
paintings.  His  gaze was  fixed on  the carefully  wrought plati-
num doors that opened into the heart of the Temple itself.
The doors swung  open, emitting  a glorious  light. His  time of
audience had come.
The Hall  of Audience  first gave  those who  came here  a sense
of  their  own  meekness  and  humility.  This  was  the  heart of
goodness.  Here  was  represented  the  glory  and  power  of  the
church.  The  doors  opened  onto  a  huge  circular  room  with a
floor of  polished white  granite. The  floor continued  upward to
form the walls into the petals  of a  gigantic rose,  soaring sky-
ward  to  support a  great dome.  The dome  itself was  of frosted
crystal that absorbed the  glow of  the sun  and the  moons. Their
radiance filled every part of the room.
A great  arching wave  of seafoam  blue swept  up from  the cen-
ter of  the floor  into an  alcove that  stood opposite  the door.
Here stood a single throne. More brilliant than the  light stream-
ing  down  from  the  dome was  the light  and warmth  that flowed
from this throne.

Denubis  entered  the  room   with  his   head  bowed   and  his
hands folded  before him  as was  proper. It  was evening  and the
sun had now  set. The  Hall Denubis  walked into  was lit  only by
candles. Yet, as always,  Denubis had  the distinct  impression he
had stepped into an open-air courtyard bathed in sunlight.
Indeed, for a moment his  eyes were  dazzled by  the brilliance.
Keeping  his  gaze  lowered,  as  was  proper  until he  was given
leave to raise it, he caught glimpses of the floor and objects and
people  present  in the  Hall. He  saw the  stairs as  he ascended
them. But  the radiance  welling from  the front  of the  room was
so splendid that he literally noticed nothing else.
"Raise  your  eyes,  Revered  Son  of  Paladine," spoke  a voice
whose  music  brought  tears  to  Denubis's  eyes when  the lovely
music of the elven women could move him no longer.
Denubis looked up, and  his soul  trembled in  awe. It  had been
two years since he  had been  this near  the Kingpriest,  and time
had  dulled  his  memory.  How  different  it  was to  observe him
every morning from a distance  - seeing  him as  one sees  the sun
appearing  on  the  horizon,  basking   in  its   warmth,  feeling
cheered  at  its  light.  How  different to  be summoned  into the
presence of the sun, to stand before it and feel one's soul burned
by the purity and clarity of its brilliance.
This  time,  I'll  remember,  thought  Denubis  sternly.  But no
one,  returning  from  an  audience  with  the  Kingpriest,  could
ever recall exactly what  he looked  like. It  seemed sacrilegious
to attempt to do so, in fact - as though thinking of him  in terms
of  mere  flesh  was  a  desecration.  All anyone  ever remembered
was  that  they  had been  in the  presence of  someone incredibly
beautiful.
The  aura  of  light  surrounded  Denubis,  and  he  was immedi-
ately rent by the most terrible guilt for  his doubts  and misgiv-
ings  and  questionings.  In contrast  to the  Kingpriest, Denubis
saw himself as the  most wretched  creature on  Krynn. He  fell to
his  knees, begging  forgiveness, almost  totally unaware  of what
he was doing, knowing only that it was the right thing to do.
And  forgiveness  was  granted.  The  musical  voice  spoke, and
Denubis was immediately  filled with  a sense  of peace  and sweet
calm.  Rising to  his feet,  he faced  the Kingpriest  in reverent
humility and begged to know how he could serve him.
"You brought a young woman, a Revered Daughter of Pala-
dine, to the Temple this morning," said the voice, "and we
understand  you  have  been  concerned  about  her  -  as  is only

natural  and  most  proper.  We  thought it  would give  you com-
fort to know that she is well and fully recovered from her terri-
ble  ordeal. It  may also  ease your  mind, Denubis,  beloved son
of Paladine, to know that she was not physically injured."
Denubis  offered  his  thanks  to Paladine  for the  young wom-
an's  recovery and  was just  preparing to  stand aside  and bask
for a few moments in the glorious light when  the full  import of
the Kingpriest's words struck him.
"She-she  was  not  assaulted?"  Denubis  managed  to  stammer.
"No,   my  son,"   answered  the   voice,  sounding   a  joyous
anthem. "Paladine in his  infinite wisdom  had gathered  her soul
to himself, and I was able, after many long  hours of  prayer, to
prevail upon him to return such a  treasure to  us, since  it had
been  snatched  untimely  from  its  body.  The  young  woman now
finds rest in a life-giving sleep."
"But  the  marks  on  her  face?" Denubis  protested, confused.
"The blood -"
"There were no marks," the Kingpriest said  mildly, but  with a
hint  of  reproof  that made  Denubis feel  unaccountably misera-
ble. "I told you, she was not physically injured."
"I-I  am  delighted  I  was  mistaken,"  Denubis  answered sin-
cerely. "All  the more  so because  it means  that young  man who
was arrested is innocent as he claimed and may now go free."
"I am truly thankful, even  as you  are thankful,  Revered Son,
to know that a fellow  creature in  this world  did not  commit a
crime as foul  as was  first feared.  Yet who  among us  is truly
innocent?"
The  musical  voice  paused  and  seemed  to  be   awaiting  an
answer.  And  answers  were  forthcoming.  The cleric  heard mur-
mured  voices  all  around  him  give  the  proper  response, and
Denubis became consciously aware  for the  first time  that there
were others present near the  throne. Such  was the  influence of
the Kingpriest  that he  had almost  believed himself  alone with
the man.
Denubis  mumbled  the  response  to  this  question  along with
the rest and suddenly knew without  being told  that he  was dis-
missed from the august presence.  The light  no longer  beat upon
him directly, it had turned from him to another. Feeling as if he
had  stepped  from  brilliant  sun into  the shade,  he stumbled,
half-blind, back down  the stairs.  Here, on  the main  floor, he
was able to catch his breath, relax, and look around.
The Kingpriest sat at one end, surrounded by light. But, it

seemed  to  Denubis  that  his  eyes  were  becoming  accustomed  to
the light, so  to speak,  for he  could at  last begin  to recognize
others  with  him.  Here  were  the  heads of  the various  orders -
the  Revered  Sons   and  Revered   Daughters.  Known   almost  jok-
ingly  as  "the  hands  and  feet  of  the  sun,"  it was  these who
handled  the  mundane,  day-to-day  affairs  of  the church.  It was
these  who  ruled  Krynn.  But  there  were  others   here,  besides
high church officials. Denubis felt his  gaze drawn  to a  corner of
the Hall, the only corner, it seemed, that was in shadow.
The-re  sat  a  figure robed  in black,  his darkness  outshone by
the  Kingpriest's  light.  But  Denubis,  shuddering,  had  the dis-
tinct  impression  that the  darkness was  only waiting,  biding its
time, knowing that - eventually - the sun must set.
The   knowledge  that   the  Dark   One,  as   Fistandantilus  was
known  around  the  court,  was  allowed  within   the  Kingpriest's
Hall  of  Audience  came  as  a  shock  to  Denubis.  The Kingpriest
was trying to rid the world of evil, yet it was here - in his court!
And  then  a  comforting   thought  came   to  Denubis   -  perhaps,
when  the  world  was totally  free of  evil, when  the last  of the
ogre  races  had  been   eliminated,  then   Fistandantilus  himself
would fall.
But  even  as he  thought this  and smiled  at the  thought, Denu-
bis saw the cold glitter of the mage's eyes  turn their  gaze toward
him.   Denubis   shivered   and  looked   away  hurriedly.   What  a
contrast  there  was  between  that  man  and  the  Kingpriest! When
basking  in  the Kingpriest's  light, Denubis  felt calm  and peace-
ful.  Whenever he  happened to  look into  the eyes  of Fistandanti-
lus, he was reminded forcefully of the darkness within himself.
And,  under  the  gaze  of  those  eyes,  he  suddenly  found him-
self  wondering  what  the  Kingpriest  had  meant  by  the  curious
statement, "who of us is truly innocent'?"
Feeling uncomfortable, Denubis walked into an antecham-
ber where stood a gigantic banquet table.
The smell of  the luscious,  exotic foods,  brought from  all over
Ansalon  by  worshipful  pilgrims  or  purchased  in the  huge open-
air  markets  of cities  as far  away as  Xak Tsaroth,  made Denubis
remember  that  he  had  not  eaten since  morning. Taking  a plate,
he  browsed  among  the  wonderful  food,  selecting  this  and that
until his plate  was filled  and he  had only  made it  halfway down
the table that literally groaned under its aromatic burden.
A  servant  brought  round  cups  of  fragrant,  elven  wine. Tak-
ing  one  of  these  and juggling  the plate  and his  eating imple-

ments  in one  hand, the  wine in  the other,  Denubis sank  into a
chair and began to  eat heartily.  He was  just enjoying  the heav-
enly  combination  of  a mouthful  of roast  pheasant and  the lin-
gering  taste  of  the  elven wine  when a  shadow fell  across his
plate.
Denubis  glanced  up,  choked,  and bolted  the remainder  of the
mouthful,  dabbing  at  the  wine  dribbling   down  his   chin  in
embarrassment.
"R-revered Son," he stuttered,  making a  feeble attempt  to rise
in the gesture of respect that the Head of the Brethren deserved.
Quarath   regarded   him  with   sardonic  amusement   and  waved
a  hand  languidly.  "Please, Revered  Son, do  not let  me disturb
you.  I have  no intention  of interrupting  your dinner.  I merely
wanted a word with you. Perhaps, when you are finished -"
"Quite...  quite  finished,"  Denubis  said hastily,  handing his
half-full plate and glass to a passing servant. "I don't seem to be
as hungry as  I thought."  That, at  least, was  true. He  had com-
pletely lost his appetite.
Quarath smiled a  delicate smile.  His thin  elven face  with its
finely sculpted features seemed  to be  made of  fragile porcelain,
and  he  always  smiled  carefully,  as if  fearing his  face would
break.
"Very well, if the desserts do not tempt you?"
"N-no,  not  in  the  slightest.  Sweets...  bad for  th-the diges-
tion th-this late -"
"Then,  come  with  me,  Revered  Son.  It has  been a  long time
since  we  talked."   Quarath  took   Denubis's  arm   with  casual
familiarity - though it had been months since  the cleric  had last
seen his superior.
First  the  Kingpriest,  now  Quarath. Denubis  felt a  cold lump
in  the  pit  of his  stomach. As  Quarath was  leading him  out of
the  Audience Hall,  the Kingpriest's  musical voice  rose. Denubis
glanced  backward,  basking  for  one  more  moment  in  that  won-
drous light. Then, as he  looked away  with a  sigh, his  gaze came
to  rest  upon  the  black-robed  mage.  Fistandantilus  smiled and
nodded.   Shuddering,   Denubis   hurriedly   accompanied   Quarath
out the door.
The  two  clerics  walked  through  sumptuously   decorated  cor-
ridors  until  they  came to  a small  chamber, Quarath's  own. It,
too,  was  splendidly decorated  inside, but  Denubis was  too ner-
vous to notice any detail.
"Please, sit down, Denubis. I may call you that, since we are

comfortably alone."
Denubis  didn't  know  about  the  comfortably, but  they were
certainly alone. He sat on the edge of the seat  Quarath offered
him, accepted a small glass  of cordial  which he  didn't drink,
and  waited. Quarath  talked of  inconsequential nothings  for a
few moments, asking after  Denubis's work  - he  translated pas-
sages  of  the  Disks  of  Mishakal  into  his  native language,
Solamnic  - and  other items  in which  he obviously  wasn't the
least bit interested.
Then, after a pause, Quarath said  casually, "I  couldn't help
but hear you questioning the Kingpriest."
Denubis set his cordial down on a table,  his hand  shaking so
he barely avoided spilling it. "I...  I was...  simply concerned
...  about  -  about  the  young  man...  they  arrested errone-
ously," he stammered faintly.
Quarath nodded gravely. "Very right, too.  Very proper.  It is
written that we should be  concerned about  our fellows  in this
world. It becomes you, Denubis, and I shall certainly  note that
in my yearly report."
"Thank  you,  Revered  Son,"  Denubis  murmured,  not  certain
what else to say.
Quarath said nothing more but sat  regarding the  cleric oppo-
site with his slanted, elven eyes.
Denubis mopped his face with the  sleeve of  his robe.  It was
unbelievably hot in this room. Elves had such thin blood.
"Was there something else?" Quarath asked mildly.
Denubis  drew  a  deep  breath.  "My  lord," he  said earnestly,
"about that young  man. Will  he be  released? And  the kender?"
He  was  suddenly  inspired. "I  thought perhaps  I could  be of
some  help,  guide them  back to  the paths  of good.  Since the
young man is innocent -"
"Who  of us  is truly  innocent?" Quarath  questioned, looking
at the ceiling as if the gods themselves might write  the answer
there for him.
"I'm  certain  that  is  a very  good question,"  Denubis said
meekly, "and one no doubt  worthy of  study and  discussion, but
this young man is, apparently innocent - at least as innocent as
he's likely to be of anything -" Denubis stopped,  slightly con-
fused.
Quarath smiled sadly. "Ah, there, you see?" he said, spread-
ing his hands and turning his gaze upon the cleric. "The fur of
the rabbit covers the tooth of  the wolf,  as the  saying goes."

Leaning back in his chair,  Quarath once  again regarded  the ceil-
ing. "The two are being sold in the slave markets tomorrow."
Denubis half rose from his chair. "What? My lord -"
Quarath's gaze instantly fixed itself  upon the  cleric, freezing
the man where he stood.
"Questioning? Again?"
"But...  he's  innocent!"  was  all  Denubis  could think  of to
say.
Quarath smiled again, this time wearily, indulgently.
"You  are  a  good man,  Denubis. A  good man,  a good  cleric. A
simple  man,  perhaps,  but  a good  one. This  was not  a decision
we  made  lightly.  We   questioned  the   man.  His   accounts  of
where  he  came  from  and  what  he  was doing  in Istar  are con-
fused, to say the least. If he was innocent of the girl's injuries,
he  undoubtedly  has  other crimes  that are  tearing at  his soul.
That much is visible upon  his face.  He has  no means  of support,
there was  no money  on him.  He is  a vagrant  and likely  to turn
to thievery if left on his own. We are  doing him  a favor  by pro-
viding him with a master who will care  for him.  In time,  he can
earn  his  freedom  and,  hopefully,  his   soul  will   have  been
cleansed  of  its burden  of guilt.  As for  the kender  -" Quarath
waved a negligent hand.
"Does the Kingpriest know?" Denubis summoned up cour-
age to ask.
Quarath  sighed, and  this time  the cleric  saw a  faint wrinkle
of  irritation  appear on  the elf's  smooth brow.  "The Kingpriest
has  many  more  pressing  issues  on his  mind, Revered  Son Denu-
bis," he said coldly.  "He is  so good  that the  pain of  this one
man's  suffering  would  upset him  for days.  He did  not specifi-
cally  say  the  man  was  to be  freed, so  we simply  removed the
burden of this decision from his thoughts."
Seeing  Denubis's  haggard  face  fill  with  doubt,  Quarath sat
forward,  regarding  his  cleric  with a  frown. "Very  well, Denu-
bis,  if  you  must  know -  there were  some very  strange circum-
stances  regarding  the  young  woman's  discovery. Not  the least
of which  is that  it was  instituted, we  understand, by  the Dark
One."
Denubis  swallowed  and  sank  back  into  his  seat.   The  room
no longer seemed hot.  He shivered.  "That is  true," he  said mis-
erably, passing his hand over his face. "He met me -"
"I   know!"   Quarath   snapped.   "He   told   me.   The   young
woman  will  stay  here  with us.  She is  a Revered  Daughter. She

wears  the  medallion of  Paladine. She,  also, is  somewhat con-
fused, but that is to be expected. We can keep an eye on her. But
I'm certain you realize how impossible it is  that we  allow that
young  man  to  simply  wander  off.  In  the  Elder  Days,  they
would have tossed him in  a dungeon  and thought  no more  of it.
We  are  more  enlightened than  that. We  will provide  a decent
home for him and be able to watch over him at the same time."
Quarath makes it  sound like  a charitable  act, selling  a man
into slavery, Denubis thought in confusion.  Perhaps it  is. Per-
haps I  am wrong.  As he  says, I  am a  simple man.  Dizzily, he
rose from his chair. The rich food he had eaten sat in  his stom-
ach  like  a cobblestone.  Mumbling an  apology to  his superior,
he started  toward the  door. Quarath  rose, too,  a conciliatory
smile on his face.
"Come  visit  with me  again, Revered  Son," he  said, standing
by the door. "And  do not  fear to  question us.  That is  how we
learn."
Denubis  nodded  numbly,  then  paused.  "I -  I have  one more
question,  then,"  he  said hesitantly.  "You mentioned  the Dark
One.  What do  you know  of him?  I mean,  why is  he here?  He -
he frightens me."
Quarath's face was grave, but he did  not appear  displeased at
this question. Perhaps he  was relieved  that Denubis's  mind had
turned  to  another  subject.  "Who  knows  anything of  the ways
of magic-users,"  he answered,  "except that  their ways  are not
our ways, nor yet the ways of the  gods. It  was for  that reason
the Kingpriest felt  compelled to  rid Ansalon  of them,  as much
as was possible. Now  they are  holed up  in their  one remaining
Tower  of  High  Sorcery  in  that  cast-off  Forest  of Wayreth.
Soon, even that will  disappear as  their numbers  dwindle, since
we have closed the schools. You  heard about  the cursing  of the
Tower at Palanthas?"
Denubis nodded silently.
"That  terrible  incident!"  Quarath  frowned.  "It just  goes to
show you how  the gods  have cursed  these wizards,  driving that
one  poor  soul  to  such  madness that  he impaled  himself upon
the gates, bringing down the wrath  of the  gods and  sealing the
Tower forever, we suppose. But, what were we discussing?"
"Fistandantilus,"  Denubis  murmured, sorry  he had  brought it
up. Now  he wanted  only to  get back  to his  room and  take his
stomach powder.
Quarath raised his  feathery eyebrows.  "All I  know of  him is

that  he was  here when  I came,  some one  hundred years  ago. He
is old - older even than  many of  my kindred,  for there  are few
even  of  the  eldest  of  my race  who can  remember a  time when
his  name  was  not  whispered.  But  he  is  human  and therefore
must use his magic arts to sustain his life. How, I dare not imag-
ine."  Quarath  looked  at   Denubis  intently.   "You  understand
now, of course, why the Kingpriest keeps him at court'?"
"He fears him?" Denubis asked innocently.
Quarath's  porcelain  smile  became  fixed for  a moment,  then it
was the smile of a  parent explaining  a simple  matter to  a dull
child. "No, Revered Son," he said patiently. "Fistandantilus is of
great  use  to us.  Who knows  the world  better? He  has traveled
its  width  and  breadth.  He  knows  the languages,  the customs,
the lore of  every race  on Krynn.  His knowledge  is vast.  He is
useful to  the Kingpriest,  and so  we allow  him to  remain here,
rather than banish him to Wayreth,  as we  have banished  his fel-
lows."
Denubis  nodded.  "I  understand,"  he  said,   smiling  weakly.
"And...  and  now,  I  must  go. Thank  you for  your hospitality,
Revered Son, and for  clearing up  my doubts.  I-I feel  much bet-
ter now."
"I am  glad to  have been  able to  help," Quarath  said gently.
"May the gods grant you restful sleep, my son."
"And  you  as  well,"  Denubis  murmured  the reply,  then left,
hearing, with relief, the door shut behind him.
The  cleric  walked  hurriedly  past  the  Kingpriest's audience
chamber.  Light  welled  from the  door, the  sound of  the sweet,
musical voice tugged at his heart as he went by, but he  feared he
might be sick and so resisted the temptation to return.
Longing  for  the  peace  of  his  quiet  room,  Denubis  walked
quickly  through  the  Temple.  He  became  lost  once,  taking  a
wrong turn in the  crisscrossing corridors.  But a  kindly servant
led him back the direction he needed to take to reach the  part of
the Temple where he lived.
This part  was austere,  compared to  that where  the Kingpriest
and the court resided, although still  filled with  every conceiv-
able  luxury  by  Krynnish  standards. But  as Denubis  walked the
halls,  he  thought  how  homey  and  comforting the  soft candle-
light appeared.  Other clerics  passed him  with smiles  and whis-
pered  evening  greetings.  This  was  where  he belonged.  It was
simple, like himself.
Heaving another sigh of relief, Denubis reached his own

small  room and  opened the  door (nothing  was ever  locked in
the Temple - it showed a distrust of one's fellows) and started
to enter. Then he stopped. Out of the corner of his eye  he had
glimpsed  movement,  a  dark  shadow  within   darker  shadows.
He stared intently down the corridor. There was  nothing there.
It was empty.
I am getting old. My  eyes are  playing tricks,  Denubis told
himself, shaking his head wearily. Walking  into the  room, his
white  robes  whispering around  his ankles,  he shut  the door
firmly, then reached for his stomach powder.

_CHAPTER 3_

A  key rattled in the
lock of the cell door.
Tasslehoff sat  bolt upright.  Pale light  crept into  the cell
through a tiny, barred window set high in  the thick,  stone wall.
Dawn, he thought sleepily. The key rattled again, as if the jailer
was having trouble  opening the  lock. Tas  cast an  uneasy glance
at Caramon on the opposite side of the  cell. The  big man  lay on
the stone slab  that  was his  bed without  moving or  giving any
sign that he heard the racket.
A  bad sign,  Tas thought  anxiously, knowing  the well-trained
warrior  (when  he  wasn't  drunk)  would  once  have  awakened at
the  sound of  footsteps outside  the room.  But Caramon  had nei-
ther  moved nor  spoken since  the guards  brought them  here yes-
terday.  He  had  refused  food  and   water  (although   Tas  had
assured him it was a cut above most  prison food).  He lay  on the
stone slab and stared up at the ceiling  until nightfall.  Then he
had moved, a little at least - he had shut his eyes.
The key was rattling louder than ever, and  added to  its noise
was  the  sound  of the  jailer swearing.  Hurriedly Tas  stood up
and crossed the stone floor, plucking  straw out  of his  hair and
smoothing his clothes  as he  went. Spotting  a battered  stool in

the corner,  the kender  dragged it  over to  the door,  stood upon
it,  and  peered  through  the barred  window in  the door  down at
the jailer on the other side.
"Good morning," Tas said cheerfully. "Having some trou-
ble?"
The  jailer  jumped  three  feet  at  the  unexpected  sound  and
nearly  dropped  his  keys.  He  was  small  man, wizened  and gray
as the walls. Glaring  up at  the kender's  face through  the bars,
the jailer snarled and, inserting the  key in  the lock  once more,
poked  and  shook  it  vigorously.  A   man  standing   behind  the
jailer scowled. He  was a  large, well-built  man, dressed  in fine
clothes  and  wrapped  against  the  morning  chill in  a bear-skin
cape. In his hand, he held  a piece  of slate,  a bit  of chalkrock
dangling from it by a leather thong.
"Hurry  up," the  man snarled  at the  jailer. "The  market opens
at  midday and  I've got  to get  this lot  cleaned up  and decent-
looking by then."
"Must be broken," muttered the jailer.
"Oh,  no,  it's  not  broken,"  Tas  said helpfully.  "Actually, in
fact, I think your key would fit  just fine  if my  lockpick wasn't
in the way."
The jailer slowly lowered the keys  and raised  his eyes  to look
balefully at the kender.
"It  was the  oddest accident,"  Tas continued.  "You see,  I was
rather  bored  last night  - Caramon  fell asleep  early -  and you
had taken away  all my  things, so,  when I  just happened  to dis-
cover that you'd missed a  lockpick I  keep in  my sock,  I decided
to try it on this door, just to keep my hand in,  so to  speak, and
to see  what kind  of jails  you built  back here.  You do  build a
very nice jail, by the way," Tas said solemnly. "One of  the nicest
I've ever been in - er, one of the  nicest I've  ever seen.  By the
way,  my  name  is  Tasslehoff Burrfoot."  The kender  squeezed his
hand through the bar in  case either  of them  wanted to  shake it.
They  didn't.  "And  I'm from  Solace. So's  my friend.  We're here
on  a  sort  of  mission you  might say  and -  Oh, yes,  the lock.
Well, you needn't glare at me so, it wasn't my  fault. In  fact, it
was  your  stupid  lock  that broke  my lockpick!  One of  my best,
too. My father's,"  the kender  said sadly.  "He gave  it to  me on
the day I came of age. I really think," Tas added in a stern voice,
"that you could at least apologize."
At this, the jailer made  a strange  sound, sort  of a  snort and
an  explosion.  Shaking  his  ring  of  keys  at  the   kender,  he

snapped  something  incoherent  about  "rotting  in that  cell for-
ever" and started walking off, but  the man  in the  bear-skin cape
grabbed hold of him.
"Not so fast. I need the one in here."
"I know,  I know,"  the jailer  whined in  a thin  voice, "but
you'll have to wait for the locksmith -"
"Impossible. My orders are to put 'im on the block today."
"Well,  then  you  come  up with  some way  to get  them outta
there."  The  jailer sneered.  "Get the  kender a  new lockpick.
Now, do you want the rest of the lot or not?"
He  started  to  totter  off, leaving  the bear-skin  man staring
grimly  at  the  door.  "You know  where my  orders come  from," he
said in ominous tones.
"My  orders  come  from  the  same place,"  the jailer  said over
his bony shoulder, "and if they don't  like it  they can  come pray
the door open.  If that  don't work,  they can  wait for  the lock-
smith, same as everyone else."
"Are you going to let us out?"  Tas asked  eagerly. "If  you are,
we  might be  able to  help -"  Then a  sudden thought  crossed his
mind. "You're not going to execute  us, are  you? Because,  in that
case, I think we'd just as soon wait for the locksmith...."
"Execute!"  the  bear-skin  man  growled.  "Hasn't  been  an exe-
cution in Istar in ten years. Church forbade it."
"Aye,  a  quick, clean  death was  too good  for a  man," cackled
the  jailer,  who  had  turned  around  again.  "Now,  what  do you
mean about helping, you little beast?"
"Well," Tas faltered, "if you're  not going  to execute  us, what
are you going to do with us, then? I  don't suppose  you're letting
us go? We are innocent, after all. I mean, we didn't -"
"I'm  not  going  to  do  anything with  you," the  bear-skin man
said sarcastically. "It's your friend I want. And, no,  they're not
letting him go."
"Quick, clean death,"  the old  jailer muttered,  grinning tooth-
lessly.  "Always  a  nice  crowd  gathered  to  watch, too.  Made a
man  feel  his  going  out  meant  something,  which  is  just what
Harry  Snaggle  said  to  me  as they  was marching  him off  to be
hung.  He  hoped  there  would  be  a  good  crowd  and  there was.
Brought a tear to his eye. 'All these people,' he says to me, 'giv-
ing up their holiday just  to come  give me  a sendoff.'  A gentle-
man to the end."
"He's  going  on the  block!" the  bear-skin man  said loudly,
ignoring the jailer.

"Quick, clean." The jailer shook his head.
"Well,"  Tas  said  dubiously,  "I'm  not  sure what  that means,
but if you're truly letting us out, perhaps Caramon can help."
The   kender  disappeared   from  the   window,  and   they  heard
him  yelling, "Caramon,  wake up!  They're wanting  to let  us out
and they can't get the  door open  and I'm  afraid it's  my fault,
well, partly -"
"You  realize  you've  got  to  take them  both," the  jailer said
cunningly.
"What?" The bear-skin man turned to glare at the jailer.
"That was never mentioned -"
"They're  to  be  sold  together.  Those are  my orders  and since
your orders and my orders come from the same place -"
"Is this in writing?" The man scowled.
"Of course." The jailer was smug.
"I'll lose money! Who'll buy a kender?"
The jailer shrugged. It was none of his concern.
The  bear-skin  man  opened  his  mouth  again,  then  shut  it as
another  face  appeared  framed in  the cell  door. It  wasn't the
kender's  this time.  It was  the face  of a  human, a  young man,
around  twenty-eight.  The  face  might   once  have   been  hand-
some,  but  now  the  strong  jawline  was  blurred with  fat, the
brown eyes were lackluster, the curly hair tangled and matted.
"How is Lady Crysania?" Caramon asked.
The bear-skin man blinked in confusion.
"Lady Crysania. They took her to the Temple," Caramon
repeated.
The jailer prodded the bear-skin man in the ribs. "You
know - the woman he beat up."
"I didn't touch her," Caramon said evenly. "Now, how is
she?"
"That's  none  of  your  concern,"  the  bear-skin  man  snapped,
suddenly  remembering  what  time  it  was.  "Are  you   a  lock-
smith?  The  kender  said  something  about  you  being  able  to
open the door."
"I'm not a locksmith," Caramon said, "but maybe I can open
it." His eyes went to the jailer. "If you don't mind it breaking?"
"Lock's broken now!" the jailer  said shrilly.  "Can't see  as you
could hurt it much worse unless you broke the door down."
"That's what I intend to do," Caramon said coolly.
"Break  the  door  down?"  the  jailer's  shrieked.  "You're daft!
Why -"

"Wait."  The  bear-skin  man  had  caught  a glimpse  of Cara-
mon's  shoulders  and  bull-like  neck through  the bars  in the
door. "Let's see this. If he does, I'll pay damages."
"You bet  you will!"  the jailer  jabbered. The  bear-skin man
glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and the jailer fell
silent.
Caramon closed his eyes  and drew  several deep  breaths, let-
ting each out slowly. The  bear-skin man  and the  jailer backed
away  from  the  door.  Caramon  disappeared  from  sight.  They
heard a grunt and then the  sound of  a tremendous  blow hitting
the  solid  wooden  door.  The  door  shuddered  on  its hinges,
indeed, even the stone walls seemed to shake  with the  force of
the  blow. But  the door  held. The  jailer, however,  backed up
another step, his mouth wide open.
There was  another grunt  from inside  the cell,  then another
blow. The door exploded with  such force  that the  only remain-
ing, recognizable pieces were the twisted hinges and the  lock -
still  fastened  securely  to  the   doorframe.  The   force  of
Caramon's  momentum  sent  him  flying  into the  corridor. Muf-
fled sounds of cheering  could be  heard from  surrounding cells
where other prisoners had their faces pressed to the bars.
"You'll pay for this!"  the jailer  squeaked at  the bear-skin
man.
"It's worth  every penny,"  the man  said, helping  Caramon to
his feet and dusting him off, eyeing him critically at  the same
time. "Been eating a bit too well, huh? Enjoy your  liquor, too,
I'll  bet?  Probably  what got  you in  here. Well,  never mind.
That's soon mended. Name's - Caramon?"
The big man nodded morosely.
"And  I'm Tasslehoff  Burrfoot," said  the kender,  stepping out
through  the broken  door and  extending his  hand again.  "I go
everywhere  with  him,  absolutely  everywhere. I  promised Tika
I would and -"
The  bear-skin  man was  writing something  down on  his slate
and only glanced at the kender absently. "Mmmmm, I see."
"Well, now," the kender continued, putting  his hand  into his
pocket with a sigh, "if you'd take these chains off our feet, it
would certainly be easier to walk."
"Wouldn't  it,"  the  bear-skin  man  murmured,  jotting  down
some  figures  on  the  slate.  Adding them  up, he  smiled. "Go
ahead," he instructed the jailer. "Get any others you've got for
me today."

The old man shuffled off, first casting a  vicious glance  at Tas
and Caramon.
"You two, sit over there by the  wall until  we're ready  to go,"
the bear-skin man ordered.
Caramon  crouched  down  on  the  floor,  rubbing  his  shoulder.
Tas sat next to him with a happy sigh. The  world outside  the jail
cell  looked  brighter  already.  Just  like  he'd  told  Caramon -
"Once  we're  out,  we'll  have a  chance! We've  got no  chance at
all, cooped up in here."
"Oh, by the way," Tas called after the  retreating figure  of the
jailer, "would you please see  that my  lockpick's returned  to me?
Sentimental value, you know."

"A  chance,  huh?"  Caramon said  to Tas  as the  blacksmith pre-
pared to bolt on the iron collar. It had taken a while to  find one
big enough, and Caramon was  the last  of the  slaves to  have this
sign  of  his  bondage  fastened  around  his  neck.  The  big  man
winced  in  pain  as  the smith  soldered the  bolt with  a red-hot
iron. There was a smell of burning flesh.
Tas  tugged  miserably  at  his  collar  and  winced  in sympathy
for Caramon's suffering. "I'm sorry," he said, snuffling. "I didn't
know  he  meant  'on  the  block'!  I  thought  he  said  'down the
block.' Like, we're going  to take  a walk  'down the  block.' They
talk kinda funny back here. Honestly, Caramon..."
"That's  all right,"  Caramon said  with a  sigh. "It's  not your
fault."
"But  it's  somebody's  fault,"  Tas said  reflectively, watching
with interest as the smith  slapped grease  over Caramon's  burn,
then  inspected  his  work  with  a  critical  eye.  More  than one
blacksmith  in Istar  had lost  his job  when a  slave-owner turned
up,   demanding   retribution   for   a   runaway  slave   who  had
slipped his collar.
"What  do  you mean?"  Caramon muttered  dully, his  face set-
tling into its resigned, vacant look.
"Well,"  Tas whispered,  with a  glance at  the smith,  "stop and
think.  Look  how  you  were   dressed  when   we  got   here.  You
looked just like a ruffian. Then  there was  that cleric  and those
guards  turning  up,  just like  they were  expecting us.  And Lady
Crysania, looking like she did."
"You're right," Caramon said, a gleam of life flickering in his
dull eyes. The gleam became a flash, igniting a smoldering fire.
"Raistlin,"  he  murmured.  "He  knows  I'm going  to try  and stop

him. He's done this!"
"I'm  not  so  sure,"  Tas  said after  some thought.  "I mean,
wouldn't he be more likely to just burn  you to  a crisp  or make
you into a wall hanging or somethirig like that?"
"No!"  Caramon  said,  and  Tas  saw  excitement  in  his eyes.
"Don't  you  see?  He  wants  me  back  here... to  do something.
He  wouldn't  murder  us.  That...  that dark  elf who  works for
him told us, remember?"
Tas  looked  dubious  and  started to  say something,  but just
then the blacksmith  pushed the  warrior to  his feet.  The bear-
skin  man,  who  had  been  peering in  at them  impatiently from
the  doorway  of the  smith's shop,  motioned to  two of  his own
personal slaves. Hurrying  inside, they  roughly grabbed  hold of
Caramon and Tas, shoving them  into line  with the  other slaves.
Two more slaves came  up and  began attaching  the leg  chains of
all the slaves together  until they  were strung  out in  a line.
Then - at a gesture from the  bear-skin man  - the  wretched liv-
ing chain of humans,  half-elves, and  two goblins  shuffled for-
ward.
They hadn't taken more than  three steps  before they  were all
immediately  tangled  up  by   Tasslehoff,  who   had  mistakenly
started off in the wrong direction.
After  much  swearing  and  a  few lashes  with a  willow stick
(first looking to see if any clerics  were about),  the bear-skin
man got  the line  moving. Tas  hopped about  trying to  get into
step.  It  was only  after the  kender was  twice dragged  to his
knees,  imperiling the  entire line  again, that  Caramon finally
wrapped  his  big arm  around his  waist, lifted  him up  - chain
and all - and carried him.
"That  was  kind  of fun,"  Tas commented  breathlessly. "Espe-
cially where I fell over. Did you see that man's face? I -"
"What did you mean, back there?" Caramon interrupted.
"What makes you think Raistlin's not behind this?"
Tas's  face  grew  unusually  serious  and  thoughtful.  "Cara-
mon,"  he  said  after a  moment, putting  his arms  around Cara-
mon's  neck  and  speaking  into his  ear to  be heard  above the
rattling of chains and the sounds of the city  streets. "Raistlin
must  have  been  awfully  busy,  what  with traveling  back here
and all. Why, it took Par-Salian days to cast that time-traveling
spell and he's a really powerful mage.  So it  must have  taken a
lot of Raistlin's energy. How  could he  have possibly  done that
and done this to us at the same time?"

"Well,"  Caramon  said,  frowning.  "If  he  didn't,   who  did?"
"What  about  -  Fistandantilus?"  Tas   whispered  dramatically.
Caramon sucked in his breath, his face grew dark.
"He  -  he's  a  really  powerful  wizard,"  Tas   reminded  him,
"and, well, you didn't make any  secret of  the fact  that you've
come back here to - uh - well, do him  in, so  to speak.  I mean,
you even said that right  in the  Tower of  High Sorcery.  And we
know  Fistandantilus  can  hang  around  in  the   Tower.  That's
where he met Raistlin, wasn't it? What if  he was  standing there
and heard you? I guess he'd be pretty mad."
"Bah! If  he's that  powerful, he  would have  just killed  me on
the spot!" Caramon scowled.
"No, he can't," Tas said firmly. "Look, I've got this all figured
out.  He  can't  murder  his own  pupil's brother.  Especially if
Raistlin's brought you back here for a reason. Why, for  all Fis-
tandantilus knows, Raistlin may love you, deep down inside."
Caramon's  face  paled,  and  Tas  immediately  felt  like biting
off his tongue.  "Anyway," he  went on  hurriedly, "he  can't get
rid of you right away. He's got to make it look good."
"So?"
"So  -"  Tas  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Well, they  don't execute
people  around  here,  but  they  apparently  have other  ways of
dealing  with  those  no  one wants  hanging around.  That cleric
and the jailer both  talked about  executions being  'easy' death
compared to what was going on now."
The  lash  of  a whip  across Caramon's  back ended  further con-
versation. Glaring furiously at the  slave who  had struck  him -
an  ingratiating,  sniveling  fellow,  who obviously  enjoyed his
work  -  Caramon  lapsed  into  gloomy  silence,   thinking  over
what  Tas  had told  him. It  certainly made  sense. He  had seen
how  much   power  and   concentration  Par-Salian   had  exerted
casting this difficult spell. Raistlin may  be powerful,  but not
like that! Plus, he was still weak physically.
Caramon  suddenly  saw  everything  quite  clearly.  Tasslehoff's
right! We're being set up.  Fistandantilus will  do away  with me
somehow and then explain my death to Raistlin as an accident.
Somewhere,  in  the  back  of  Caramon's mind,  he heard  a gruff
old dwarvish voice say, "I don't  know who's  the bigger  ninny -
you or that doorknob of a kender? If  either of  you make  it out
of this alive, I'll be  surprised!" Caramon  smiled sadly  at the
thought of his  old friend.  But Flint  wasn't here,  neither was
Tanis or anyone else who  could advise  him. He  and Tas  were on

their own  and, if  it hadn't  been for  the kender's  impetuous leap
into  the  spell,  he might  very well  have been  back here  by him-
self,   without   anyone!   That   thought   appalled   him.  Caramon
shivered.
"All this  means is  that I've  got to  get to  this Fistandantilus
before he gets to me," he said to himself softly.

The  great  spires  of  the  Temple  looked  down  on  city streets
kept scrupulously clean  - all  except the  back alleys.  The streets
were   thronged   with   people.   Temple   guards    roamed   about,
keeping  order,  standing  out  from  the  crowd  in  their  colorful
mantles   and   plumed   helms.   Beautiful   women   cast   admiring
glances  at  the  guards  from  the  corners  of  their eyes  as they
strolled  among  the  bazaars  and  shops,  their  fine  gowns sweep-
ing  the  pavement  as  they  moved.  There  was  one  place  in  the
city  the   women  didn't   go  near,   however,  though   many  cast
curious  glances  toward  it  -  the  part  of  the square  where the
slave market stood.
The  slave  market  was  crowded,  as  usual.  Auctions  were  held
once  a  week  -  one  reason  the  bear-skin man,  who was  the man-
ager,  had  been  so  eager  to  get  his  weekly quotient  of slaves
from  the  prisons.  Though  the  money  from  the  sales   of  pris-
oners  went  into the  public coffers,  the manager  got his  cut, of
course. This week looked particularly promising.
As  he  had  told  Tas, there  were no  longer executions  in Istar
or  parts  of Krynn  that it  controlled. Well,  few. The  Knights of
Solamnia  still  insisted  on  punishing  knights who  betrayed their
Order  in the  old barbaric  fashion -  slitting the  knight's throat
with  his  own  sword.  But  the   Kingpriest  was   counseling  with
the  Knights,  and  there  was  hope  that  soon  even  that  heinous
practice would be stopped.
Of  course,  the  halting  of  executions  in  Istar   had  created
another  problem  -  what  to  do  with   the  prisoners,   who  were
increasing  in  number  and  becoming  a  drain  on  the  public cof-
fers.  The  church,  therefore,  conducted  a  study. It  was discov-
ered   that   most   prisoners    were   indigent,    homeless,   and
penniless.  The  crimes  they  had  committed  -  thievery, burglary,
prostitution, and the like - grew out of this.
"Isn't it logical, therefore," said the Kingpriest to his ministers
on  the  day  he  made  the official  pronoucement, "that  slavery is
not  only  the  answer  to  the  problem   of  overcrowding   in  our
prisons  but  is  a  most  kind  and beneficent  way of  dealing with

these poor people, whose only crime is that they have been
caught in a web of poverty from which they cannot escape?
"Of course it  is. It  is our  duty, therefore,  to help  them. As
slaves,  they  will  be  fed and  clothed and  housed. They  will be
given everything  they lacked  that forced  them to  turn to  a life
of crime. We will see to it that they  are well-treated,  of course,
and  provide  that after  a certain  period of  servitude -  if they
have  done  well  -  they  may  purchase  their  own  freedom.  They
will then return to us as productive members of society."
The  idea  was  put  into effect  at once  and had  been practiced
for  about  ten  years  now.  There  had  been  problems.  But these
had  never  reached  the  attention  of  the  Kingpriest -  they had
not   been   serious   enough   to   demand   his   concern.  Under-
ministers  had  dealt  efficiently  with  them,  and now  the system
ran  quite  smoothly.  The  church  had  a  steady  income  from the
money  received  for  the  prison  slaves  (to  keep  them  separate
from   slaves   sold   by  private   concerns),  and   slavery  even
appeared to act as a deterrent from crime.
The   problems   that   had   arisen   concerned  two   groups  of
criminals  -  kenders   and  those   criminals  whose   crimes  were
particularly  unsavory.  It  was discovered  that it  was impossible
to sell a kender to anyone, and it was also difficult to sell a mur-
derer,  rapist,  the insane,  etc. The  solutions were  simple. Ken-
der were locked up  overnight and  then escorted  to the  city gates
(this resulted in  a small  procession every  morning). Institutions
had been created to handle the more obdurate type of criminal.
It  was  to the  dwarven head  of one  of these  institutions that
the   bear-skin   man   stood   talking  animatedly   that  morning,
pointing at  Caramon as  he stood  with the  other prisoners  in the
filthy,  foul-smelling  pen  behind  the  block,  and making  a dra-
matic motion of knocking a door down with his shoulder.
The  head  of  the institution  did not  seem impressed.  This was
not  unusual,  however.  He  had  learned,  long  ago, that  to seem
impressed  over  a prisoner  resulted in  the asking  price doubling
on  the  spot.  Therefore,  the  dwarf scowled  at Caramon,  spit on
the  ground,  crossed  his  arms  and, planting  his feet  firmly on
the pavement, glared up at the bear-skin man.
"He's  out  of  shape, too  fat. Plus  he's a  drunk, look  at his
nose."  The  dwarf  shook  his  head.  "And  he  doesn't  look mean.
What  did  you  say  he  did?  Assaulted   a  cleric?   Humpf!"  The
dwarf  snorted. "The  only thing  it looks  like he  could assault'd
be a wine jug!"

The bear-skin man was accustomed to this, of course.
"You'd  be  passing up  the chance  of a  lifetime, Rockbreaker,"
he  said  smoothly.  "You  should  have seen  him bash  that door
down. I've never seen  such strength  in any  man. Perhaps  he is
overweight, but that's easily cured. Fix  him up  and he'll  be a
heartthrob.  The  ladies'll  adore  him.  Look  at  those melting
brown eyes and  that wavy  hair." The  bear-skin man  lowered his
voice. "It would be a real shame to lose him  to the  mines.... I
tried to keep word of  what he  had done  quiet, but  Haarold got
wind of it, I'm afraid."
Both  the  bear-skin  man  and  the  dwarf  glanced  at  a human
standing  some  distance  away,  talking  and laughing  with sev-
eral of his burly guards.  The dwarf  stroked his  beard, keeping
his face impassive.
The  bear-skin  man  went on,  "Haarold's sworn  to have  him at
all costs. Says he'll get the work of two ordinary humans  out of
him.  Now,  you  being a  preferred customer,  I'll try  to swing
things your direction -"
"Let Haarold have him," growled the dwarf. "Fat slob."
But the bear-skin man saw the dwarf  regarding Caramon
with  a  speculative eye.  Knowing from  long experience  when to
talk  and  when to  keep quiet,  the bear-skin  man bowed  to the
dwarf and went on his way, rubbing his hands.
Overhearing  this  conversation,  and  seeing  the  dwarf's gaze
run over him like a man looks at  a prize  pig, Caramon  felt the
sudden,  wild desire  to break  out of  his bonds,  crash through
the pen where  he stood  caged, and  throttle both  the bear-skin
man  and  the  dwarf. Blood  hammered in  his brain,  he strained
against his bonds, the muscles in his arms rippled - a sight that
caused the  dwarf to  open his  eyes wide  and caused  the guards
standing around the  pen to  draw their  swords from  their scab-
bards. But Tasslehoff suddenly jabbed  him in  the ribs  with his
elbow.
"Caramon, look!" the kender said in excitement.
For  a  moment, Caramon  couldn't hear  over the  throbbing in
" his ears. Tas poked him again.
"Look, Caramon. Over there, at the edge of the crowd,
standing by himself. See?"
Caramon  drew  a  shaking  breath  and  forced himself  to calm
down.  He  looked  over  to  where the  kender was  pointing, and
suddenly the hot blood in his veins ran cold.
Standing on the  fringes of  the crowd  was a  black-robed fig-

ure. He stood alone.  Indeed, there  was even  a wide,  empty cir-
cle  around  him.  None  in  the  crowd came  near him.  Many made
detours, going  out of  their way  to avoid  coming close  to him.
No one spoke to him,  but all  were aware  of his  presence. Those
near  him,  who  had  been  talking  animatedly, fell  into uncom-
fortable silence, casting nervous glances his direction.
The  man's  robes  were  a  deep  black,  without ornamentation.
No silver thread glittered  on his  sleeves, no  border surrounded
the black hood he wore  pulled low  over his  face. He  carried no
staff,  no  familiar  walked  by  his side.  Let other  mages wear
runes  of  warding and  protection, let  other mages  carry staves
of  power  or  have  animals  do  their  bidding. This  man needed
none. His  power sprang  from within  - so  great, it  had spanned
the centuries, spanned even planes of existence. It could be felt,
it shimmered around him like the heat from the smith's furnace.
He was tall  and well-built,  the black  robes fell  from shoul-
ders that were slender but muscular.  His white  hands -  the only
parts of his body  that were  visible -  were strong  and delicate
and  supple.  Though  so  old  that  few  on  Krynn  could venture
even to guess his age, he had the  body of  one young  and strong.
Dark  rumors  told  how  he used  his magic  arts to  overcome the
debilities of age.
And  so  he  stood alone,  as if  a black  sun had  been dropped
into the courtyard. Not even the glitter of his eyes could be seen
within the dark depths of his hood.
"Who's  that?"  Tas  asked  a fellow  prisoner conversationally,
nodding at the black-robed figure.
"Don't you know?" the prisoner said nervously, as if reluc-
tant to reply.
"I'm from out of town," Tas apologized.
"Why,  that's  the Dark  One -  Fistandantilus. You've  heard of
him, I suppose?"
"Yes," Tas said, glancing at Caramon as  much as  to say  I told
you so! "We've heard of him."

_CHAPTER 4_

When Crysania first
awakened from the spell Paladine had cast upon  her, she  was in
such  a  state of  bewilderment and  confusion that  the clerics
were greatly concerned,  fearing her  ordeal had  unbalanced her
mind.
She  spoke  of  Palanthas,  so  they  assumed  she   must  come
from  there.  But  she called  continually for  the Head  of her
Order - someone named  Elistan. The  clerics were  familiar with
the Heads of all the Orders on  Krynn and  this Elistan  was not
known. But she was so insistent that there  was, at  first, some
fear  that  something might  have happened  to the  current Head
in Palanthas. Messengers were hastily dispatched.
Then,  too,  Crysania  spoke  of a  Temple in  Palanthas, where
no Temple existed. Finally  she talked  quite wildly  of dragons
and the "return of the gods," which caused those  in the  room -
Quarath and Elsa, head  of the  Revered Daughters  - to  look at
each other in horror and  make the  signs of  protection against
blasphemy.   Crysania   was  given   an  herbal   potion,  which
calmed her, and eventually she fell asleep. The two  stayed with
her for long moments after she slept, discussing her case in low
voices. Then the Kingpriest  entered the  room, coming  to allay

their fears.
"I cast an augury," said the musical voice, "and was told that
Paladine called her to him to protect her from  a spell  of evil
magic that had been used  upon her.  I don't  believe any  of us
find that difficult to doubt."
Quarath  and  Elsa  shook  their  head,   exchanging  knowing
glances.  The  Kingpriest's  hatred  of  magic-users  was  well
known.
"She has been with  Paladine, therefore,  living in  that won-
drous realm which we seek to recreate  upon this  soil. Undoubt-
edly, while there, she was  given knowledge  of the  future. She
speaks of a beautiful Temple being built  in Palanthas.  Have we
not plans to build such a Temple? She talks of this Elistan, who
is probably some cleric destined to rule there."
"But... dragons, return of the gods?" murmured Elsa.
"As to the dragons," the  Kingpriest said  in a  voice radiating
warmth  and  amusement,  "that  is  probably  some  tale  of her
childhood that haunted her in her illness, or perhaps  had some-
thing to do with the spell cast upon her by the magic-user." His
voice became stern. "It is said, you know, that the wizards have
the power to make people see that which does  not exist.  As for
her talk of the 'return of the gods'..."
The  Kingpriest  was  silent  for  a  moment.  When  he  spoke
again, it was with a  hushed and  breathless quality.  "You two,
my closest advisors, know  of the  dream in  my heart.  You know
that someday - and that day is fast approaching -  I will  go to
the gods and demand their help to fight the  evil that  is still
present among us.  On that  day, Paladine  himself will  heed my
prayers. He will come to stand at my side, and together  we will
battle the darkness until it is forever vanquished! This is what
she has foreseen! This is what she means by  the 'return  of the
gods!' "
Light filled the room, Elsa whispered a prayer, and even
Quarath lowered his eyes.
"Let her sleep," said the Kingpriest. "She  will be  better by
morning. I will mention her in my prayers to Paladine."
He left the room  and it  grew darker  with his  passing. Elsa
stood looking after him in silence.  Then, as  the door  shut to
Crysania's chamber, the elven woman turned to Quarath.
"Does  he  have the  power?" Elsa  asked her  male counterpart
as he  stood staring  thoughtfully at  Crysania. "Does  he truly
intend to do... what he spoke of doing?"

"What?"  Quarath's  thoughts  had  been  far  away.  He glanced
after  the Kingpriest.  "Oh, that?  Of course  he has  the power.
You  saw  how  he  healed this  young woman.  And the  gods speak
to him through the augury,  or so  he claims.  When was  the last
time you healed someone, Revered Daughter?"
"Then you believe all that about Paladine  taking her  soul and
letting her see the future?" Elsa  appeared amazed.  "You believe
he truly healed her?"
"I believe  there is  something very  strange about  this young
woman  and  about  those  two  who came  with her,"  Quarath said
gravely. "I will take care of them. You  keep an  eye on  her. As
for  the  Kingpriest"  - Quarath  shrugged -  "let him  call down
the power of the gods. If they come down to fight for  him, fine.
If not, it doesn't matter to  us. We  know who  does the  work of
the gods on Krynn."
"I  wonder,"  remarked  Elsa,  smoothing  Crysania's  dark hair
back from her slumbering  face. "There  was a  young girl  in our
Order who  had the  power of  true healing.  That young  girl who
was seduced by the Solamnic knight. What was his name?"
"Soth,"  said  Quarath.  "Lord  Soth, of  Dargaard Keep.  Oh, I
don't doubt it.  You occasionally  find some,  particularly among
the very young  or the  very old,  who have  the power.  Or think
they do. Frankly, I am convinced most of it is simply a result of
people wanting to believe in  something so  badly that  they con-
vince themselves it is true. Which doesn't hurt any of  us. Watch
this young woman closely, Elsa.  If she  continues to  talk about
such things in the morning, after she is  recovered, we  may need
to take drastic measures. But, for now -"
He  fell  silent.  Elsa  nodded. Knowing  that the  young woman
would sleep soundly under the  influence of  the potion,  the two
of them left Crysania alone, asleep in a room  in the  great Tem-
ple of Istar.
Crysania  woke the  next morning  feeling as  if her  head were
stuffed with cotton. There was a  bitter taste  in her  mouth and
she was terribly thirsty. Dizzily,  she sat  up, trying  to piece
together  her  thoughts.  Nothing  made  any  sense.  She  had  a
vague,  horrifying  memory  of  a  ghastly  creature  from beyond
the grave approaching  her. Then  she had  been with  Raistlin in
the  Tower  of  High  Sorcery,  and  then a  dim memory  of being
surrounded  by  mages  dressed  in  white,  red,  and  black,  an
impression of singing  stones, and  a feeling  of having  taken a
long journey.

She  also had  a memory  of awakening  and finding  herself in
the  presence  of  a  man  whose  beauty had  been overpowering,
whose voice filled her mind and her soul with peace. But he said
he was the  Kingpriest and  that she  was in  the Temple  of the
Gods in Istar. That made no sense at  all. She  remembered call-
ing for Elistan, but no  one seemed  to have  heard of  him. She
told them  about him  - how  he was  healed by  Goldmoon, cleric
of Mishakal, how he led the fight against the evil  dragons, and
how he was telling the people about the return of the  gods. But
her words only made the clerics regard her with pity  and alarm.
Finally, they gave her an odd-tasting  potion to  drink, and.she
had fallen asleep.
Now she was still confused  but determined  to find  out where
she  was  and  what  was  happening.  Getting  out  of  bed, she
forced herself to wash as she  did every  morning, then  she sat
down at the  strange-looking dressing  table and  calmly brushed
and braided her long, dark hair. The  familiar routine  made her
feel more relaxed.
She  even  took  time  to  look  around  the bedroom,  and she
couldn't help but admire its  beauty and  splendor. But  she did
think, however, that it seemed rather out of  place in  a Temple
devoted to the gods, if that was truly where  she was.  Her bed-
room in  her parent's  home in  Palanthas had  not been  half so
splendid,  and  it had  been furnished  with every  luxury money
could buy.
Her  mind  went  suddenly to  what Raistlin  had shown  her -
the  poverty  and  want  so near  the Temple  - and  she flushed
uncomfortably.
"Perhaps  this  is a  guest room,"  Crysania said  to herself,
speaking out loud, finding the familiar sound  of her  own voice
comforting. "After all, the guest  rooms in  our new  Temple are
certainly designed to make our guests comfortable. Still"  - she
frowned, her gaze going to a  costly golden  statue of  a dryad,
holding a candle in her golden hands - "that is  extravagant. It
would feed a family for months."
How thankful she  was he  couldn't see  this! She  would speak
to the  Head of  this Order,  whoever he  was. (Surely  she must
have been mistaken, thinking he said he was the Kingpriest!)
Having made up  her mind  to action,  feeling her  head clear,
Crysania  removed  the night  clothes she  had been  wearing and
put on the white robes she found laid out neatly at the  foot of
her bed.

What  quaint,  old-fashioned   robes,  she   noticed,  slipping
them over  her head.  Not at  all like  the plain,  austere white
robes  worn  by  those  of  her  Order  in Palanthas.  These were
heavily  decorated.  Golden  thread sparkled  on the  sleeves and
hem,  crimson  and  purple  ribbon  ornamented  the front,  and a
heavy golden belt gathered  the folds  around her  slender waist.
More extravagance. Crysania bit her lip  in displeasure,  but she
also took a peep at herself in a gilt-framed mirror. It certainly
was  becoming,  she  had  to  admit, smoothing  the folds  of the
gown.
It was then that she felt the note in her pocket.
Reaching inside, she pulled out a  piece of  rice paper  that had
been  folded into  quarters. Staring  at it  curiously, wondering
idly if the owner of the robes had left it  by accident,  she was
startled to see it addressed to herself. Puzzled, she opened it.

Lady Crysania,
I knew you intended to seek my help in returning to the past
in an effort to prevent the young  mage, Raistlin,  from carrying
out the evil he plots.  Upon your  way to  us, however,  you were
attacked  by  a  death knight.  To save  you, Paladine  took your
soul  to  his  heavenly dwelling.  There are  none among  us now,
even Elistan himself, who can  bring you  back. Only  those cler-
ics living at the time of the Kingpriest have  this power.  So we
have sent you back in time to Istar, right before  the Cataclysm,
in the company  of Raistlin's  brother, Caramon.  We send  you to
fulfill a twofold purpose. First,  to heal  you of  your grievous
wound  and,  second,  to  allow  you  to try  to succeed  in your
efforts to save the young mage from himself.
If, in this, you  see the  workings of  the gods,  perhaps then
you  may  consider  your  efforts blessed.  I would  counsel only
this - that the gods work in  ways strange  to mortal  men, since
we can see only  that part  of the  picture being  painted around
us. I had hoped to discuss this with  you personally,  before you
left, but that proved impossible. I can only  caution you  of one
thing - beware of Raistlin.
You are virtuous, steadfast in  your faith,  and proud  of both
your  virtue and  your faith.  This is  a deadly  combination, my
dear. He will take full advantage of it.
Remember this, too. You and Caramon have gone back in
dangerous times. The days of the Kingpriest are numbered.
Caramon is on a mission that could prove  dangerous to  his life.

But  you,  Crysania, are  in danger  of both  your life  and your
so®1. I foresee that you will be forced to choose - to  save one,
you  must  give  up the  other. There  are many  ways for  you to
leave  this time  period, one  of which  is through  Caramon. May
Paladine be with you.
Par-Salian
Order of the White Robes
The Tower of High Sorcery
Wayreth

Crysania  sank  down  on   the  bed,   her  knees   giving  way
beneath her.  The hand  that held  the letter  trembled. Dazedly,
she stared at it, reading  it over  and over  without comprehend-
ing  the words.  After a  few moments,  however, she  grew calmer
and forced herself  to go  over each  word, reading  one sentence
at a time until she was certain she had grasped the meaning.
This  took  nearly  a half  hour of  reading and  pondering. At
last she believed she  understood. Or  at least  most of  it. The
memory  of  why she  had been  journeying to  the Forest  of Way-
reft  returned.  So, Par-Salian  had known.  He had  been expect-
ing her. All the better. And  he was  right -  the attack  by the
death  knight  had  obviously  been  an  example   of  Paladine's
intervention, insuring that she come  back here  to the  past. As
for that remark about her faith and her virtue - !
Crysania rose  to her  feet. Her  pale face  was fixed  in firm
resolve, there was a faint spot of color in  each cheek,  and her
eyes glittered  in anger.  She was  only sorry  she had  not been
able to confront him with that in person! How dare he?
Her lips drawn into a tight,  straight line,  Crysania refolded
the note, drawing her fingers  across it  swiftly, as  though she
would like to tear it apart. A small golden box - the kind of box
used by ladies of the court to hold their jewelry - stood  on the
dressing table beside the gilt-edged mirror and the  brush. Pick-
ing up the box, Crysania withdrew  the small  key from  the lock,
thrust the letter inside, and snapped the lid shut.  She inserted
the key, twisted it, and heard the lock  click. Dropping  the key
into the pocket  where she  had found  the note,  Crysania looked
once more into the mirror.
She smoothed the black  hair back  from her  face, drew  up the
hood  of  her robe,  and draped  it over  her head.  Noticing the
flush on her cheeks, Crysania forced herself to relax,  allow her
anger  to  seep away.  The old  mage meant  well, after  all, she

reminded  herself.  And how  could one  of magic  possibly under-
stand one of faith? She could  rise above  petty anger.  She was,
after all, hovering on the edge of her moment of  greatness. Pal-
adine  was with  her. She  could almost  sense his  presence. And
the man she had met was truly the Kingpriest!
She  smiled,  remembering  the  feeling  of  goodness   he  had
inspired.  How  could  he  have  been  responsible for  the Cata-
clysm?  No, her  soul refused  to believe  it. History  must have
maligned him. True, she had  been with  him for  only a  few sec-
onds, but  a man  so beautiful,  so good  and holy  - responsible
for such death and  destruction? It  was impossible!  Perhaps she
would be able  to vindicate  him. Perhaps  that was  another rea-
son Paladine had sent her back here - to discover the truth!
Joy  filled  Crysania's soul.  And, at  that moment,  she heard
her joy answered, it seemed, in the pealing of the  bells ringing
for Morning Prayers.  The beauty  of the  music brought  tears to
her  eyes.  Her  heart  bursting  with excitement  and happiness,
Crysania  left  her  room  and hurried  out into  the magnificent
corridors, nearly running into Elsa.
"In  the  name of  the gods,"  exclaimed Elsa  in astonishment,
"can it be possible? How are you feeling?"
"I  am feeling  much better,  Revered Daughter,"  Crysania said
in  some  confusion,  remembering  that what  they had  heard her
say  earlier  must  have seemed  to be  wild and  incoherent ram-
blings. "As-as though  I had  awakened from  a strange  and vivid
dream."
"Paladine  be  praised,"  murmured  Elsa,   regarding  Crysania
with narrowed eyes and a sharp, penetrating gaze.
"I have not neglected to do so, you may be certain,"  said Cry-
sania sincerely. In her own joy, she did not notice the  elf wom-
an's odd look. "Were you going  to Morning  Prayers'? If  so, may
I  accompany  you?" She  looked around  the splendid  building in
awe. "I fear it will be some time before I learn my way around."
"Of course," Elsa  said, recovering  herself. "This  way." They
started back down the corridor.
"I was also concerned about the - the young man who was
. . . was found with me," Crysania stammered, suddenly
remembering she knew very little about the circumstances
regarding her appearance in this time.
Elsa's face grew cold and stern. "He is where he will be well
cared for, my dear. Is he a friend of yours?"
"No,  of course  not," Crysania  said quickly,  remembering her

last  encounter  with  the  drunken  Caramon.'"He  -  he  was  my
escort.  Hired  escort," she  stammered, realizing  suddenly that
she was very poor at lying.
"He is at the School of the Games," Elsa replied. "It  would be
possible to send him a message, if you are concerned."
Crysania  had  no  idea  what  this  school  was,  and  she was
afraid  to  ask too  many more  questions. Thanking  Elsa, there-
fore, she let the matter drop, her mind at ease. At least now she
knew  where  Caramon  was  and  that he  was safe.  Feeling reas-
sured,  knowing that  she had  a way  back to  her own  time, she
allowed herself to relax completely.
"Ah,  look,  my  dear,"  Elsa  said,  "here  comes  another to
inquire after your health."
"Revered  Son."   Crysania  bowed   in  reverence   as  Quarath
came up to the two  women. Thus  she missed  his swift  glance of
inquiry at Elsa and the elfwoman's slight nod.
"I  am  overjoyed  to  see  you up  and around,"  Quarath said,
taking  Crysania's  hand  and  speaking  with  such  feeling  and
warmth  that  the  young  woman   flushed  with   pleasure.  "The
Kingpriest  spent  the night  in prayer  for your  recovery. This
proof of his  faith and  power will  be extremely  gratifying. We
will present you to  him formally  this evening.  But, now"  - he
interrupted  whatever  Crysania  had been  about to  say -  "I am
keeping you from Prayers. Please, do not let  me detain  you fur-
ther."
Bowing  to  them  both  with  exquisite  grace,  Quarath walked
past, heading down the corridor.
"Isn't he attending  services?" Crysania  asked, her  gaze fol-
lowing the cleric.
"No, my dear," Elsa  said, smiling  at Crysania's  naivete, "he
attends the Kingpriest in his own  private ceremonies  early each
morning. Quarath  is, after  all, second  only to  the Kingpriest
and has matters of great importance  to deal  with each  day. One
might say that, if the Kingpriest is  the heart  and soul  of the
church, Quarath is the brain."
"My,  how  odd,"  murmured  Crysania,  her  thoughts  on Elis-
tan.
"Odd,  my  dear?"  Elsa  said, with  a slightly  reproving air.
"The  Kingpriest's  thoughts  are  with  the  gods. He  cannot be
expected  to  deal with  such mundane  matters as  the day-to-day
business of the church, can he'?"
"Oh, of course not." Crysania flushed in embarrassment.

How  provincial  she  must  seem  to  these people;  how simple
and  backward.  As  she followed  Elsa down  the bright  and airy
halls, the beautiful music of the bells and the glorious sound of
a children's choir filled  her very  soul with  ecstasy. Crysania
remembered  the  simple  service  Elistan  held   every  morning.
And he still did most of the work of the church himself!
That  simple  service  seemed  shabby  to  her  now,  Elistan's
work  demeaning. Certainly  it had  taken a  toll on  his health.
Perhaps, she thought with  a pang  of regret,  he might  not have
shortened his own life if he had been  surrounded by  people like
these to help him.
Well, that  would change,  Crysania resolved  suddenly, realiz-
ing  that  this  must  be another  reason why  she had  been sent
back - she had been chosen to  restore the  glory of  the church!
Trembling in  excitement, her  mind already  busy with  plans for
change, Crysania  asked Elsa  to describe  the inner  workings of
the church heirarchy. Elsa was only too glad  to expand  upon it
as the two continued down the corridor.
Lost in her interest in the  conversation, attentive  to Elsa's
every   word,   Crysania   thought  no   more  of   Quarath,  who
was  - at  that moment  - quietly  opening the  door to  her bed-
room and slipping inside.

_CHAPTER 5_

Quarath     found    the
letter  from  Par-Salian  within  a  matter  of  moments.  He  had
noticed,  almost  immediately  on  entering,  that the  golden box
that  stood  on  top  of  the  dressing  table  had been  moved. A
quick search  of the  drawers revealed  it and,  since he  had the
master  key  to  the locks  of every  box and  drawer and  door in
the Temple, he opened it easily.
The  letter  itself, however,  was not  so easily  understood by
the  cleric.  It  took him  only seconds  to absorb  its contents.
These  would  remain  imprinted  on   his  mind;   Quarath's  phe-
nomenal  ability  to  memorize  instantly  anything  he  saw being
one of his greatest gifts. So it was that he had the complete text
of the letter locked in his mind within seconds. But, he realized,
it would take hours of pondering to make sense of it.
Absently,  Quarath  folded the  parchment and  put it  back into
the box, then returned the box  to its  exact position  within the
drawer.  He  locked  it with  the key,  glanced through  the other
drawers without much interest, and  - finding  nothing -  left the
young woman's room, lost in thought.
So perplexing  and disturbing  were the  contents of  the letter
that he  cancelled his  appointments for  that morning  or shifted

them onto the shoulders of underlings. Then he went to his
study. Here he sat, recalling each word, each phrase.
At last, he had it figured out - if not to his complete satisfac-
tion, then, at least,  enough to  allow him  to determine  a course
of  action.  Three  things  were  apparent.  One,  the  young woman
might  be  a  cleric,  but  she was  involved with  magic-users and
was,  therefore,  suspect.  Two,  the  Kingpriest  was  in  danger.
That  was  not  surprising,  the  magic-users  had  good  reason to
hate  and  fear  the  man.  Three,  the  young  man  who  had  been
found  with  Crysania  was,  undoubtedly,  an  assassin.  Crysania,
herself might be an accomplice.
Quarath   smiled   grimly,   congratulating  himself   on  having
already  taken  appropriate measures  to deal  with the  threat. He
had  seen  to  it  that  the  young  man  -  Caramon  was  his name
apparently  - was  serving his  time in  a place  where unfortunate
accidents occurred from time to time.
As for  Crysania, she  was safely  within the  walls of  the Tem-
ple where she could be watched and subtly interrogated.
Breathing easier, his mind clearing, the cleric rang for the ser-
vant to  bring his  lunch, thankful  to know  that, for  the moment
at least, the Kingpriest was safe.
Quarath  was  an  unusual  man  in many  respects, not  the least
of  which was  that, though  highly ambitious,  he knew  the limits
of his own abilities. He needed  the Kingpriest,  he had  no desire
to take his place. Quarath was content to bask in the light  of his
master,  all  the  while  extending his  own control  and authority
and power over the world - all in the name of the church.
And,  as  he  extended  his  own  authority,  so he  extended the
power of his race. Imbued with  a sense  of their  superiority over
all others, as well as with a sense of  their own  innate goodness,
the elves were a moving force behind the church.
It was unfortunate, Quarath felt, that the gods  had seen  fit to
create  other,  weaker  races.  Races  such as  humans, who  - with
their short and frantic lives - were easy  targets for  the tempta-
tions of evil. But the elves were  learning to  deal with  this. If
they  could  not completely  wipe out  the evil  in the  world (and
they were working on it), then they could at  least bring  it under
control.  It  was  freedom  that  brought about  evil -  freedom of
choice.  Especially to  humans, who  continually abused  this gift.
Give them  strict rules  to follow,  make it  clear what  was right
and  what  was  wrong  in  no uncertain  terms, restrict  this wild
freedom   that   they   misused.   Thus,   Quarath   believed,  the

humans would fall in line. They would be content.
As  for  the  other  races  on  Krynn,  gnomes and  dwarves and
(sigh)  kender,  Quarath  (and  the  church)  was  rapidly forcing
them into small, isolated territories where they could  cause lit-
tle  trouble and  would, in  time, probably  die out.  '(This plan
was  working   well  with   the  gnomes   and  the   dwarves,  who
hadn't  much  use  for  the rest  of Krynn  anyhow. Unfortunately,
however, the kender didn't take to it at all  and were  still hap-
pily  wandering about  the world,  causing no  end of  trouble and
enjoying life thoroughly.)
All of this passed through Quarath's  mind as  he ate  his lunch
and  began  to  make  his  plans.  He  would  do nothing  in haste
about this Lady Crysania. That  was not  his way,  nor the  way of
the elves, for that matter. Patience in  all things.  Watch. Wait.
He  needed  only  one  thing  now,  and  that  was  more  informa-
tion. To this end, he  rang a  small golden  bell. The  young aco-
lyte  who  had  taken  Denubis  to  the  Kingpriest   appeared  so
swiftly  and quietly  at the  summons that  he might  have slipped
beneath the door instead of opening it.
"What is your bidding, Revered Son?"
"Two  small  tasks,"  Quarath  said  without looking  up, being
engaged in writing a note.  "Take this  to Fistandantilus.  It has
been some time since he was my guest  at dinner,  and I  desire to
talk with him."
"Fistandantilus is  not here,  my lord,"  said the  acolyte. "In
fact, I was on my way to report this to you."
Quarath raised his head in astonishment.
"Not here?"
"No,  Revered  Son. He  left last  night, or  so we  suppose. At
least that was  the last  anyone saw  of him.  His room  is empty,
his things gone. It is believed, from certain things he said, that
he  has  gone  to  the  Tower  of High  Sorcery at  Wayreth. Rumor
has  it  that  the wizards  are holding  a Conclave  there, though
none know for certain."
"A  Conclave,"  Quarath  repeated,  frowning.  He  was  silent a
moment,  tapping  the  paper with  the tip  of the  quill. Wayreth
was  faraway...  still, perhaps  it was  not far  enough.... Cata-
clysm... that odd word  that had  been used  in the  letter. Could
it be possible that the magic-users  were plotting  some devastat-
ing  catastrophe? Quarath  felt chilled.  Slowly, he  crumpled the
invitation he had been penning.
"Have his movements been traced?"

"Of  course,  Revered  Son.  As  much as  is possible  with him.
He  has not  left the  Temple for  months, apparently.  Then, yes-
terday, he was seen in the slave market."
"The  slave market?"  Quarath felt  the chill  spread throughout
his body. "What business did he have there?"
"He bought two slaves, Revered Son."
Quarath said nothing, interrogating the cleric with a look.
"He  did  not  purchase the  slaves himself,  my lord.  The pur-
chase was made through one of his agents."
"Which slaves?" Quarath knew the answer.
"The  ones  that  were  accused of  assaulting the  female cleric,
Revered Son."
"I gave orders  that those  two were  to be  sold either  to the
dwarf or the mines."
"Barak did  his best  and, indeed,  the dwarf  bid for  them, my
lord.  But the  Dark One's  agents outbid  him. There  was nothing
Barak  could do.  Think of  the scandal.  Besides, his  agent sent
them to the school anyway -"
"Yes," Quarath muttered. So, it was all falling into place. Fis-
tandantilus  had  even  had  the  temerity  to purchase  the young
man,  the  assassin!  Then  he  had  vanished.  Gone   to  report,
undoubtedly.  But  why  should  the  mages bother  with assassins?
Fistandantilus  himself  could  have  murdered  the  Kingpriest on
countless  occasions.  Quarath   had  the   unpleasant  impression
that  he  had  inadvertently  walked  from  a  clear, well-lighted
path into a dark and treacherous forest.
He sat in troubled silence for  so long  that the  young acolyte
cleared  his throat  as a  subtle reminder  of his  presence three
times before the cleric noticed him.
"You had another task for me, Revered Son?"
Quarath  nodded  slowly. "Yes,  and this  news makes  this task
even  more  important.  I  wish  you to  undertake it  yourself. I
must talk to the dwarf."
The  acolyte  bowed  and  left.  There  was no  need to  ask who
Quarath meant - there was only one dwarf in Istar.

Just  who  Arack  Rockbreaker  was  or  where  he  came  from no
one  knew.  He  never  made  reference to  his past  and generally
scowled so ferociously if this subject  came up  that it  was usu-
ally  immediately  dropped. There  were several  interesting spec-
ulations  concerning  this,  the  favorite  being  that he  was an
outcast   from  Thorbardin   -  ancient   home  of   the  mountain

dwarves,   where  he   had  committed   some  crime   resulting  in
exile.  Just  what  that  might  have  been, no  one knew.  Nor did
anyone  take  into  account  the fact  that dwarves  never punished
any crime by exile; execution being considered more humane.
Other  rumors  insisted  he  was  actually  a Dewar  - a  race of
evil  dwarves  nearly  exterminated  by   their  cousins   and  now
driven  to  living  a  wretched, embittered  existence in  the very
bowels  of  the  world.  Though Arack  didn't particularly  look or
act  like a  Dewar, this  rumor was  popular due  to the  fact that
Arack's  favorite  (and   only)  companion   was  an   ogre.  Other
rumor  had  it that  Arack didn't  even come  from Ansalon  at all,
but from somewhere over the sea.
Certainly,  he  was  the  meanest  looking  of  his  race  anyone
could  remember  seeing.  The  jagged scars  that crossed  his face
vertically  gave  him  a  perpetual  scowl. He  was not  fat, there
wasn't  a  wasted  ounce  on  his  frame. He  moved with  the grace
of a feline and, when  he stood,  planted his  feet so  firmly that
they seemed part of the ground itself.
Wherever  he  came  from,  Arack  had  made  Istar  his  home for
so  many  years  now  that the  subject of  his origin  rarely came
up.  He  and  the  ogre,  whose  name  was Raag,  had come  for the
Games  in  the  old  days  when  the  Games  had  been  real.  They
immediately  became  great  favorites  with  the crowds.  People in
Istar  still  told  how Raag  and Arack  defeated the  mighty mino-
taur,  Darmoork,  in  three  rounds.   It  started   when  Darmoork
hurled the dwarf clear out of the arena. Raag, in a berserk  fit of
anger, lifted the minotaur off his feet and - ignoring several ter-
rible  stab  wounds  -  impaled  him  upon  the huge  Freedom Spire
in the center of the ring.
Though  neither  the  dwarf  (who  survived  only  by   the  fact
that  a  cleric  had  been standing  in the  street when  the dwarf
sailed over the arena wall and landed practically at his  feet) nor
the  ogre won  his freedom  that day,  there was  no doubt  who had
been  winner  of  the  contest.  (Indeed, it  was many  days before
anyone reached  the Golden  Key on  the Spire,  since it  took that
long to remove the remains of the minotaur.)
Arack  related  the  gruesome details  of this  fight to  his two
new slaves.
"That's  how  I got  this old  cracked face  of mine,"  the dwarf
said  to  Caramon  as he  led the  big man  and the  kender through
the  streets  of  Istar.  "And  that's  how  me  and Raag  made our
name in the Games."

"What  games?"  asked  Tas,  stumbling  over  his   chains  and
sprawling flat on his face, to the great delight of the  crowd in
the market place.
Arack scowled in irritation. "Take those durn things  off 'im,"
he  ordered  the  gigantic, yellow-skinned  ogre, who  was acting
as  guard.  "I  guess  you  won't  run off  and leave  yer friend
behind, will you?" The dwarf studied Tas intently. "No,  I didn't
think so. They said you had  a chance  to run  away once  and you
didn't.  Just mind  you don't  run away  on me!"  Arack's natural
scowl deepened. "I'd  have never  bought a  kender, but  I didn't
have much  choice. They  said you  two was  to be  sold together.
Just remember that -  as far  as I'm  concerned -  yer worthless.
Now, what fool question was you asking?"
"How are you  going to  get the  chains off?  Don't you  need a
key?  Oh -"  Tas watched  in delighted  astonishment as  the ogre
took the chains in  either hand  and, with  a quick  jerk, yanked
them apart.
"Did  you  see  that, Caramon?"  Tas asked  as the  ogre picked
him up and set him on  his feet,  giving him  a push  that nearly
sent the kender into the dirt again. "He's really strong! I never
met  an  ogre  before.  What was  I saying?  Oh, the  games. What
games?"
"Why, the Games!" Arack snapped in exasperation.
Tas  glanced  up  at  Caramon,  but the  big man  shrugged and
shook   his   head,  frowning.   This  was   obviously  something
everyone  knew  about  here.  Asking  too  many  questions  would
seem suspicious. Tas cast about  in his  mind, dragging  up every
memory  and  every  story  he  had ever  heard about  the ancient
days  before  the  Cataclysm.  Suddenly  he  caught  his  breath.
"The Games!" he said to  Caramon, forgetting  the dwarf  was lis-
tening. "The great Games of Istar! Don't you remember?"
Caramon's face grew grim.
"You mean that's where we're going?" Tas turned to the
dwarf, his eyes wide. "We're  going to  be gladiators?  And fight
in  the  arena,  with the  crowd watching  and all!  Oh, Caramon,
think of it! The great Games of Istar! Why I've heard stories -"
"So have I," the big man said slowly, "and  you can  forget it,
dwarf. I've killed men before,  I admit  - but  only when  it was
my life or theirs. I never enjoyed killing. I can still see their
faces, sometimes, at night. I won't murder for sport!"
He said this so sternly that Raag glanced questioningly  at the
dwarf and raised his club slightly, an eager look on  his yellow,

warty face. But Arack glared at him and shook his head.
Tas was regarding Caramon with new respect.  "I never
thought of that," the kender said softly. "I guess  you're right,
Caramon."  He  turned  to  the  dwarf  again. "I'm  really sorry,
Arack, but we won't be able to fight for you."
Arack cackled. "You'll fight.  Why? Because  it's the  only way
to get that collar off yer neck, that's why."
Caramon shook his head stubbornly. "I won't kill -"
The  dwarf  snorted.  "Where  have  you two  been living?  At the
bottom of the Sirrion? Or are  they all  as dumb  as you  in Sol-
ace? No one fights to kill  in the  arena anymore."  Arack's eyes
grew misty.  He rubbed  them with  a sigh.  "Those days  are gone
for good, more's the pity. It's all fake."
"Fake?"  Tas  repeated  in  astonishment.  Caramon  glowered at
the dwarf and said nothing, obviously not believing a word.
"There hasn't been a real, true fight in the  old arena  in ten
years," Arack avowed. "It all started with the elves" - the dwarf
spat on the ground.  "Ten years  ago, the  elven clerics  - curse
them   to   the  Abyss   where  they   belong  -   convinced  the
Kingpriest to put  an end  to the  Games. Called  'em 'barbaric'!
Barbaric, hah!" The dwarf's scowl  twisted into  a snarl,  then -
once more - he sighed and shook his head.
"All the great gladiators left," Arack said wistfully, his eyes
looking back to that glorious  time. "Danark  the Hobgoblin  - as
vicious  a fighter  as you'll  ever come  across. And  Old Josepf
One-Eye.   Remember   him,   Raag?"   The   ogre   nodded  sadly.
"Claimed  he was  a Knight  of Solamnia,  old Josepf  did. Always
fought in full battle armor. They all left, except me  and Raag."
A  gleam  appeared  deep  in  the dwarf's  cold eyes.  "We didn't
have nowhere to go, you see, and besides - I had a kind  of feel-
ing that the Games weren't over. Not yet."
Arack and Raag stayed in Istar.  Keeping their  quarters inside
the deserted  arena, they  became, as  it were,  unofficial care-
takers.  Passers-by  saw  them  there  daily  -   Raag  lumbering
among  the  stands,  sweeping the  aisles with  a crude  broom or
just  sitting,  staring  down  dully into  the arena  where Arack
worked,  the  dwarf lovingly  tending the  machines in  the Death
Pits,  keeping  them  oiled  and  running.  Those  who   saw  the
dwarf  sometimes  noticed  a  strange   smile  on   his  bearded,
broken-nosed face.
Arack   was   right.   The  Games   hadn't  been   banned  many
months before the clerics began noticing that their peaceful city

wasn't  so  peaceful  anymore.  Fights  broke  out  in  bars  and tav-
erns  with  alarming  frequency,  there  were  brawls  in  the streets
and  once,  even,  a  full-scale  riot.  There  were reports  that the
Games   had   gone   underground  (literally)   and  were   now  being
held  in  caves  outside  of  town.  The  discovery of  several mauled
and  mutilated  bodies  appeared to  bear this  out. Finally,  in des-
peration,  a  group  of  human  and  elf  lords  sent a  delegation to
the Kingpriest to request that the Games be started again.
"Just  as  a  volcano  must  erupt  to let  the steam  and poisonous
vapors  escape  from  the  ground," said  one elf  lord, "so  it seems
that  humans,  in particular,  use the  Games as  an outlet  for their
baser emotions."
While  this  speech  certainly did  nothing to  endear the  elf lord
to  his  human  counterparts,  they  were  forced  to admit  there was
some justification to it. At  first, the  Kingpriest wouldn't  hear of
it.  He  had  always  abhorred  the  brutal   contests.  Life   was  a
sacred  gift  of  the gods,  not something  to be  taken away  just to
provide pleasure to a bloodthirsty crowd.
"And  then  it  was  me  gave  'em   their  answer,"   Arack  said
smugly.  "They  weren't  going  to let  me in  their fine  and fancy
Temple."  The  dwarf  grinned.  "But  no  one  keeps  Raag   out  of
wherever he's a mind to go. So they hadn't much choice.
"  'Start the  Games again,'  I told  'em, and  they looked  down at
their long noses at me. 'But there needn't be no killing,' I says. 'No
real killing,  that is.  Now, listen  me out.  You've seen  the street
actors  do  Huma,  ain't  you?  You've  seen  the  knight fall  to the
ground,  bleedin'  and  moanin'  and  floppin'  around. Yet  five min-
utes later he's  up and  drinking ale  at the  tavern down  the block.
I've  done  a  bit  of  street  work  in   my  time,   and...  well...
watch this. Come here, Raag.'
"Raag came over, a big grin on his ugly, yellow face.
" 'Give me your sword, Raag,' I orders. Then, before they
could  say  a  word,  I  plunges   the  sword   in  Raag's   gut.  You
shoulda   seen   him.  Blood   all  over!   Running  down   my  hands,
spurting  from  his  mouth. He  gave a  great bellow  and fell  to the
floor, twitchin' and groanin'.
"You  shoulda  heard  'em  yell,"  the  dwarf said  gleefully, shak-
ing  his  head  over  the  memory.  "I  thought we  was gonna  have to
pick  them elf  lords up  off the  floor. So,  before they  could call
the guards to come haul me away, I kicked old Raag, here.
" 'You can get up now, Raag,' I says.
"And he sat up, giving  them a  big grin.  Well, they  all started

talking at once." The dwarf mimicked high-pitched elven
voices.
" 'Remarkable!  How is  it done?  This could  be the  answer -  ' "
"How did you do it?" Tas asked eagerly.
Arack  shrugged.  "You'll  learn.  A  lot  of  chicken  blood,  a
sword  with  a blade  that collapses  down into  the handle  - it's
simple. That's what I told 'em. Plus, it's easy to teach gladiators
how to act like they're hurt, even a dummy like old Raag here."
Tas  glanced  at  the  ogre  apprehensively,  but  Raag  was only
grinning  fondly  at  the  dwarf.  "Most  of  'em  beefed  up their
fights anyway, to make it  look good  for the  gulls -  audience, I
should say. Well, the Kingpriest, he went for it  and" -  the dwarf
drew  himself  up  proudly  -   "he  even   made  me   Master.  And
that's my title, now. Master of the Games."
"I  don't  understand,"  Caramon  said  slowly.  "You  mean  peo-
ple pay to be tricked? Surely they must have figured it out -"
"Oh,  sure."  Arack  sneered.  "We've  never  made no  big secret
of  it.  And  now  it's  the  most popular  sport on  Krynn. People
travel  for  hundreds  of  miles to  see the  Games. The  elf lords
come  -  and  even  the Kingpriest  himself, sometimes.  Well, here
we  are,"  Arack  said,  coming to  a halt  outside a  huge stadium
and looking up at it with pride.
It  was  made  of  stone  and  was  ages old,  but what  it might
have  been  built  for  originally,  no  one  remembered.  On  Game
days,  bright flags  fluttered from  the tops  of the  stone towers
and  it  would  have  been  thronged  with  people. But  there were
no  Games  today, nor  would there  be until  summer's end.  It was
gray and colorless, except for  the garish  paintings on  the walls
portraying great events in the history  of the  sport. A  few chil-
dren  stood  around the  outside, hoping  for a  glimpse of  one of
their  heroes.  Snarling  at  them,  Arack  motioned  to   Raag  to
open the massive, wooden doors.
"You  mean  no  one  gets  killed,"  Caramon  persisted, staring
somberly at the arena with its bloody paintings.
The   dwarf   looked   oddly   at   Caramon,  Tas   saw.  Arack's
expression  was  suddenly  cruel  and  calculating, his  dark, tan-
gled  eyebrows  creased  over  his   small  eyes.   Caramon  didn't
notice,  he was  still inspecting  the wall  paintings. Tas  made a
sound,  and  Caramon   suddenly  glanced   around  at   the  dwarf.
But, by that time, Arack's expression had changed.
"No  one,"  the  dwarf said  with a  grin, patting  Caramon's big
arm. "No one...."

_CHAPTER 6_

The ogre led Cara-
mon  and  Tas  into  a  large room.  Caramon had  the fevered
impression of its being filled with people.
"Him  new  man,"  grunted  Raag,  jerking  a  yellow, filthy
thumb  in Caramon's  direction as  the big  man stood  next to
him. It was Caramon's introduction to the  "school." Flushing,
acutely  conscious  of the  iron collar  around his  neck that
branded him someone's property, Caramon kept  his eyes  on the
straw-covered,   wooden   floor.   Hearing  only   a  muttered
response to Raag's statement,  Caramon glanced  up. He  was in
a mess hall, he saw now. Twenty or thirty men of various races
and nationalities sat about in small groups, eating dinner.
Some  of  the  men  were looking  at Caramon  with interest,
most weren't looking at him at all. A few nodded, the majority
continued eating, Caramon wasn't certain what to do  next, but
Raag solved  the problem.  Laying a  hand on  Caramon's shoul-
der,  the  ogre  shoved  him roughly  toward a  table. Caramon
stumbled and nearly fell, managing to catch himself  before he
smashed into the table. Whirling around, he glared  angrily at
the ogre. Raag stood grinning at him, his hands twitching.
I'm being baited, Caramon realized, having seen that look

too  many  times  in  bars  where  someone  was  always  trying to
goad the big man  into a  fight. And  this was  one fight  he knew
he  couldn't  win.  Though  Caramon  stood almost  six and  a half
feet tall, he didn't even quite come to the ogre's shoulder, while
Raag's  vast  hand  could  wrap  itself  around   Caramon's  thick
neck  twice.  Caramon  swallowed,  rubbed  his  bruised  leg,  and
sat down on the long wooden bench.
Casting  a  sneering glance  at the  big human,  Raag's squinty-
eyed  gaze  took in  everyone in  the mess  hall. With  shrugs and
low  murmurs  of  disappointment,  the  men  went  back  to  their
dinners. From a  table in  a corner,  where sat  a group  of mino-
taurs, there was laughter. Grinning  back at  them, Raag  left the
room.
Feeling   himself   blush  self-consciously,   Caramon  hunkered
down  on the  bench and  tried to  disappear. Someone  was sitting
across from him, but  the big  warrior couldn't  bear to  meet the
man's  gaze.   Tasslehoff  had   no  such   inhibitions,  however.
Clambering   up   on   the  bench   beside  Caramon,   the  kender
regarded their neighbor with interest.
"I'm  Tasslehoff Burrfoot,"  he said,  extending his  small hand
to  a  large,  black-skinned   human  -   also  wearing   an  iron
collar - sitting across them.  "I'm new,  too," the  kender added,
feeling  wounded  that  he  had  not  been  introduced.  The black
man looked  up from  his food,  glanced at  Tas, ignored  the ken-
der's hand, then turned his gaze on Caramon.
"You two partners?"
"Yeah," Caramon answered, thankful the man hadn't
referred  to  Raag  in  any  way.  He  was  suddenly aware  of the
smell  of  food and  sniffed hungrily,  his mouth  watering. Look-
ing  appreciatively  at the  man's plate,  which was  stacked high
with roast deer  meat, potatoes,  and slabs  of bread,  he sighed.
"Looks like they feed us well, at any rate."
Caramon  saw  the   black-skinned  man   glance  at   his  round
belly  and  then  exchange  amused looks  with a  tall, extraordi-
narily  beautiful  woman  who  took  her  seat  next  to  him, her
plate loaded with  food as  well. Looking  at her,  Caramon's eyes
widened. Clumsily, he attempted to stand up and bow.
"Your servant, ma'am -" he began.
"Sit  down,  you  great  oaf!"  the  woman snapped  angrily, her
tan skin darkening. "You'll have them all laughing!"
Indeed,  several  of  the  men  chuckled.  The woman  turned and
glared  at them,  her hand  darting to  a dagger  she wore  in her

belt. At the sight of her flashing green eyes, the  men swallowed
their  laughter and  went back  to their  food. The  woman waited
until  she was  certain all  had been  properly cowed,  then she,
too, turned her attention back to her meal,  jabbing at  her meat
with swift, irritated thrusts of her fork.
"I-I'm  sorry,"  Caramon  stammered, his  big face  flushed. "I
didn't mean -"
"Forget  it," the  woman said  in a  throaty voice.  Her accent
was  odd,  Caramon  couldn't  place  it.   She  appeared   to  be
human, except for  that strange  way of  talking -  stranger even
than the other people around here -  and the  fact that  her hair
was a most peculiar color - sort of a dull, leaden green.  It was
thick and straight,  and she  wore it  in a  long braid  down her
back. "You're new here, I take it. You'll  soon understand  - you
don't treat me any different than the others. Either in or out of
the arena. Got that?"
"The  arena?"  Caramon  said  in  blank  astonishment.  "You  -
you're a gladiator?"
"One  of  the  best,  too," the  black-skinned man  across from
them  said,  grinning.  "I  am  Pheragas  of Northern  Ergoth and
this is Kiiri the Sirine -"
"A  Sirine!  From  below  the  sea?"  Tas asked  in excitement.
"One of those women who can change shapes and -"
The woman flashed the  kender a  glance of  such fury  that Tas
blinked and fell silent. Then her gaze  went swiftly  to Caramon.
"Do you find that funny, slave? "Kiiri asked,  her eyes  on Cara-
mon's new collar.
Caramon  put his  hand over  it, flushing  again. Kiiri  gave a
short, bitter laugh, but Pheragas regarded him with pity.
"You'll get used to it, in time," he said with a shrug.
"I'll  never get  used to  it!" Caramon  said, clenching  his big
fist.
Kiiri glanced at him. "You will, or your  heart will  break and
you will  die," she  said coolly.  So beautiful  was she,  and so
proud her bearing, that  her own  iron collar  might have  been a
necklace of  finest gold,  Caramon thought.  He started  to reply
but was interrupted by a  fat man  in a  white, greasy  apron who
slammed a plate of food down in front of Tasslehoff.
"Thank you," said the kender politely.
"Don't get used to the service," the  cook snarled.  "After this,
you  pick  up  yer  own  plate,  like everyone  else. Here"  - he
tossed  a  wooden disk  down in  front of  the kender  - "there's

your meal chit. Show that, or you don't eat. And here's yours,"
he added, flipping one to Caramon.
"Where's  my  food?"  Caramon  asked,  pocketing  the  wooden
disk.
Plopping  a  bowl  down  in front  of the  big man,  the cook
turned to leave.
"What's this?" Caramon growled, staring at the bowl.
Tas leaned over to  look. "Chicken  broth," he  said helpfully.
"I know what it is," Caramon said, his  voice deep.  "I mean,
what is this, some kind of  joke? Because  it's not  funny," he
added, scowling at Pheragas and Kiiri,  who were  both grinning
at  him.  Twisting  around  on the  bench, Caramon  reached out
and grabbed hold of the  cook, jerking  him backward.  "Get rid
of this dishwater and bring me something to eat!"
With surprising quickness and dexterity, the cook  broke free
of Caramon's grip, twisted the  big man's  arm behind  his back
and shoved his head face-first into the bowl of soup.
"Eat it and like  it," the  cook snarled,  dragging Caramon's
dripping head up out of the soup by the hair. "Because - as far
as food goes - that's all you're  gonna be  seeing for  about a
month."
Tasslehoff stopped eating, his face  lighting up.  The kender
noticed  that  everyone  else  in the  room had  stopped eating
again, too, certain that - this time - there would be a fight.
Caramon's  face,  dripping  with  soup,  was  deathly  white.
There were red splotches in  the cheeks,  and his  eyes glinted
dangerously.
The  cook  was  watching  him smugly,  his own  fists clenched.
Eagerly, Tas waited  to see  the cook  splattered all  over the
room. Caramon's big fists clenched, the knuckles  turned white.
One of the big hands  lifted and  - slowly  - Caramon  began to
wipe the soup from his face.
With a snort of derision,  the cook  turned and  swaggered off.
Tas sighed. That certainly wasn't the old Caramon, he
thought  sadly,  remembering the  man who  had killed  two dra-
conians by bashing their  heads together  with his  bare hands,
the  Caramon  who  had  once left  fifteen ruffians  in various
stages of hurt when they made the mistake of trying to  rob the
big man. Glancing at Caramon out of the corner of his  eye, Tas
swallowed  the  sharp  words that  had been  on his  tongue and
went back to his dinner, his heart aching.
Caramon ate slowly, spooning up the soup and gulping it

down  without  seeming  to  taste  it.  Tas saw  the woman  and the
black-skinned  man  exchange  glances  again  and,  for  a  moment,
the  kender feared  they would  laugh at  Caramon. Kiiri,  in fact,
started to  say something,  but -  on looking  up toward  the front
of  the  room  -  she  shut  her  mouth abruptly  and went  back to
her  meal.  Tas  saw  Raag  enter  the mess  hall again,  two burly
humans trundling along behind him.
Walking over, they came to a halt behind Caramon. Raag
poked the big warrior.
Caramon  glanced around  slowly. "What  is it?"  he asked  in a
dull voice that Tas didn't recognize.
"You come now," Raag said.
"I'm eating," Caramon began, but the two humans grabbed
the  big  man  by the  arms and  dragged him  off the  bench before
he  could  even  finish  his sentence.  Then Tas  saw a  glimmer of
Caramon's  old  spirit.  His  face  an  ugly,  dark   red,  Caramon
aimed  a  clumsy  blow at  one. But  the man,  grinning derisively,
dodged  it  easily.  His  partner  kicked  Caramon savagely  in the
gut. Caramon collapsed with a groan,  falling to  the floor  on all
fours.  The  two  humans  hauled him  to his  feet. His  head hang-
ing, Caramon allowed himself to be led away.
"Wait!  Where  -"  Tas  stood up,  but felt  a strong  hand close
over his own.
Kiiri shook her head warningly, and Tas sat back down.
"What are they going to do to him?" he asked.
The  woman  shrugged.  "Finish your  meal," she  said in  a stern
voice.
Tas  set  his  fork  down.  "I'm  not  very  hungry,"  he mumbled
despondently, his  mind going  back to  the dwarf's  strange, cruel
look at Caramon outside the arena.
The  black-skinned  man  smiled  at  the  kender, who  sat across
from  him.  "Come on,"  he said,  standing up  and holding  out his
hand to Tas  in a  friendly manner,  "I'll show  you to  your room.
We all go through it the first day. Your friend will be all right -
in time."
"In time." Kiiri snorted, shoving her plate away.

Tas lay all alone in the  room he  had been  told he  would share
with  Caramon.  It  wasn't  much.  Located  beneath  the  arena, it
looked more like  a prison  cell than  a room.  But Kiiri  told him
that all the gladiators lived in rooms like these.
"They are clean and warm," she said. "There are not many in

this world who can say  that of  where they  sleep. Besides,  if we
lived in luxury, we would grow soft."
Well, there was certainly no danger of that, as  far as  the ken-
der  could  see,  glancing  around  at the  bare, stone  walls, the
straw-covered  floor,  a  table with  a water  pitcher and  a bowl,
and the  two small  chests that  were supposed  to hold  their pos-
sessions.  A  single  window,  high  up  in  the  ceiling  right at
ground level, let in a shaft of  sunlight. Lying  on the  hard bed,
Tas  watched  the  sun  travel  across the  room. The  kender might
have  gone  exploring,  but he  had the  feeling he  wouldn't enjoy
himself  much  until  he  found  out  what they  had done  to Cara-
mon.
The  sun's  line on  the floor  grew longer  and longer.  A door
opened  and  Tas  leaped  up  eagerly,  but  it  was  only  another
slave, tossing a sack  in onto  the floor,  then shutting  the door
again. Tas  inspected the  sack and  his heart  sank. It  was Cara-
mon's  belongings!  Everything  he'd  had  on  him -  including his
clothes!  Tas  studied  them  anxiously,  looking  for bloodstains.
Nothing.  They  appeared  all  right....   His  hand   closed  over
something hard in an inner, secret pocket.
Quickly, Tas pulled  it out.  The kender  caught his  breath. The
magical  device  from  Par-Salian!  How  had  they  missed  it,  he
wondered,  marveling  at  the  beautiful  jeweled  pendant   as  he
turned  it  over  in  his  hand.  Of  course,  it  was  magical, he
reminded  himself.  It  looked  like  nothing  more  than  a bauble
now,  but  he  had  himself  seen  Par-Salian  transform it  from a
sceptre-like object.  Undoubtedly it  had the  power to  avoid dis-
covery if it didn't want to be discovered.
Feeling  it,  holding it,  watching the  sunlight sparkle  on its
radiant  jewels,  Tas  sighed  with  longing.  This  was  the  most
exquisite, marvelous, fantastic thing he'd ever  seen in  his life.
He  wanted  it  most  desperately.  Without  thinking,  his  little
body  rose  and  was  heading  for  his  pouches  when   he  caught
himself.
Tasslehoff  Burrfoot,  said  a  voice  that  sounded  uncomforta-
bly like Flint's, this  is Serious  Business you're  meddling with.
This  is  the Way  Home. Par-Salian  himself, the  Great Par-Salian
gave  it  to  Caramon  in a  solemn ceremony.  It belongs  to Cara-
mon. It's his, you have no right to it!
Tas shivered. He had certainly never thought thoughts like
these before in his life. Dubiously, he glanced at the device. Per-
haps  it  was  putting  these uncomfortable  thoughts in  his head!

He decided he didn't want any  part of  them. Hurriedly,  he car-
ried the device over and put it in Caramon's  chest. Then,  as an
extra  precaution, he  locked the  chest and  stuffed the  key in
Caramon's  clothes.  Even  more  miserable,  he  returned  to his
bed.
The  sunlight  had just  about disappeared  and the  kender was
growing  more  and  more  anxious  when  he  heard  a  noise out-
side. The door was kicked open violently.
"Caramon!" Tas cried in horror, springing to his feet.
The  two  burly  humans  dragged the  big man  in over  the door-
step and flung him down on  the bed.  Then, grinning,  they left,
slamming  the  door  shut  behind  them. There  was a  low, moan-
ing sound from the bed.
"Caramon!"  Tas  whispered.  Hurriedly  grabbing  up  the water
pitcher, he dumped some  water in  the bowl  and carried  it over
to  the  big  warrior's  bedside.  "What did  they do?"  he asked
softly, moistening the man's lips with water.
Caramon   moaned  again   and  shook   his  head   weakly.  Tas
glanced  quickly at  the big  man's body.  There were  no visible
wounds,  no  blood,  no  swelling, no  purple welts  or whip-lash
marks.  Yet  he  had been  tortured, that  much was  obvious. The
big  man  was  in  agony. His  body was  covered with  sweat, his
eyes had rolled back  in his  head. Every  now and  then, various
muscles  in  his  body  twitched  spasmodically  and  a  groan of
pain escaped his lips.
"Was...  was  it  the  rack?" Tas  asked, gulping.  "The wheel,
maybe?  Thumb-screws?"  None of  those left  marks on  the body,
at least so he had heard.
Caramon mumbled a word.
"What?"  Tas  bent  near him,  bathing his  face in  water. "What
did you say? Cali - cali - what'? I didn't catch that."  The ken-
der's brow furrowed.  "I never  heard of  a torture  called cali-
something," he muttered. "I wonder what it could be."
Caramon repeated it, moaning again.
"Cali...  cali...  calisthenics!"  Tas  said  triumphantly.  Then
he  dropped  the  water  pitcher  onto the  floor. "Calisthenics?
That's not torture!"
Caramon groaned again.
"That's  exercises,  you  big  baby!"  Tas  yelled. "Do  you mean
I've been waiting here, worried sick, imagining all sorts of hor-
rible things, and you've been out doing exercises!"
Caramon  had  just  strength  enough to  raise himself  off the

bed. Reaching out one big hand, he gripped Tas  by the  collar of
his shirt and dragged him over to stare him in the eye.
"I  was captured  by goblins  once," Caramon  said in  a hoarse
whisper, "and they tied me  to a  tree and  spent the  night tor-
menting  me.  I  was  wounded  by  draconians  in   Xak  Tsaroth.
Baby  dragons  chewed  on  my leg  in the  dungeons of  the Queen
of Darkness. And, I  swear to  you, that  I am  in more  pain now
than I have ever been in my life! Leave me alone, and let  me die
in peace."
With  another  groan,  Caramon's  hand  dropped  weakly  to his
side. His eyes closed. Smothering a grin, Tas  crept back  to his
bed.
"He thinks he's in pain now," the kender reflected, "wait until
morning!"

Summer in Istar  ended. Fall  came, one  of the  most beautiful
in  anyone's  memory.  Caramon's  training  began,  and  the war-
rior  did  not  die,  though  there  were  times when  he thought
death might be  easier. Tas,  too, was  strongly tempted  on more
than one occasion to put the big, spoiled baby out of his misery.
One  of  these  time  had  been  during the  night, when  Tas had
been awakened by a heartbreaking sob.
"Caramon?" Tas said sleepily, sitting up in bed.
No answer, just another sob.
"What  is it?"  Tas asked,  suddenly concerned.  He got  out of
bed and trotted across  the cold,  stone floor.  "Did you  have a
dream?"
He could see Caramon nod in the moonlight.
"Was  it  about  Tika?" asked  the tenderhearted  kender, feeling
tears come to his own eyes. at the sight of the big  man's grief.
"No. Raistlin? No. Yourself? Are you afraid -"
"A muffin!" Caramon sobbed.
"What?" Tas asked blankly.
"A  muffin!"  Caramon  blubbered.  "Oh,  Tas!  I'm  so  hungry.
And I had a dream about this muffin, like Tika used to  bake, all
covered with sticky honey and those little, crunchy nuts...."
Picking up a shoe, Tas threw  it at  him and  went back  to bed
in disgust.
But by the end of the  second month  of rigorous  training, Tas
looked at  Caramon, and  the kender  had to  admit that  this was
just  exactly  what  the  big man  had needed.  The rolls  of fat
around  the big  man's waist  were gone,  the flabby  thighs were

once  more  hard  and muscular,  muscles rippled  in his  arms and
across his chest and  back. His  eyes were  bright and  alert, the
dull,  vacant  stare  gone.  The  dwarf  spirits had  been sweated
and soaked from  his body,  the red  had gone  from his  nose, and
the  puffy look  was gone  from his  face. His  body was  tanned a
deep bronze  from being  out in  the sun.  The dwarf  decreed that
Caramon's  brown  hair  be  allowed  to grow  long, as  this style
was  currently  popular  in Istar,  and now  it curled  around his
face and down his back.
He  was  a  superbly  skilled warrior  now, too.  Although Cara-
mon  had  been well-trained  before, it  had been  informal train-
ing,  his  weapons  technique  picked  up  mostly  from  his older
half-sister, Kitiara. But  Arack imported  trainers from  all over
the  world,  and  now  Caramon  was  learning techniques  from the
best.
Not only this, but he was forced to hold his  own in  daily con-
tests  between  the  gladiators  themselves.  Once  proud  of  his
wrestling  skill,  Caramon  had  been deeply  shamed to  find him-
self flat on his  back after  only two  rounds against  the woman,
Kiiri.  The  black  man,  Pheragas,  sent  Caramon's  sword flying
after  one  pass,  then  bashed  him  over the  head with  his own
shield for good measure.
But Caramon  was an  apt, attentive  pupil. His  natural ability
made  him  a  quick  study, and  it wasn't  long before  Arack was
watching in  glee as  the big  man flipped  Kiiri with  ease, then
coolly  wrapped  Pheragas  up in  his own  net, pinning  the black
man to the arena floor with his own trident.
Caramon,  himself,  was  happier  than  he  had  been in  a long
time. He still detested the iron collar, and rarely a day  went by
at first without his longing to break it and run. But, these feel-
ings lessened  as he  became interested  in his  training. Caramon
had always  enjoyed military  life. He  liked having  someone tell
him  what  to  do  and when  to do  it. The  only real  problem he
was having was with his acting abilities.
Always  open  and honest,  even to  a fault,  the worst  part of
his training came  when he  had to  pretend to  be losing.  He was
supposed  to  cry out  loudly in  mock pain  when Rolf  stomped on
his  back.  He had  to learn  how to  collapse as  though horribly
wounded  when  the  Barbarian lunged  at him  with the  fake, col-
lapsible swords.
"No!  No!  No!  you  big  dummy!"  Arack  screamed   over  and
over.  Swearing  at  Caramon  one  day,  the  dwarf  walked over

and punched him hard, right in the face.
"Arrgh!" Caramon cried  out in  real pain,  not daring  to fight
back with Raag watching in glee.
"There  -"  Arack  said,  standing  back  in triumph,  his fists
clenched,  blood  on  the  knuckles.  "Remember  that   yell.  The
gulls'll love it."
But,  in  acting,  Caramon  appeared  hopeless.  Even   when  he
did  yell, it  sounded "more  like some  wench getting  her behind
pinched  than  like anyone  dying," Arack  told Kiiri  in disgust.
And then, one day, the dwarf had an idea.
It came to him  as he  was watching  the training  sessions that
afternoon.  There happened  to be  a small  audience at  the time.
Arack  occasionally  allowed  certain  members  of the  public in,
having discovered that this was good for  business. At  this time,
he  was  entertaining  a  nobleman,  who  had  traveled  here with
his  family  from  Solamnia.  The  nobleman  had  two  very charm-
ing  young  daughters  and,  from  the  moment  they  entered  the
arena, they had never taken their eyes from Caramon.
"Why  didn't  we  see  him  fight  the  other night?"  one asked
their father.
The nobleman looked inquiringly at the dwarf.
"He's new," Arack said gruffly. "He's still in training. He's just
about ready,  mind you.  In fact,  I was  thinking of  putting him
in - when did you say you were coming back to the Games!"
"We  weren't,"  the  nobleman  began,  but  his  daughters  both
cried out  in dismay.  "Well," he  amended, "perhaps  - if  we can
get tickets."
The girls both  clapped their  hands, their  eyes going  back to
Caramon,  who  was  practicing  his  sword  work   with  Pheragas.
The  young  man's  tanned  body  glistened  with  sweat,  his hair
clung in damp curls  to his  face, he  moved with  the grace  of a
well-trained athlete. Seeing the girls' admiring gaze, it suddenly
occurred   to  the   dwarf  what   a  remarkably   handsome  young
man Caramon was.
"He must win," said one of the girls, sighing. "I could not bear
to see him lose!"
"He will win," said the other. "He  was meant  to win.  He looks
like a victor."
"Of  course!  That  solves  all  my  problems!"  said  the dwarf
suddenly, causing the  noblemen and  his family  to stare  at him,
puzzled. "The Victor! That's  how I'll  bill 'im.  Never defeated!
Doesn't know how to lose! Vowed to take his own  life, he  did, if

anyone ever beat him!"
"Oh, no!" both girls cried in dismay. "Don't tell us that."
"It's true," the dwarf said solemnly, rubbing his hands.
"They'll  come  from  miles  around," he  told Raag  that night,
"hoping to be there the night he loses. And,  of course,  he won't
lose - not for a good, long  while. Meanwhile,  he'll be  a heart-
breaker. I can see that now. And I have just the costume..."
Tasslehoff, meanwhile,  was finding  his own  life in  the arena
quite  interesting.  Although  at first  deeply wounded  when told
he couldn't be a gladiator (Tas had visions of himself  as another
Kronin  Thistleknot  -  the  hero  of  Kenderhome), Tas  had moped
around for a few days in boredom.  This ended  in his  nearly get-
ting  killed  by  an  enraged minotaur  who discovered  the kender
happily going through his room.
The  minotaurs  were  furious.  Fighting  at  the arena  for the
love  of  the sport  only, they  considered themselves  a superior
race,  living  and eating  apart from  the others.  Their quarters
were sacrosanct and inviolate.
Dragging  the  kender  before   Arack,  the   minotaur  demanded
that  he be  allowed to  slit him  open and  drink his  blood. The
dwarf  might  have  agreed  -  not  having  overly  much  use  for
kenders  himself  -  but  Arack  remembered  the  talk   he'd  had
with Quarath shortly after  he'd purchased  these two  slaves. For
some  reason,  the  highest  church  authority  in  the  land  was
interested in seeing that nothing  happened to  these two.  He had
to  refuse the  minotaur's request,  therefore, but  mollified him
by  giving  him  a  boar he  could butcher  in sport.  Then, Arack
took  Tas  aside,  cuffed  him across  the face  a few  times, and
finally gave him  permission to  leave the  arena and  explore the
town if the kender promised to come back at night.
Tas,  who  had  already  been  sneaking  out  of the  arena any-
way,  was thrilled  at this,  and repaid  the dwarf's  kindness by
bringing  him  back  any  little  trinket  he thought  Arack might
like. Appreciative of this attention, Arack  only beat  the kender
with a stick when he caught Tas  trying to  sneak pastry  to Cara-
mon, instead of whipping him as he would have otherwise.
Thus,  Tas  came  and  went  about  Istar  pretty  much   as  he
liked,  learning  quickly  to  dodge  the  townguards,  who  had a
most unreasonable dislike for kender. And so  it was  that Tassle-
hoff was able to enter the Temple itself.
Amid  his  training  and  dieting  and  other  problems, Caramon
had never lost sight of  his real  goal. He  had received  a cold,

terse message from Lady Crysania, so he knew she was all
right. But that was all. Of Raistlin, there was no sign.
At first,  Caramon despaired  of finding  his brother  or Fistan-
dantilus,  since he  was never  allowed outside  the arena.  But he
soon realized that Tas  could go  places and  see things  much eas-
ier than he could,  even if  he had  been free.  People had  a ten-
dency to treat kender the same way  they treated  children -  as if
they  weren't  there.  And  Tas  was  even  more  expert  than most
kender  at  melting  into  shadows and  ducking behind  curtains or
sneaking quietly through halls.
Plus  there  was  the  advantage  that the  Temple itself  was so
vast  and  filled  with  so  many  people,  coming  and   going  at
nearly  all  hours,  that  one kender  was easily  ignored or  - at
most - told irritably to get  out of  the way.  This was  made even
easier by the fact that  there were  several kender  slaves working
in  the  kitchens  and  even  a  few kender  clerics, who  came and
went freely.
Tas  would  have dearly  loved to  make friends  of these  and to
ask  questions  about  his  homeland  -  particularly   the  kender
clerics,  since  he'd  never  known  these  existed. But  he didn't
dare.  Caramon  had  warned  him  about   talking  too   much  and,
for  once,  Tas  took  this  warning  seriously. Finding  it nerve-
racking  to  be  on  constant guard  against talking  about dragons
or  the  Cataclysm  or  something  that  would  get   everyone  all
upset,  he decided  it would  be easier  to avoid  temptation alto-
gether.  So  he  contented  himself with  nosing around  the Temple
and gathering information.
"I've  seen  Crysania," he  reported to  Caramon one  night after
they'd  returned  from  dinner  and  a game  of arm  wrestling with
Pheragas.  Tas  lay  down  on  the  bed  while   Caramon  practiced
with a mace  and chain  in the  center of  the room,  Arack wanting
him  skilled in  weapons other  than the  sword. Seeing  that Cara-
mon still needed a lot of practice, Tas crept to the far end of the
bed  -  well  out  of  the  way  of  some of  the big  man's wilder
swings.
"How  is  she?"  Caramon  asked,  glancing  over  at  the kender
with interest.
Tas  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know. She  looks all  right, I
guess.  At  least  she  doesn't  look  sick.  But she  doesn't look
happy, either. Her face is pale and, when I tried  to talk  to her,
she just ignored me. I don't think she recognized me."
Caramon frowned. "See if you can find out what the matter

is," he said. "She was looking for Raistlin, too, remember.
Maybe it has something to do with him."
"All  right," the  kender replied,  then ducked  as the  mace whis-
tled by his head. "Say, be careful! Move back a little." He  felt his
topknot anxiously to see if all his hair was still there.
"Speaking  of  Raistlin,"  Caramon  said  in  a  subdued  voice. "I
don't suppose you found out anything today either?"
Tas  shook  his  head.  "I've asked  and asked.  Fistandantilus has
apprentices  that  come  and   go  sometimes.   But  no   one's  seen
anyone  answering  Raistlin's  description.   And,  you   know,  peo-
ple  with golden  skin and  hourglass eyes  do tend  to stand  out in
a  crowd.  But"  -  the  kender looked  more cheerful  - "I  may find
out something soon. Fistandantilus is back, I heard."
"He is?" Caramon stopped swinging the mace and turned to
face Tas.
"Yes.  I  didn't  see  him, but  some of  the clerics  were talking
about  it.  I  guess  he   reappeared  last   night,  right   in  the
Kingpriest's  Hall  of  Audience. Just  - poof!  There he  was. Quite
dramatic."
"Yeah,"   Caramon   grunted.   Swinging   the   mace  thoughtfully,
he was quiet for so long  that Tas  yawned and  started to  drift off
to  sleep.  Caramon's  voice  brought   him  back   to  consciousness
with a start.
"Tas," Caramon said, "this is our chance."
"Our chance to what?" The kender yawned again.
"Our chance to murder Fistandantilus," the warrior said
quietly.

_CHAPTER 7_

Caramon's cold

statement woke the kender up quickly.
"M-murder!  I  -  uh  -  think  you ought  to think  about this,
Caramon,"  Tas  stammered.  "I  mean,  well, look  at it  this way.
This Fistandantilus is a  really, really  good, I-I  mean, talented
magic-user.   Better   even  than   Raistlin  and   Par-Salian  put
together, if what they say  is true.  You just  don't sneak  up and
murder  a  guy  like  that. Especially  when you've  never murdered
anybody!  Not  that  I'm  saying  we  should  practice,  mind  you,
but -"
"He has to sleep, doesn't he?" Caramon asked.
"Well,"  Tas faltered,  "I suppose  so. Everybody  has to  sleep, I
guess, even magic-users -"
"Magic-users  most  of  all,"  Caramon  interrupted  coldly.  "You
remember  how  weak  Raist'd  be  if  he  didn't  sleep?  And  that
holds  true  of  all wizards,  even the  most powerful.  That's one
reason they lost the great battles - the Lost Battles. They  had to
rest. And quit talking about this 'we' stuff. I'll do it. You don't
even have to  come along.  Just find  out where  his room  is, what
kind of defenses he has, and when he  goes to  bed. I'll  take care
of it from there."

"Caramon,"  Tas  began  hesitantly,  "do  you suppose  it's right?
I  mean,  I  know  that's  why  the  mages  sent  you back  here. At
least I think that's why. It all got  sort of  muddled there  at the
end.  And  I know  this Fistandantilus  is supposed  to be  a really
evil person and he wears the  black robes  and all  that, but  is it
right to murder him? I mean,  it seems  to me  that this  just makes
us as evil as he is, doesn't it?"
"I  don't  care,"  Caramon  said  without  emotion,  his  eyes  on
the mace he was slowly swinging back  and forth.  "It's his  life or
Raistlin's, Tas. If I kill Fistandantilus now, back in this time, he
won't  be  able  to  come forward  and grab  Raistlin. I  could free
Raistlin  from  that  shattered  body,  Tas,  and  make  him  whole!
Once I  wrench this  man's evil  hold from  him -  then I  know he'd
be just like the old Raist. The little  brother I  loved." Caramon's
voice  grew  wistful and  his eyes  moist. "He  could come  and live
with us, Tas."
"What about Tika?" Tas asked hesitantly. "How's she going
to feel about you murdering somebody?"
Caramon's  brown  eyes  flashed  in  anger. "I  told you  before -
don't talk about her, Tas!"
"But, Caramon -"
"I mean it, Tas!"
And this time  the big  man's voice  held the  tone that  Tas knew
meant  he  had  gone  too  far.  The  kender  sat  hunched miserably
in his bed. Looking over at him, Caramon sighed.
"Look, Tas," he said quietly, "I'll explain  it once.  I-I haven't
been  very  good  to  Tika. She  was right  to throw  me out,  I see
that  now,  though  there  was a  time I  thought I'd  never forgive
her."   The  big   man  was   quiet  a   moment,  sorting   out  his
thoughts.  Then,  with  another  sigh,  he  continued.  "I  told her
once  that,  as  long  as  Raistlin  lived,  he'd  come first  in my
thoughts.  I  warned  her  to find  someone who  could give  her all
his love. I thought at first I could, when Raistlin went off  on his
own.  But"  -  he  shook  his  head  -  "I  dunno.  It  didn't work.
Now, I've got to do this,  don't you  see? And  I can't  think about
Tika! She-she only gets in the way...."
"But  Tika loves  you so  much!" was  all Tas  could say.  And, of
course,  it  was  the  wrong  thing.   Caramon  scowled   and  began
swinging the mace again.
"All right, Tas," he said, his voice so deep it might have come
from beneath the kender's feet, "I guess this means good-bye.
Ask the dwarf for a different  room. I'm  going to  do this  and, if
anything goes wrong, I wouldn't want to get you into
trouble -"
"Caramon,  you  know  I  didn't  mean  I wouldn't  help," Tas
mumbled. "You need me!"
"Yeah,  I  guess,"  Caramon  muttered,  flushing.  Then,  looking
over at  Tas, he  smiled in  apology. "I'm  sorry. Just  don't talk
about Tika anymore, all right?"
"All  right,"  Tas  said  unhappily.  He  smiled back  at Caramon
in  return,  watching  as  the  big  man put  his weapons  away and
prepared  for  bed.  But  it  was  a  sickly  smile  and,  when Tas
crawled  into  his  own  bed,  he felt  more depressed  and unhappy
than he had since Flint died.
"He  wouldn't  have  approved,  that's  for  sure,"  Tas  said to
himself, thinking of the  gruff, old  dwarf. "I  can hear  him now.
'Stupid,  doorknob  of  a  kender!'  he'd say.  'Murdering wizards!
Why  don't  you  just  save  everyone  trouble  and  do  away  with
yourself!' And  then there's  Tanis," Tas  thought, even  more mis-
erable.  "I  can  just imagine  what he'd  say!" Rolling  over, Tas
pulled the blankets  up around  his chin.  "I wish  he was  here! I
wish  someone  was  here  to  help   us!  Caramon's   not  thinking
right, I know he isn't! But what can I  do? I've  got to  help him.
He's my friend. And he'd likely get  into no  end of  trouble with-
out me!"

The  next  day  was  Caramon's  first  day  in  the   Games.  Tas
made his visit  to the  Temple in  the early  morning and  was back
in  time  to  see  Caramon's  fight,  which  would take  place that
afternoon. Sitting on  the bed,  swinging his  short legs  back and
forth,  the  kender  made  his  report as  Caramon paced  the floor
nervously,  waiting for  the dwarf  and Pheragas  to bring  him his
costume.
"You're   right,"   Tas  admitted   reluctantly.  "Fistandantilus
needs lots of sleep, apparently. He goes to  bed early  every night
and sleeps like  the dead  - I  m-mean" -  Tas stuttered  - "sleeps
soundly till morning."
Caramon looked at him grimly.
"Guards?"
"No," Tas said,  shrugging. "He  doesn't even  lock his  door. No
one locks doors in the Temple. After all, it is a holy place, and I
guess  everyone  either  trusts  everyone or  they don't  have any-
thing to  lock up.  You know,"  the kender  said on  reflection, "I
always detested door locks, but  now I've  decided that  life with-

out  them  would  be really  boring. I've  been in  a few  rooms in
the   Temple"   -  Tas   blissfully  ignored   Caramon's  horrified
glance - "and, believe me, it's not worth  the bother.  You'd think
a  magic-user  would  be  different,  but   Fistandantilus  doesn't
keep any of his spell stuff there. I guess he just uses his room to
spend the night when he's  visiting the  court. Besides,"  the ken-
der pointed out with a sudden brilliant flash  of logic,  "he's the
only  evil  person in  the court,  so he  wouldn't need  to protect
himself from anyone other than himself!"
Caramon,  who  had  quit  listening  long  ago,   muttered  some-
thing  and  kept  pacing.  Tas frowned  uncomfortably. It  had sud-
denly  occurred  to  him  that  he  and  Caramon  now  ranked right
up  there  with  evil  magic-users.  This  helped  him make  up his
mind.
"Look,  I'm sorry,  Caramon," Tas  said, after  a moment.  "But I
don't think I can help you, after all. Kender aren't  very particu-
lar,  sometimes,  about  their  own things,  or other  people's for
that matter, but I don't  believe a  kender ever  in his  life mur-
dered  anybody!"  He   sighed,  then   continued  in   a  quivering
voice.  "And,  I  got  to  thinking about  Flint and...  and Sturm.
You  know  Sturm  wouldn't  approve!  He   was  so   honorable.  It
just isn't right, Caramon! It makes us just as bad  as Fistandanti-
lus. Or maybe worse."
Caramon opened his mouth and was just about to reply
when the door burst open and Arack marched in.
"How're  we  doing,  big  guy?"  the  dwarf  said, leering  up at
Caramon.  "Quite  a  change   from  when   you  first   came  here,
ain't  it?"  He  patted  the  big  man's  hard  muscles admiringly,
then - balling up  his fist  - suddenly  slammed it  into Caramon's
gut. "Hard as steel,"  he said,  grinning and  shaking his  hand in
pain.
Caramon  glowered  down  at  the  dwarf  in  disgust,  glanced at
Tas,  then  sighed.  "Where's  my  costume?"  he  grumbled.  "It's
nearly High Watch."
The dwarf held up a sack. "It's  in here.  Don't worry,  it won't
take you long to dress."
Grabbing  the  sack  nervously,   Caramon  opened   it.  "Where's
the rest  of it?  he demanded  of Pheragas,  who had  just entered
the room.
"That's it!" Arack cackled. "I told you it wouldn't take long
to dress!"
Caramon's face  flushed a  deep red.  "I -  I can't  wear... just

this...."  he  stammered,  shutting  the  sack hastily.  "You said
there'd be ladies...."
"And  they'll  love  every  bronze  inch!"  Arack  hooted.  Then
the  laughter  vanished  from  the  dwarf's broken  face, replaced
by  the  dark  and  menacing  scowl.  "Put it  on, you  great oaf.
What  do  you  think  they  pay  to  see? A  dancing school? No -
they  pay  to  see  bodies covered  in sweat  and blood.  The more
body,  the more  sweat, the  more blood  - real  blood -  the bet-
ter!"
"Real  blood?  Caramon  looked  up,  his  brown  eyes flaring.
"What do you mean? I thought you said -"
"Bah!  Get  him  ready,  Pheragas.  And  while  you're   at  it,
explain the facts of life to the  spoiled brat.  Time to  grow up,
Caramon,  my  pretty  poppet."  With  that  and  a  grating laugh,
the dwarf stalked out.
Pheragas stood aside  to let  the dwarf  pass, then  entered the
small room. His  face, usually  jovial and  cheerful, was  a blank
mask.  There  was  no  expression  in  his  eyes,  and  he avoided
looking directly at Caramon.
"What did he mean? Grow up? Caramon asked. "Real
blood?
"Here," Pheragas said gruffly, ignoring the question. "I'll help
with these buckles. It takes a bit  of getting  used to  at first.
They're  strictly  ornamental,  made  to  break easily.  The audi-
ence loves it if a piece comes loose or falls off."
He  lifted  an  ornate  shoulder  guard from  the bag  and began
strapping  it  onto  Caramon,  working  around  behind  him, keep-
ing his eyes fixed on the buckles.
"This is made out of gold," Caramon said slowly.
Pheragas grunted.
"Butter  would  stop a  knife sooner  than this  stuff," Caramon
continued, feeling it.  "And look  at all  these fancy  do-dads! A
sword point'll catch and stick in any of 'em."
"Yeah."  Pheragas  laughed,  but  it  was  forced  laughter. "As
you can see, it's almost better to be naked than wear this stuff."
"I   don't   have   much   to   worry   about   then,"   Caramon
remarked grimly, pulling out  the leather  loincloth that  was the
only  other  object  in the  sack, besides  an ornate  helmet. The
loincloth,  too,  was ornamented  in gold  and barely  covered his
private  parts  decently. When  he and  Pheragas had  him dressed,
even the kender blushed at the sight of Caramon from the rear.
Pheragas  started  to  go,  but  Caramon  stopped him,  his hand

on his arm. "You better tell me, my friend. That  is, if  you still
are my friend."
Pheragas   looked   at  Caramon   intently,  then   shrugged.  "I
thought  you'd  have  figured  it out  by now.  We use  edged weap-
ons. Oh,  the swords  still collapse,"  he added,  seeing Caramon's
eyes narrow. "But, if you  get hit,  you bleed  - for  real. That's
why we harped on your stabbing thrusts."
"You  mean  people  really  get  hurt? I  could   hurt  someone?
Someone  like  Kiiri,  or  Rolf,   or  the   Barbarian?"  Caramon's
voice raised in anger.  "What else  goes on!  What else  didn't you
tell me - friend!"
Pheragas  regarded  Caramon  coldly.  "Where  did  you   think  I
got  these  scars? Playing  with  my  nanny? Look,  someday you'll
understand.  There's not  time to  explain it  now. Just  trust us,
Kiiri and I. Follow our lead.  And -  keep your  eyes on  the mino-
taurs.  They  fight  for themselves,  not for  any masters  or own-
ers.  They  answer  to  no  one.  Oh,  they agree  to abide  by the
rules - they  have to  or the  Kingpriest would  ship them  back to
Mithas.  But...  well,  they're  favorites  with  the   crowd.  The
people  like to  see them  draw blood.  And they  can take  as good
as they give."
"Get out!" Caramon snarled.
Pheragas  stood  staring  at  him  a moment,  then he  turned and
started out the door. Once there, however, he stopped.
"Listen, friend," he said sternly, "these scars I get in the ring
are badges of honor, every bit as  good as  some knight's  spurs he
wins in a contest! It's the only kind of honor  we can  salvage out
of  this  tawdry  show!  The  arena's  got  its own  code, Caramon,
and  it  doesn't  have  one  damn  thing to  do with  those knights
and  noblemen  who  sit  out there  and watch  us slaves  bleed for
their  own  amusement.  They  talk  of  their  honor.  Well,  we've
got our own. It's what keeps us alive." He  fell silent.  It seemed
he  might  say  something  more,  but  Caramon's  gaze  was  on the
floor,  the  big  man  stubbornly   refusing  to   acknowledge  his
words or presence.
Finally,  Pheragas  said  "You've  got  five minutes,"  and left,
slamming the door behind him.
Tas  longed  to  say  something   but,  seeing   Caramon's  face,
even the kender knew it was time to keep silent.

Go into a battle with bad blood, and it 11  be spilled  by night-
fall.   Caramon   couldn't  remember   what  gruff   old  commander

had  told him  that, but  he'd found  it a  good axiom.  Your life
often depended on the  loyalty of  those you  fought with.  It was
a good idea to  get any  quarrels between  you settled.  He didn't
like holding grudges either. It generally did nothing for  him but
upset his stomach.
It  was  an  easy  thing,  therefore,  to shake  Pheragas's hand
when  the  black  man  started  to  turn  away  from him  prior to
entering   the  arena   and  to   make  his   apologies.  Pheragas
accepted  these  warmly,  while  Kiiri -  who obviously  had heard
all  about  the  episode  from Pheragas  - indicated  her approval
with  a  smile.  She  indicated  her  approval  of  Caramon's cos-
tume,  too;  looking  at  him  with  such  open admiration  in her
flashing green eyes that Caramon flushed in embarrassment.
The  three stood  talking in  the corridors  that ran  below the
arena,  waiting  to  make  their  entrance.  With  them  were  the
other  gladiators  who  would  fight  today, Rolf,  the Barbarian,
and  the  Red  Minotaur.  Above  them,   they  could   hear  occa-
sional  roars from  the crowd,  but the  sound was  muffled. Cran-
ing  his  neck,  Caramon  could  see  out  the  entryway  door. He
wished it was time to start. Rarely had he ever felt this nervous,
more nervous than going into battle, he realized.
The  others felt  the tension,  too. It  was obvious  in Kiiri's
laughter that was too shrill and  loud and  the sweat  that poured
down Pheragas's  face. But  it was  a good  kind of  tension, min-
gled  with  excitement.  And,  suddenly,  Caramon realized  he was
looking forward to this.
"Arack's called  our names,"  Kiiri said.  She and  Pheragas and
Caramon   walked  forward   -  the   dwarf  having   decided  that
since  they  worked  well together  they should  fight as  a team.
(He  also  hoped  that  the  two pros  would cover  up for  any of
Caramon's mistakes!)
The  first  thing  Caramon noticed  as he  stepped out  into the
arena  was the  noise. It  crashed over  him in  thunderous waves,
one  after  another,  coming   seemingly  from   the  sun-drenched
sky above him. For a  moment he  felt lost  in confusion.  The by-
now  familiar  arena  -  where  he  had  worked  and  practiced so
hard these last few  months -  was a  strange place  suddenly. His
gaze went to  the great  circular rows  of stands  surrounding the
arena, and he was  overwhelmed at  the sight  of the  thousands of
people, all - it  seemed -  on their  feet screaming  and stomping
and shouting.
The colors swam in his eyes - gaily fluttering banners that

announced  a  Games  Day, silk  banners of  all the  noble families
of Istar,  and the  more humble  banners of  those who  sold every-
thing  from fruited  ice to  tarbean tea,  depending on  the season
of  the  year.  And  it  all  seemed  to be  in motion,  making him
dizzy,  and  suddenly  nauseous.  Then  he  felt Kiiri's  cool hand
upon his  arm. Turning,  he saw  her smile  at him  in reassurance.
He  saw  the familiar  arena behind  her, he  saw Pheragas  and his
other friends.
Feeling  better,  he  quickly  turned his  attention back  to the
action. He had better keep his  mind on  business, he  told himself
sternly. If he missed a single  rehearsed move,  he would  not only
make  himself  look  foolish,  but   he  might   accidentally  hurt
someone.  He  remembered  how  particular   Kiiri  had   been  that
he time his  swordthrusts just  right. Now,  he thought  grimly, he
knew why.
Keeping  his eyes  on his  partners and  the arena,  ignoring the
noise  and  the crowd,  he took  his place,  waiting to  start. The
arena   looked   different,   somehow,   and   for   a   moment  he
couldn't figure it out. Then he realized that, just as they were in
costume,  the  dwarf  had  decorated  the  arena,  too.  Here  were
the  same  old  sawdust-covered  platforms  where  he  fought every
day,  but  now  they  were  tricked  out with  symbols representing
the four corners of the world.
Around  these  four  platforms,  the hot  coals blazed,  the fire
roared,  the  oil  boiled  and  bubbled.  Bridges  of  wood spanned
the  Death  Pits  as they  were called,  connecting the  four plat-
forms.  These  Pits  had,  at  first, alarmed  Caramon. But  he had
learned  early  in the  game that  they were  for effect  only. The
audience  loved  it  when  a  fighter  was  driven  from  the arena
onto  the  bridges.  They went  wild when  the Barbarian  held Rolf
by his heels over the boiling oil. Having seen it all in rehearsal,
Caramon  could  laugh  with  Kiiri at  the terrified  expression on
Rolf's face and the frantic efforts  he made  to save  himself that
resulted - as always -  in the  Barbarian being  hit over  the head
by a blow from Rolf's powerful arms.
The sun  reached its  zenith and  a flash  of gold  brought Cara-
mon's  eyes  to the  center of  the arena.  Here stood  the Freedom
Spire - a tall structure made of gold, so delicate and  ornate that
it  seemed  out of  place in  such crude  surroundings. At  the top
hung a  key -  a key  that would  open a  lock on  any of  the iron
collars.  Caramon  had  seen  the spire  often enough  in practice,
but he had never seen  the key,  which was  kept locked  in Arack's

office. Just looking at it made  the iron  collar around  his neck
feel unusually  heavy. His  eyes filled  with sudden  tears. Free-
dom....  To  wake  in  the  morning  and  be  able  to walk  out a
door,  to  go  anywhere  in  this  wide world  you wanted.  It was
such a simple thing. Now, how much he missed it!
Then  he heard  Arack call  out his  name, he  saw him  point at
them.  Gripping  his  weapon,  Caramon turned  to face  Kiiri, the
sight of the Golden Key still in his mind. At the end of the year,
any  slave who  had done  well in  the Games  could fight  for the
right to climb that spire and  get the  key. It  was all  fake, of
course.  Arack  always  selected  those  guaranteed  to  draw  the
biggest   audiences.   Caramon   had   never   thought   about  it
before - his only  concern being  his brother  and Fistandantilus.
But, now, he realized  he had  a new  goal. With  a wild  yell, he
raised his phony sword high in the air in salute.

Soon,  Caramon  began  to  relax  and  have  fun. He  found him-
self enjoying the roars and applause  of the  crowd. Caught  up in
their  excitement,  he  discovered  he  was playing  up to  them -
just  as  Kiiri  had  told  him  he  would.  The  few  wounds he'd
received  in  the  warm-up  bouts  were  nothing,  only scratches.
He couldn't  even feel  the pain.  He laughed  at himself  for his
worry.  Pheragas  had  been  right  not  to  mention such  a silly
thing. He was sorry he had made such a big deal of it.
"They  like  you,"  Kiiri said,  grinning at  him during  one of
their rest  periods. Once  again, her  eyes swept  admiringly over
Caramon's  muscular,  practically  nude   body.  "I   don't  blame
them. I'm looking forward to our wrestling match."
Kiiri laughed at his  blush, but  Caramon saw  in her  eyes that
she  wasn't  kidding  and he  was suddenly  accutely aware  of her
femaleness - something  that had  never occurred  to him  in prac-
tice.  Perhaps  it  was  her  own  scanty  costume,  which  seemed
designed to reveal everything, yet  hid all  that was  most desir-
able.  Caramon's  blood burned,  both with  passion and  the plea-
sure  he  always  found  in  battle.  Confused  memories  of  Tika
came  to  his  mind,  and  he  looked  away from  Kiiri hurriedly,
realizing  he  had  been  saying more  with his  own eyes  than he
intended.
This  ploy  was only  partly successful,  because he  found him-
self staring into the stands - right into the eyes of  many admir-
ing   and   beautiful   women,  who   were  obviously   trying  to
capture his attention.

"We're  on  again,"  Kiiri  nudged  him,  and  Caramon returned
thankfully to the ring.
He grinned at  the Barbarian  as the  tall man  strode forward.
This  was  their  big number,  and he  and Caramon  had practiced
it  many times.  The Barbarian  winked at  Caramon as  they faced
each other, their faces twisted into  looks of  ferocious hatred.
Growling  and  snarling  like  animals,  both men  crouched over,
stalking each other around the ring a suitable amount of  time to
build  up  tension.  Caramon  caught  himself  about to  grin and
had  to  remind himself  that he  was supposed  to look  mean. He
liked  the  Barbarian.  A  Plainsman,  the  man  reminded  him in
many  ways  of   Riverwind  -   tall,  dark-haired,   though  not
nearly as serious as the stern ranger.
The Barbarian was a slave as well, but  the iron  collar around
his  neck  was  old  and  scratched  from  countless  battles. He
would be one chosen to go after  the golden  key this  year, that
was certain.
Caramon  thrust  out  with the  collapsible sword.  The Barbar-
ian  dodged  with  ease  and,  catching  Caramon  with  his heel,
neatly  tripped him.  Caramon went  down with  a roar.  The audi-
ence  groaned  (the  women  sighed), but  there were  many cheers
for the Barbarian, who was  a favorite.  The Barbarian  lunged at
the  prone  Caramon  with  a  spear. The  women screamed  in ter-
ror. At the last moment, Caramon  rolled to  one side  and, grab-
bing  the  Barbarian's  foot,  jerked  him  down  to  the sawdust
platform.
Thunderous  cheers.  The  two  men  grappled  on  the  floor of
the arena. Kiiri rushed  out to  aid her  fallen comrade  and the
Barbarian fought  them both  off, to  the crowd's  delight. Then,
Caramon, with a gallant  gesture, ordered  Kiiri back  behind the
line. It was obvious to the crowd that he would take care of this
insolent opponent himself.
Kiiri patted Caramon  on his  rump (that  wasn't in  the script
and  nearly caused  Caramon to  forget his  next move),  then she
ran off. The  Barbarian lunged  at Caramon,  who pulled  his col-
lapsible  dagger.  This  was  the  show-stopper  -  as  they  had
planned.  Ducking  beneath  the Barbarian's  upraised arm  with a
skillful  maneuver,  Caramon  thrust   the  dummy   dagger  right
into the Barbarian's  gut where  a bladder  of chicken  blood was
cleverly concealed beneath his feathered breastplate.
It  worked!  The  chicken  blood  splashed  out  over  Caramon,
running  down  his  hand  and  his arm.  Caramon looked  into the

Barbarian's face, ready for another wink of triumph....
Something was wrong.
The man's  eyes had  widened, as  was in  the script.  But they
had widened in true  pain and  in shock.  He staggered  forward -
that was in the script,too - but not the gasp of agony.  As Cara-
mon  caught him,  he realized  in horror  that the  blood washing
over his arm was warm!
Wrenching his dagger  free, Caramon  stared at  it, even  as he
fought to  hold onto  the Barbarian,  who was  collapsing against
him. The blade was real!
"Caramon..." The man choked. Blood spurted from. his
mouth.
The  audience  roared.  They hadn't  seen special  effects like
this in months!
"Barbarian!  I  didn't  know!" Caramon  cried, staring  at dag-
ger in horror. "I swear!"
And then Pheragas and Kiiri were by his  side, helping  to ease
the dying Barbarian down onto the arena floor.
"Keep up the act!" Kiiri snapped harshly.
Caramon  nearly  struck  her  in  his  rage, but  Pheragas caught
his  arm.  "Your life,  our lives  depend on  it!" the  black man
hissed. "And the life of your little friend!"
Caramon  stared  at  them  in  confusion.  What did  they mean?
What were they  saying'? He  had just  killed a  man -  a friend!
Groaning,  he  jerked  away  from Pheragas  and knelt  beside the
Barbarian.  Dimly  he  could  hear  the  crowd  cheering,  and he
knew  -  somewhere inside  of him  - that  they were  eating this
up. The Victor paying tribute to the "dead."
"Forgive me," he said to the Barbarian, who nodded.
"It's not your fault," the man whispered. "Don't blame
yoursel -" His eyes fixed in his  head, a  bubble of  blood burst
on his lips.
"We've got to  get him  out of  the arena,"  Pheragas whispered
sharply   to   Caramon,  "and   make  it   look  good.   Like  we
rehearsed. Do you understand?"
Caramon  nodded  dully. Your  life... the  life of  your little
friend. I am a warrior. I've killed before. Death is nothing new.
The life of your little friend.  Obey orders.  I'm used  to that.
Obey orders, then I'll figure out the answers....
Repeating that over and over, Caramon was able to subdue
the part of his mind that burned with rage and pain. Coolly and
calmly, he helped Kiiri and Pheragas lift the  Barbarian's "life-

less" corpse  to its  feet as  they had  done countless  times in
rehearsal.  He  even  found  the  strength to  turn and  face the
crowd  and  bow.  Pheragas, with  a skillful  motion of  his free
arm, made it seem as if  the "dead"  Barbarian were  bowing, too.
The crowd loved  it and  cheered wildly.  Then the  three friends
dragged  the  corpse  off the  stage, down  into the  dark aisles
below.
Once  there,  Caramon  helped  them  ease  the  Barbarian  down
onto the cold stone. For long moments, he  stared at  the corpse,
dimly  aware  of  the  other  gladiators,  who  had  been waiting
their turn to go up into the arena, looking at the lifeless body,
then melting back into the shadows.
Slowly,   Caramon   stood  up.   Turning  around,   he  grabbed
hold of Pheragas  and, with  all his  strength, hurled  the black
man  up  against  the  wall.  Drawing  the   bloodstained  dagger
from his belt, Caramon held it up before Pheragas's eyes.
"It was an accident," Pheragas said through clenched teeth.
"Edged   weapons!"   Caramon   cried,  shoving   Pheragas's  head
roughly into the stone wall. "Bleed a little!  Now, you  tell me!
What in the name of the Abyss is going on!"
"It was an accident, oaf," came a sneering voice.
Caramon turned. The dwarf stood before him, his squat
body  a  small,  twisted  shadow  in the  dark and  dank corridor
beneath the arena.
"And now I'll tell you about accidents," Arack said,  his voice
soft  and  malevolent.  Behind  him  loomed  the giant  figure of
Raag, his club in his huge hand. "Let Pheragas  go. He  and Kiiri
have to get back to the arena and take their  bows. You  all were
the winners today."
Caramon  glanced  at  Pheragas  for  a  moment,   then  dropped
his hand. The dagger slipped from his nerveless fingers  onto the
floor, he slumped back against  the wall.  Kiiri regarded  him in
mute  sympathy,  laying  her  hand on  his arm.  Pheragas sighed,
cast the smug dwarf  a venomous  glance, then  both he  and Kiiri
left the corridor.  They walked  around the  body of  the Barbar-
ian, which lay, untouched, on the stone.
"You  told  me  no  one got  killed!" Caramon  said in  a voice
choked with anger and pain.
The dwarf came over to stand in front of the  big man.  "It was
an  accident,"  Arack  repeated.  "Accidents happen  around here.
Particularly  to  people  who aren't  careful. They  could happen
to you, if you're not careful. Or to that little friend of yours.

Now,  the  Barbarian, here,  he wasn't  careful. Or  rather, his
master wasn't careful."
Caramon raised his head, staring at the  dwarf, his  eyes wide
with shock and horror.
"Ah, I see you finally got it figured out." Arack nodded.
"This  man  died  because  his  owner  crossed  someone,"  Cara-
mon said softly.
'Yeah."  The  dwarf grinned  and tugged  at his  beard. "Civi-
lized, ain't it? Not like the old days. And no one's  the wiser.
Except his master, of course. I saw his face this  afternoon. He
knew, as  soon as  you stuck  the Barbarian.  You might  as well
have thrust that dagger into him. He got the message all right."
"This was a warning?" Caramon asked in strangled tones.
The dwarf nodded again and shrugged.
"Who? Who was his owner?"
Arack  hesitated,  regarding  Caramon quizzically,  his broken
face twisted into a leer. Caramon could almost see him calculat-
ing,  figuring how  much he  could gain  from telling,  how much
he might  gain by  keeping silent.  Apparently, the  money added
up quickly in the "telling" column,  because he  didn't hesitate
long.  Motioning  Caramon  to  lean  down,  he whispered  a name
in his ear.
Caramon looked puzzled.
"High  cleric,  a  Revered  Son of  Paladine," the  dwarf added.
"Number  two  to  the Kingpriest  himself. But  he's made  a bad
enemy, a bad enemy." Arack shook his head.
A  burst  of  muffled  cheering  roared  from above  them. The
dwarf  glanced  up,  then back  at Caramon.  "You'll have  to go
up, take a bow. It's expected. You're a winner."
"What  about  him?"  Caramon  asked,  his  gaze going  to the
Barbarian. "He won't be going up. Won't they wonder?"
"Pulled muscle.  Happens all  the time.  Can't make  his final
bow,"  the  dwarf  said  casually.  "We'll  put  the word  out he
retired, was given his freedom."
Given  his  freedom! Tears  filled his  eyes. He  looked away,
down the corridor.  There was  another cheer.  He would  have to
go. Your life. Our lives. The life of your little friend.
"That's why,"  Caramon said  thickly, "that's  why you  had me
kill him! Because now you've got me! You know I won't talk -"
"I knew that  anyway," Arack  said, grinning  wickedly. "Let's
say having you kill him was just a little extra touch.  The cus-
tomers like that, shows I care. You see, it was your  master who

sent this warning! I thought  he'd appreciate  it, having  his own
slave carry it out. Course that puts you in a  bit of  danger. The
Barbarian's death'll  have to  be avenged.  But, it'll  do wonders
for business, once the rumor spreads."
"My master!" Caramon gasped. "But, you bought me! The
school -"
"Ah,  I  acted  as agent  only." The  dwarf cackled.  "I thought
maybe you didn't know!"
"But  who  is  my  -"  And  then  Caramon  knew  the  answer. He
didn't  even  hear  the  words  the dwarf  said. He  couldn't hear
them over the sudden  roaring sound  that echoed  in his  brain. A
blood-red  tide  surged  over  him,  suffocating  him.  His  lungs
ached, his stomach heaved, and his legs gave way beneath him.
The next  thing he  knew, he  was sitting  in the  corridor, the
ogre  holding  his  head  down  between  his knees.  The dizziness
passed.  Caramon  gasped  and  lifted  his  head, shaking  off the
ogre's grasp.
"I'm all right," he said through bloodless lips.
Raag glanced at him, then up at the dwarf.
"We can't take  him out  there in  this condition,"  Arack said,
regarding  Caramon  with disgust.  "Not looking  like a  fish gone
belly up. Haul him to his room."
"No," said a small voice from the darkness. "I-I'll take care of
him."
Tas crept out of the shadows, his face nearly  as pale  as Cara-
mon's.
Arack  hesitated,  then  snarled  something  and   turned  away.
With a  gesture to  the ogre,  he hurried  off, clambering  up the
stairs to make the awards to the victors.
Tasslehoff  knelt  beside  Caramon,  his hand  on the  big man's
arm. The  kender's gaze  went to  the body  that lay  forgotten on
the  stone  floor. Caramon's  gaze followed.  Seeing the  pain and
anguish  in  his  eyes, Tas  felt a  lump come  to his  throat. He
couldn't say a word, he could only pat Caramon's arm.
"How much did you hear?" Caramon asked thickly.
"Enough," Tas murmured. "Fistandantilus."
"He  planned  this  all  along." Caramon  sighed and  leaned his
head back, wearily closing his eyes. "This is how he'll get rid of
us. He won't even have  to do  it himself.  Just let  this... this
cleric...."
"Quarath."
"Yeah, he'll let this Quarath kill us." Caramon's fists

clenched. "The wizard's hands will be  clean! Raistlin  will never
suspect. And all the time, every fight from  now on,  I'll wonder.
Is  that  dagger  Kiiri  holds  real?"  Opening his  eyes, Caramon
looked at  the kender.  "And you,  Tas. You're  in this,  too. The
dwarf said so. I can't leave, but you could! You've got to get out
of here!"
"Where  would  I  go?"  Tas  asked  helplessly.  "He'd  find me,
Caramon.  He's  the  most  powerful  magic-user  that  ever lived.
Even kender can't hide from people like him."
For a moment the two sat together  in silence,  the roar  of the
crowd  echoing  above  them.  Then  Tas's eyes  caught a  gleam of
metal across the corridor. Recognizing the object, he rose  to his
feet and crept over to retrieve it.
"I can get us inside the Temple," he said, taking a deep breath,
trying  to  keep  his  voice steady.  Picking up  the bloodstained
dagger, he brought it back and handed it to Caramon.
"I can get us in tonight."

_CHAPTER 8_

The silver moon,

Solinari, flickered  on the  horizon. Rising  up over  the central
tower of  the Temple  of the  Kingpriest, the  moon looked  like a
candle flame burning  on a  tall, fluted  wick. Solinari  was full
and  bright  this  night,  so  bright  that  the  services  of the
lightwalkers  were  not  needed  and  the  boys  who  earned their
living lighting party-goers from one house  to another  with their
quaint, silver lamps spent the night at  home, cursing  the bright
moonlight that robbed them of their livelihood.
Solinari's  twin,  the  blood-red  Lunitari,  had not  risen, nor
would it rise for several  more hours,  flooding the  streets with
its eerie purplish brilliance. As  for the  third moon,  the black
one, its  dark roundness  among the  stars was  noted by  one man,
who gazed at it briefly as he divested himself of his black robes,
heavy  with  spell  components,  and put  on the  simpler, softer,
black  sleeping  gown.  Drawing the  black hood  up over  his head
to blot out Solinari's cold, piercing  light, he  lay down  on his
bed and drifted into the restful sleep so necessary to him and his
Art.
At  least  that  is  what  Caramon  envisioned  him  doing  as he
and  the  kender walked  the moonlit,  crowded streets.  The night
was   alive   with  fun.   They  passed   group  after   group  of
merrymakers  -  parties  of  men  laughing  boisterously  and dis-
cussing  the  games;  parties  of  women,  who clung  together and
shyly  glanced  at  Caramon  out  of  the  corners of  their eyes.
Their filmy dresses floated around  them in  the soft  breeze that
was  mild  for  late  autumn.  One  such  group  recognized  Cara-
mon,  and  the  big  man  almost  ran,  fearing  they  would  call
guards to take him back to the arena.
But  Tas  -  wiser  about  the  ways  of  the  world -  made him
stay.  The  group  was  enchanted  with  him.  They  had  seen him
fight  that  afternoon  and,  already,  he  had won  their hearts.
They asked  inane questions  about the  Games, then  didn't listen
to  his answers  - which  was just  as well.  Caramon was  so ner-
vous, he made very little sense. Finally they  went on  their way,
laughing  and  bidding  him  good  fortune.  Caramon   glanced  at
the kender wonderingly at this, but Tas only shook his head.
"Why  did  you  think  I  made  you  dress  up?" he  asked Cara-
mon shortly.
Caramon  had,  in fact,  been wondering  about this  very thing.
Tas had insisted that he wear the golden, silken  cape he  wore in
the ring, plus the helmet he  had worn  that afternoon.  It didn't
seem  at  all  suitable for  sneaking into  Temples -  Caramon had
visions  of  crawling  through sewers  or climbing  over rooftops.
But  when  he  balked,  Tas's  eyes had  grown cold.  Either Cara-
mon did as he was told or he could forget it, he said sharply.
Caramon,  sighing,  dressed  as  ordered,  putting  the  cape on
over  his regular  loose shirt  and leather  breeches. He  put the
bloodstained dagger in his belt. Out of habit,  he had  started to
clean it, then stopped. No, it would be more suitable this way.
It  had  been a  simple matter  for the  kender to  unlock their
door  after  Raag  locked  them  in  that night,  and the  two had
slipped through the sleeping section  of the  gladiators' quarters
without incident; most of the fighters either being asleep or - in
the case of the minotaurs - roaring drunk.
The  two  walked  the  streets  openly,  to Caramon's  vast dis-
comfort.   But   the   kender   seemed    unperturbed.   Unusually
moody  and  silent,  Tas  continually  ignored  Caramon's repeated
questions.  They  drew  nearer  and nearer  the Temple.  It loomed
before them in all its pearl and silver radiance, and finally Car-
amon stopped.
"Wait a minute, Tas," he said softly, pulling the kender  into a
shadowy corner, "just how do you plan to get us in here?"
"Through the front doors," Tas answered quietly.
"The front doors?" Caramon repeated in blank astonish-
ment. "Are you mad? The guards! They'll stop us -"
"It's  a  Temple,  Caramon,"  Tas said  with a  sigh. "A  Temple to
the gods. Evil things just don't enter."
"Fistandantilus enters," Caramon said gruffly.
"But  only  because  the  Kingpriest allows  it," Tas  said, shrug-
ging.  "Otherwise,  he  couldn't  get  in  here. The  gods wouldn't
permit it. At least that's what one of the clerics  told me  when I
asked."
Caramon  frowned.  The  dagger  in  his  belt  seemed   heavy,  the
metal  was  hot  against his  skin. Just  his imagination,  he told
himself.  After  all,  he'd worn  daggers before.  Reaching beneath
his  cloak,  he  touched  it reassuringly.  Then, his  lips pressed
tightly together,  he started  walking toward  the Temple.  After a
moment's hesitation, Tas caught up with him.
"Caramon,"  said  the  kender  in  a small  voice, "I-I  think I
know  what  you  were  thinking.  I've  been  thinking  the same
thing. What if the gods won't let us in'"
"We're  out  to  destroy  evil,"  Caramon  said  evenly,  his  hand
on the dagger's hilt. "They'll help us, not hinder us. You'll see."
"But,  Caramon  -"  Now  it  was  Tas's   turn  to   ask  questions
and  Caramon's  turn  to  grimly   ignore  him.   Eventually,  they
reached the magnificent steps leading up to the Temple.
Caramon  stopped,  staring  at  the  building.  Seven  towers  rose
to the heavens, as if praising the gods for their creation. But one
spiraled above them all.  Gleaming in  Solinari's light,  it seemed
not to praise  the gods  but sought  to rival  them. The  beauty of
the Temple, its pearl  and rose-colored  marble gleaming  softly in
the moonlight, its still pools of water  reflecting the  stars, its
vast  gardens  of  lovely, fragrant  flowers, its  ornamentation of
silver and of gold, all  took Caramon's  breath away,  piercing his
heart.  He  could  not  move  but  was  held  as  though spellbound
by the wonder.
And  then,  in  the back  of his  mind, came  a lurking  feeling of
horror.  He  had  seen  this  before!  Only  he  had  seen it  in a
nightmare  -  the  towers   twisted  and   misshapen....  Confused,
he  closed  his  eyes.  Where?  How?  Then,  it  came  to  him. The
Temple  at  Neraka,  where  he'd  been  imprisoned!  The  Temple of
the  Queen of  Darkness! It  had been  this very  Temple, perverted
by  her  evil,  corrupted,  turned  to a  thing of  horror. Caramon
trembled.  Overwhelmed  by  this  terrible  memory,   wondering  at
its  portent,  he  thought  for  a moment  of turning  around and
fleeing.
Then he  felt Tas  tug at  his arm.  "Keep moving!"  the kender
ordered. "You look suspicious!"
Caramon shook  his head,  clearing it  of stupid  memories that
meant  nothing,  he   told  himself.   The  two   approached  the
guards at the door.
"Tas!"  Caramon  said  suddenly,  gripping  the  kender  by the
shoulder so tightly he squeaked in pain. "Tas, this is a test! If
the gods let us in, I'll know we're doing the right  thing! We'll
have their blessing!"
Tas paused. "Do you think so?" he asked hesitantly.
"Of  course!" Caramon's  eyes shone  in Solinari's  bright light.
"You'll  see.  Come  on."  His confidence  restored, the  big man
strode  up  the  stairs. He  was an  imposing sight,  the golden,
silken cape fluttering about him, the  golden helmet  flashing in
the moonlight.  The guards  stopped talking  and turned  to watch
him.  One  nudged  the  other,  saying  something  and  making  a
swift, stabbing  motion with  his hand.  The other  guard grinned
and shook his head, regarding Caramon with admiration.
Caramon   knew   immediately   what   the    pantomime   repre-
sented  and  he nearly  stopped walking,  feeling once  again the
warm  blood  splash  over  his hand  and hearing  the Barbarian's
last, choked words. But he  had come  too far  to quit  now. And,
perhaps this too  was a  sign, he  told himself.  The Barbarian's
spirit, lingering near, anxious for its revenge.
Tas glanced up at him anxiously.  "Better let  me do  the talk-
ing," the kender whispered.
Caramon nodded, swallowing nervously.
"Greetings,  gladiator," called  one of  the guards.  "You're new
to  the  Games,  are  you  not? I  was  telling my  companion on
watch, here, that he missed a pretty fight today. Not  only that,
but you won me six silver  pieces, as  well. What  is it  you are
called?"
"He's the 'Victor,' " Tas said glibly. "And today was  just the
beginning. He's never been defeated in battle, and he  never will
be."
"And who are you, little cutpurse? His manager?"
This  was  met  by  roars of  laughter from  the other  guard and
nervous   high-pitched   laughter    from   Caramon.    Then   he
glanced  down  at  Tas and  knew immediately  they were  in trou-
ble. Tas's face was  white. Cutpurse!  The most  dreadful insult,
the worst thing in the world one could call a kender! Caramon's
big hand clapped over Tas's mouth.
"Sure," said Caramon, keeping  a firm  grip on  the wriggling
kender, "and a good one, too."
"Well, keep an eye on him," the  other guard  added, laughing
even harder. "We want to see you slit throats - not pockets!"
Tasslehoff's  ears -  the only  part visible  above Caramon's
wide  hand  -  flushed  scarlet.  Incoherent  sounds  came from
behind Caramon's palm. "I-I think we better go on in,"  the big
warrior  stammered,  wondering  how  long  he  could  hold Tas.
"We're late."
The  guards  winked  at  each  other  knowingly, one  of them
shook his head in envy. "I saw the  women watching  you today,"
he said, his gaze going to Caramon's broad shoulders. "I should
have known you'd be invited here for - uh - dinner."
What were they talking about? Caramon's puzzled look
caused the guards to break out in renewed laughter.
"Name  of  the  gods!"  One  sputtered. "Look  at him!  He is
new!"
"Go  ahead," the  other guard  waved him  on by.  "Good appe-
tite!"
More  laughter.  Flushing red,  not knowing  what to  say and
still trying to hold onto Tas, Caramon entered the Temple. But,
as he walked,  he heard  crude jokes  pass between  the guards,
giving him sudden  clear insight  into their  meaning. Dragging
the  wriggling  kender  down  a hallway,  he darted  around the
first corner he came to. He  hadn't the  vaguest idea  where he
was.
Once the guards were out of sight and hearing, he let Tas go.
The kender was pale, his eyes dilated.
"Why, those-those - I'll - They'll regret -"
"Tas!" Caramon shook him. "Stop it. Calm down. Remem-
ber why we're here!"
"Cutpurse! As if I were a common thief!" Tas  was practically
frothing at the mouth. "I -"
Caramon  glowered  at  him,  and  the kender  choked. Getting
control of himself, he drew a deep breath and let it  out again
slowly. "I'm all right, now," he said sullenly. "I said I'm all
right," he  snapped as  Caramon continued  to regard  him dubi-
ously.
"Well, we got inside, though not quite  the way  I expected,"
Caramon muttered. "Did you hear what they were saying?"

"No,  not after  'cu-cut'... after  that word.  You had  part of
your hand over my ears," Tas said accusingly.
"They... they sounded like... the ladies invited m-men
here for-for... you know...."
"Look,  Caramon,"  Tas  said, exasperated.  "You got  your sign.
They let  us in.  They were  probably just  teasing you.  You know
how  gullible  you  are.  You'll  believe anything!  Tika's always
saying so."
A  memory  of  Tika  came  to  Caramon's  mind.  He  could  hear
her  say  those very  words, laughing.  It cut  him like  a knife.
Glaring at Tas, he shoved the memory away immediately.
"Yeah,"  he  said  bitterly,  flushing,  "you're  probably right.
They're having their joke on me. And I fell for it, too! But" - he
lifted his  head and,  for the  first time,  looked around  at the
splendor of the Temple. He began to  realize where  he was  - this
holy place, this palace of the gods. Once more he felt  the rever-
ence  and  awe  he  had  experienced  as  he  stood gazing  at it,
bathed in Solinari's radiant light - "you're right - the gods have
given us our sign!"

There  was  a  corridor  in the  Temple where  few came  and, of
those that did, none went voluntarily. If forced  to come  here on
some errand, they did their business quickly  and left  as swiftly
as possible.
There was nothing wrong with  the corridor  itself. It  was just
as splendid as the other halls and corridors of the  Temple. Beau-
tiful tapestries done in muted colors graced its walls,  soft car-
pets  covered  its  marble  floors,  graceful  statues  filled its
shadowy  alcoves.   Ornately  carved   wooden  doors   opened  off
of it, leading  to rooms  as pleasingly  decorated as  other rooms
in the Temple. But the doors  opened no  longer. All  were locked.
All the rooms were empty - all except one.
That room was at the  very far  end of  the corridor,  which was
dark and silent even in the daytime. It was as if the  occupant of
this  one room  cast a  pall over  the very  floor he  walked, the
very  air  he  breathed.  Those  who  entered  this  corridor com-
plained  of  feeling  smothered.  They  gasped  for   breath  like
someone dying inside a burning house.
This room was the room of  Fistandantilus. It  had been  his for
years, since the  Kingpriest came  to power  and drove  the magic-
users  from their  Tower in  Palanthas -  the Tower  where Fistan-
dantilus had reigned as Head of the Conclave.

What  bargain  had  they  struck  -  the  leading  powers  of good
and  of evil  in the  world? What  deal had  been made  that allowed
the Dark  One to  live inside  the most  beautiful, most  holy place
on  Krynn?  None  knew,  many  speculated.  Most  believed   it  was
by the grace of the Kingpriest, a noble gesture to a defeated foe.
But even he  - even  the Kingpriest  himself -  did not  walk this
corridor. Here, at least, the great  mage reigned  in dark  and ter-
rifying supremacy.
At  the  far  end  of  the  corridor  stood  a tall  window. Heavy
plush  curtains were  drawn over  it, blotting  out the  sunlight in
the  daytime,  the  moons'  rays  at night.  Rarely did  light pene-
trate the  curtains' thick  folds. But  this night,  perhaps because
the  servants  had  been  driven  by  the   Head  of   Household  to
clean and dust the corridor,  the curtains  were parted  the slight-
est bit, letting Solinari's silver light shine into the bleak, empty
corridor.  The  beams  of  the  moon  the  dwarves  call  Night Can-
dle  pierced  the  darkness like  a long,  thin blade  of glittering
steel.
Or  perhaps  the  thin,   white  finger   of  a   corpse,  Caramon
thought,  looking  down  that  silent  corridor.   Stabbing  through
the glass, the finger of moonlight  ran the  length of  the carpeted
floor and, reaching the  length of  the hall,  touched him  where he
stood at the end.
"That's his door," the kender said  in such  a soft  whisper Cara-
mon  could  barely  hear  him  over  the beating  of his  own heart.
"On the left."
Caramon  reached  beneath  his  cloak   once  more,   seeking  the
dagger's hilt, its reassuring presence. But the handle of  the knife
was  cold.  He  shuddered  as  he  touched  it and  quickly withdrew
his hand.
It  seemed  a simple  thing, to  walk down  this corridor.  Yet he
couldn't   move.   Perhaps   it   was  the   enormity  of   what  he
contemplated  -  to  take a  man's life,  not in  battle, but  as he
slept. To kill a man in his sleep - of  all times,  the time  we are
most  defenseless,  when  we  place  ourselves in  the hands  of the
gods. Was there a more heinous, cowardly crime?
The  gods  gave  me   a  sign,   Caramon  reminded   himself,  and
sternly   he  made   himself  remember   the  dying   Barbarian.  He
made  himself  remember  his  brother's  torment  in  the  Tower. He
remembered   how   powerful   this  evil   mage  was   when  awake.
Caramon  drew  a  deep  breath and  grasped the  hilt of  the dagger
firmly.  Holding  it tightly,  though he  did not  draw it  from his

belt,  he  began  to  walk  down the  still corridor,  the moonlight
seeming now to beckon him on.
He felt a presence behind him, so close that, when he
stopped, Tas bumped into him.
"Stay here," Caramon ordered.
"No -" Tas began to protest, but Caramon hushed him.
"You've  got to.  Someone has  to stand  on watch  at this  end of
the corridor. If anyone comes, make a noise or something."
But -
Caramon  glared  down at  the kender.  At the  sight of  the big
man's  grim  expression  and  cold,  emotionless  glare,  Tas gulped
and  nodded.  "I-I'll  just stand  over there,  in that  shadow." He
pointed and crept away.
Caramon  waited  until  he  was  certain Tas  wouldn't "acciden-
tally"  follow  him.  But  the  kender  hunched  miserably  in the
shadow  of  huge,  potted  tree  that had  died months  ago. Cara-
mon turned and continued on.

Standing next  to the  brittle skeleton  whose dry  leaves rustled
when  the  kender  moved,   Tas  watched   Caramon  walk   down  the
hallway.  He saw  the big  man reach  the end,  stretch out  a hand,
and  wrap  it  around  the  door handle.  He saw  Caramon give  it a
gentle push. It yielded to  his pressure  and opened  silently. Car-
amon disappeared inside the room.
Tasslehoff  began  to  shake.  A  horrible, sick  feeling spread
from  his  stomach  throughout  his  body,  a whimper  escaped his
lips.  Clasping  his  hand  over  his  mouth  so that  he wouldn't
yelp,  the  kender  pressed  himself  up  against  the   wall  and
thought about dying, alone, in the dark.

Caramon  eased  his  big   body  around   the  door,   opening  it
only a crack in case the hinges  should squeak.  But it  was silent.
Everything  in  the  room  was  silent.  No  noise from  anywhere in
the Temple came into this chamber, as  if all  life itself  had been
swallowed  by  the   choking  darkness.   Caramon  felt   his  lungs
burn,   and   he  remembered   vividly  the   time  he   had  nearly
drowned in  the Blood  Sea of  Istar. Firmly,  he resisted  the urge
to gasp for air.
He  paused  a  moment  in  the  doorway, trying  to calm  his rac-
ing   heart,   and   looked  around   the  room.   Solinari's  light
streamed  in  through  a  gap  in  the  heavy curtains  that covered
the window. A thin sliver of silver light slit the darkness, slicing

through it in a narrow cut that led straight to the bed at the far
end of the room.
The   chamber   was   sparsely   furnished.   Caramon   saw  the
shapeless  bulk  of  a  heavy  black  robe  draped  over  a wooden
chair. Soft leather boots stood next to it. No fire burned  in the
grate, the night was  too warm.  Gripping the  hilt of  the knife,
Caramon  drew  it  slowly  and  crossed  the  room, guided  by the
moon's silver light.
A  sign  from  the  gods,  he  thought,  his  pounding heartbeat
nearly  choking  him. He  felt fear,  fear such  as he  had rarely
experienced  in his  life -  a raw,  gut-wrenching, bowel-twisting
fear  that made  his muscles  jerk and  dried his  throat. Desper-
ately,  he forced  himself to  swallow so  that he  wouldn't cough
and wake the sleeper.
I must do this quickly! he told himself,  more than  half afraid
he might faint or be sick. He  crossed the  room, the  soft carpet
muffling his swift footsteps.  Now he  could see  the bed  and the
figure  asleep within  it. He  could see  the figure  clearly, the
moonlight slicing a neat line across the  floor, up  the bedstead,
over the coverlet, slanting upward to the head  lying on  the pil-
low, its hood pulled over the face to blot out the light.
"Thus   the    gods   point    my   way,"    Caramon   murmured,
unaware  that  he was  speaking. Creeping  up to  the side  of the
bed, he paused, the  dagger in  his hand,  listening to  the quiet
breathing of his victim, trying to detect any change in  the deep,
even rhythm that would tell him he had been discovered.
In  and out...  in and  out... the  breathing was  strong, deep,
peaceful.  The  breathing   of  a   healthy  young   man.  Caramon
shuddered,  recalling  how  old  this wizard  was supposed  to be,
recalling the  dark tales  he had  heard about  how Fistandantilus
renewed  his  youth.  The  man's   breathing  was   steady,  even.
There  was  no  break,  no  quickening.  The moonlight  poured in,
cold, unwavering, a sign....
Caramon  raised  the  dagger.  One  thrust  -  swift and  neat -
deep in  the chest  and it  would be  over. Moving  forward, Cara-
mon  hesitated.  No,  before  he  struck, he  would look  upon the
face - the face of the man who had tortured his brother.
No!   Fool!  a   voice  screamed   inside  Caramon.   Stab  now,
quickly!  Caramon  even  lifted  the  knife  again,  but  his hand
shook. He  had to  see the  face! Reaching  out a  trembling hand,
he  gently  touched  the  black  hood. The  material was  soft and
yielding. He pushed it aside.

Solinari's  silver  moonlight  touched  Caramon's   hand,  then
touched the face of the  sleeping mage,  bathing it  in radiance.
Caramon's hand stiffened,  growing white  and cold  as that  of a
corpse as he stared down at the face on the pillow.
It was not the face of  an ancient,  evil wizard,  scarred with
countless sins. It was not even the face of some  tormented being
whose  life  had  been  stolen from  his body  to keep  the dying
mage alive.
It  was  the  face  of  a  young  magic-user,  weary  from long
nights of study at his  books, but  now relaxed,  finding welcome
rest. It was the face of  one whose  tenacious endurance  of con-
stant pain was  marked in  the firm,  unyielding lines  about the
mouth. It was a face as familiar to  Caramon as  his own,  a face
he  had  looked  upon  in sleep  countless times,  a face  he had
soothed with cooling water....
The  hand  holding  the  dagger  stabbed  down,   plunging  the
blade into the mattress. There was a wild, strangled  shriek, and
Caramon fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching at the cover-
let  with fingers  curled in  agony. His  big body  shook convul-
sively, wracked with shuddering sobs.
Raistlin opened  his eyes  and sat  up, blinking  in Solinari's
bright light. He drew  his hood  over his  eyes once  more, then,
sighing  in  irritation,  reached out  and carefully  removed the
dagger from his brother's nerveless grip.

_CHAPTER 9_

This was truly stu-
pid,  my  brother,"  said Raistlin,  turning the  dagger over  in his
slender hands, studying it idly. "I find it hard to believe,  even of
you."
Kneeling on the floor by the bedside, Caramon looked up at
his twin. His face was haggard, drawn  and deathly  pale. He
opened his mouth.
" 'I don't understand, Raist,' " Raistlin whined, mocking
him.
Caramon  clamped  his  lips   shut,  his   face  hardened   into  a
dark,  bitter  mask.  His  eyes  glanced  at  the dagger  his brother
still held.  "Perhaps it  would have  been better  if I  hadn't drawn
aside the hood," he muttered.
Raistlin smiled, though his brother did not see him.
"You had no choice," he replied. Then he sighed and shook
his head. "My brother, did you honestly think to simply walk
into my room and murder me as I slept? You know what a light
sleeper I am, have always been."
"No, not you!" Caramon cried brokenly, lifting his gaze. "I
thought -" He could not go on.
Raistlin  stared  at  him,  puzzled  for  a  moment,  then suddenly

began to laugh. It was horrible laughter, ugly and  taunting, and
Tasslehoff - still standing at the end of the hall -  clasped his
hands  over  his ears  at the  sound, even  as he  began creeping
down the corridor toward it to see what was going on.
"You  were  going  to  murder  Fistandantilus!"  Raistlin said,
regarding his  brother with  amusement. He  laughed again  at the
thought. "Dear  brother," he  said, "I  had forgotten  how enter-
taining you could be."
Caramon flushed, and rose unsteadily to his feet.
"I  was going  to do  it... for  you," he  said. Walking  over to
the window, he pulled aside  the curtain  and stared  moodily out
into the courtyard of the  Temple that  shimmered with  pearl and
silver in Solinari's light.
"Of course you were," Raistlin snapped, a trace of the old bit-
terness creeping into his voice. "Why did  you ever  do anything,
except for me?"
Speaking  a  sharp word  of command,  Raistlin caused  a bright
light to fill the room, gleaming  from the  Staff of  Magius that
leaned against  the wall  in a  corner. The  mage threw  back the
coverlet and rose from  his bed.  Walking over  to the  grate, he
spoke  another word  and flames  leaped up  from the  bare stone.
Their  orange  light  beat  upon  his  pale,  thin  face  and was
reflected in the clear, brown eyes.
"Well, you are late, my  brother," Raistlin  continued, holding
his hands out to warm them at the  blaze, flexing  and exercising
his supple fingers. "Fistandantilus is dead. By my hands."
Caramon  turned  around  sharply  to  stare  at   his  brother,
caught  by  the  odd tone  in Raistlin's  voice. But  his brother
remained standing by the fire, staring into the flames.
"You thought to walk  in and  stab him  as he  slept," Raistlin
murmured,  a  grim  smile on  his thin  lips. "The  greatest mage
who ever lived - up until now."
Caramon saw  his brother  lean against  the mantlepiece,  as if
suddenly weak.
"He was surprised  to see  me," said  Raistlin softly.  "And he
mocked me, as he mocked me  in the  Tower. But  he was  afraid. I
could see it in his eyes.
" 'So, little mage,' Fistandantilus sneered, 'and how did you
get here? Did the great Par-Salian send you?'
" 'I came  on my  own,' I  told him.  'I am  the Master  of the
Tower now.'
"He had not expected that. 'Impossible,' he said,  laughing. 'I

am  the  one  whose  coming  the  prophecy  foretold. I  am master
of past and present. When I am ready,  I will  return to  my prop-
erty.'
"But the fear grew in his eyes, even  as he  spoke, for  he read
my thoughts.  'Yes,' I  answered his  unspoken words,  'the proph-
ecy  did  not  work  as you  hoped. You  intended to  journey from
the past to  the present,  using the  lifeforce you  wrenched from
me  to  keep  you  alive. But  you forgot,  or perhaps  you didn't
care, that  I could  draw upon  your spiritual  force! You  had to
keep  me  alive in  order to  keep sucking  out my  living juices.
And  -  to  that end  - you  gave me  the words  and taught  me to
use  the  dragon  orb.  When I  lay dying  at Astinus's  feet, you
breathed  air  into  this  wretched  body  you  had  tortured. You
brought  me  to  the  Dark  Queen  and  beseeched  her to  give me
the  Key  to unlock  the mysteries  of the  ancient magic  texts I
could  not   read.  And,   when  you   were  finally   ready,  you
intended to enter the shattered husk of my body  and claim  it for
your own.' "
Raistlin  turned  to  face  his  brother,  and  Caramon  stepped
back a  pace, frightened  at the  hatred and  fury he  saw burning
within the eyes, brighter than the dancing flames of the fire.
"So he thought to keep me weak and  frail. But  I fought  him! I
fought him!" Raistlin repeated softly, intently, his  gaze staring
far away. "I used him! I used his spirit and I lived with the pain
and I overcame it! 'You are master of the past,' I told  him, 'but
you lack the strength to get into the present. I am master  of the.
present, about to become master of the past!' "
Raislin sighed,  his hand  dropped, the  light flickered  in his
eyes  and died,  leaving them  dark and  haunted. "I  killed him,"
he murmured, "but it was a bitter battle."
"You  killed him?  They-they said  you came  back to  learn from
him," Caramon stammered, confusion twisting his face.
"I did," Raistlin said softly. "Long months I spent with him, in
another  guise, revealing  myself to  him only  when I  was ready.
This time, I sucked him dry!"
Caramon  shook   his  head.   "That's  impossible.   You  didn't
leave until the same time we did, that  night.... At  least that's
what the dark elf said -"
Raistlin shook  his head  irritably. "Time  to you,  my brother,
is  a  journey  from sunrise  to sunset.  Time to  those of  us who
have  mastered  its  secrets  is  a  journey beyond  suns. Seconds
become  years, hours  - millennia.  I have  walked these  halls as

Fistandantilus  for  months  now.  These  last  few  weeks  I have
traveled to all the Towers of High Sorcery - those still standing,
that is - to study and to learn. I  have been  with Lorac,  in the
elven  kingdom,  and  taught  him  to  use  the  dragon  orb  -  a
deadly gift, for one as weak and vain  as he.  It will  snare him,
later  on.  I  have  spent long  hours with  Astinus in  the Great
Library. And, before that, I studied  with the  great Fistandanti-
lus.  Other  places  I  have visited,  seeing horrors  and wonders
beyond  your  imagining.  But,  to  Dalamar,  for example,  I have
been gone no more than a day and a night. As have you."
This was beyond Caramon. Desperately, he sought to grab
at some fraction of reality.
"Then...  does  this  mean  that  you're...  all  right,  now? I
mean,  in  the  present?  In  our time?"  He gestured.  "Your skin
isn't gold anymore, you've  lost the  hourglass eyes.  You look...
like  you  did  when you  were young,  and we  rode to  the Tower,
seven years ago. Will you be like that when we go back?"
"No,  my  brother,"  Raistlin said,  speaking with  the patience
one  uses  explaining  things  to  a  child.   "Surely  Par-Salian
explained this? Well, perhaps  not. Time  is a  river. I  have not
changed the  course of  its flow.  I have  simply climbed  out and
jumped in at a  point farther  upstream. It  carries me  along its
course. I -"
Raistlin stopped suddenly, casting a sharp  glance at  the door.
Then,  with a  swift motion  of his  hand, he  caused the  door to
burst  open  and  Tasslehoff  Burrfoot  tumbled   inside,  falling
down face first.
"Oh, hullo,"  Tas said,  cheerfully picking  himself up  off the
floor.  "I  was  just  going  to knock."  Dusting himself  off, he
turned eagerly to Caramon. "I have it  figured out!  You see  - it
used  to  be  Fistandantilus  becoming  Raistlin  becoming Fistan-
dantilus.   Only   now   it's  Fistandantilus   becoming  Raistlin
becoming Fistandantilus, then becoming Raistlin again. See?"
No,  Caramon  did  not. Tas  turned around  to the  mage. "Isn't
that right, Raist -"
The  mage  didn't  answer.  He  was  staring at  Tasslehoff with
such a queer,  dangerous expression  in his  eyes that  the kender
glanced uneasily  at Caramon  and took  a step  or two  nearer the
warrior - just in case Caramon needed help, of course.
Suddenly Raistlin's hand made a swift, slight, summoning
motion. Tasslehoff felt no sensation of movement, but there
was a blurring in the room for half a heartbeat,  and then  he was

being held by his collar within inches of Raistlin's thin face.
"Why did Par-Salian  send you?"  Raistlin asked  in a  soft voice
that "shivered" the kender's skin, as Flint used to say.
"Well,  he  thought  Caramon  needed  help,  of  course   and  -"
Raistlin's grip tightened,  his eyes  narrowed. Tas  faltered. "Uh,
actually, I don't think he, uh, really intended to s-send  me." Tas
tried  to  twist  his  head  around to  look beseechingly  at Cara-
mon,  but  Raistlin's grip  was strong  and powerful,  nearly chok-
ing the kender. "It-it was, more or less, an accident, I  guess, at
least as far as he was c-concerned.  And I  could t-talk  better if
you'd let me breathe... every once in awhile."
"Go on!" Raistlin ordered, shaking Tas slightly.
"Raist,  stop  -"  Caramon  began,  taking  a  step  toward him,
his brow furrowed.
"Shut  up!"  Raistlin  commanded  furiously,  never  taking  his
burning eyes off the kender. "Continue."
"There-there   was   a   ring   someone   had   dropped...  well,
maybe  not  dropped  -"  Tas  stammered,  alarmed  enough   by  the
expression in Raistlin's eyes into telling the truth, or as near as
was kenderly possible. "I-I guess I  was sort  of going  into some-
one  else's  room,  and  it  f-fell  in-into  my pouch,  I suppose,
because  I  don't  know  how  it  got there,  but when  th-the red-
robed  man  sent  Bupu  home,  I knew  I was  next. And  I couldn't
leave  Caramon!  So  I-I  said  a  prayer  to  F-Fizban  -  I  mean
Paladine - and I put the ring on  and -  poof!" -  Tas held  up his
hands - "I was a mouse!"
The  kender  paused  at  this  dramatic  moment,  hoping  for  an
appropriately  amazed  response  from  his  audience.   But  Raist-
lin's eyes only dilated with  impatience and  his hand  twisted the
kender's collar  just a  bit more,  so Tas  hurried on,  finding it
increasingly difficult to breathe.
"And  so  I  was  able  to  hide,"  he  squeaked, not  unlike the
mouse  he  had   been,  "and   sneaked  into   Par-Salian's  labra-
labora-lavaratory   -  and   he  was   doing  the   most  wonderful
things  and the  rocks were  singing and  Crysania was  lying there
all pale and Caramon  looked terrified  and I  couldn't let  him go
alone  -  so...  so..." Tas  shrugged and  looked at  Raistlin with
disarming innocence, "here I am...."
Raistlin  continued  clutching  him   for  a   moment,  devouring
him with his eyes, as if he would  'strip the  skin from  his bones
and  see  inside  his  very soul.  Then, apparently  satisfied, the
mage let the  kender drop  to the  floor and  turned back  to stare

into the fire, his thoughts abstracted.
"What does this mean?"  he murmured.  "A kender  - by  all the
laws of magic forbidden! Does this mean the  course of  time can
be altered? Is he telling the truth? Or is this how they plot to
stop me?"
"What  did  you  say?"  Tas  asked  with interest,  looking up
from where he sat  on the  carpet, trying  to catch  his breath.
"The  course  of  time  altered?  By  me?  Do  you  mean  that I
could -"
Raistlin whirled, glaring at the kender so viciously  that Tas
shut his  mouth and  began edging  his way  back to  where Cara-
mon stood.
"I was sure surprised to find your brother. Weren't  you?" Tas
asked Caramon,  ignoring the  spasm of  pain that  crossed Cara-
mon's face. "Raistlin was surprised to see  me, too,  wasn't he?
That's  odd,  because  I  saw  him  in  the  slave market  and I
assumed he must have seen us -"
"Slave  market!" Caramon  said suddenly.  Enough of  this talk
about  rivers  and  time.  This  was  something he  could under-
stand! "Raist -  you said  you've been  here months!  That means
you  are  the  one  who  made  them  think I  attacked Crysania!
You're the one  who bought  me! You're  the one  who sent  me to
the Games!"
Raistlin made an  impatient gesture,  irritated at  having his
thoughts interrupted.
But  Caramon  persisted.  "Why!"  he  demanded  angrily.  "Why
that place?"
"Oh,  in  the  name  of  the  gods, Caramon!"  Raistlin turned
around again, his eyes cold. "What possible use could you  be to
me in the condition you were  in when  you came  here? I  need a
strong warrior where we're going next - not a fat drunk."
"And...  and  you  ordered  the  Barbarian's  death?"  Caramon
asked, his eyes flashing. "You sent  the warning  to what's-his-
name - Quarath?"
"Don't be a dolt, my brother," Raistlin said grimly.  "What do
I care for these petty court  intrigues? Their  little, mindless
games? If I wanted to do away with an enemy,  his life  would be
snuffed out in a matter of seconds. Quarath flat ters himself to
think I would take such an interest in him."
"But the dwarf said -"
"The dwarf hears only the sound of money being dropped
into his palm. But, believe what you will." Raistlin shrugged.

"It matters little to me."
Caramon  was  silent  long  moments,  pondering.   Tas  opened
his  mouth  -  there  were  at  least a  hundred questions  he was
dying to ask Raistlin -  but Caramon  glared at  him and  the ken-
der  closed it  quickly. Caramon,  slowly going  over in  his mind
all that his brother had told him, suddenly raised his gaze.
"What do you mean - 'where we go next'?"
"My  counsel  is mine  to keep,"  Raistlin replied.  "You will
know  when  the  time  comes,  so  to  speak.  My  work  here pro-
gresses, but it is  not quite  finished. There  is one  other here
besides  you   who  must   be  beaten   down  and   hammered  into
shape."
"Crysania,"  Caramon  murmured.  "This  has  something  to  do
with  challenging  the-the  Dark  Queen,  doesn't it?  Like they
said? You need a cleric -"
"I  am  very tired,  my brother,"  Raistlin interrupted.  At his
gesture,  the flames  in the  fireplace vanished.  At a  word, the
light  from  the  Staff  winked  out.  Darkness, chill  and bleak,
descended  on  the three  who stood  there. Even  Solinari's light
was  gone,  the moon  having sunk  behind the  buildings. Raistlin
crossed the room,  heading for  his bed.  His black  robes rustled
softly. "Leave  me to  my rest.  You should  not remain  here long
in  any  event.  Undoubtedly, spies  have reported  your presence,
and Quarath  can be  a deadly  enemy. Try  to avoid  getting your-
self killed. It would annoy me  greatly to  have to  train another
bodyguard.  Farewell,  my  brother.  Be  ready.  My  summons  will
come soon. Remember the date."
Caramon  opened  his  mouth,  but  he  found himself  talking to
a door.  He and  Tas were  standing outside  in the  now-dark cor-
ridor.
"That's really incredible!" the kender said, sighing in delight.
"I  didn't  even  feel  myself  moving,  did  you?  One  minute we
were there, the next we're here. Just a wave of the hand.  It must
be wonderful being  a mage,"  Tas said  wistfully, staring  at the
closed  door.  "Zooming   through  time   and  space   and  closed
doors."
"Come  on,"  Caramon  said  abruptly,  turning   and  stalking
down the corridor.
"Say,  Caramon,"  Tas  said  softly,  hurrying after  him. "What
did Raistlin mean - 'remember  the date'?  Is it  his Day  of Life
Gift  coming  up  or  something?  Are  you supposed  to get  him a
present?"

_not corrected bellow_

"No," Caramon growled. "Don't be silly."
"I'm not being silly," Tas protested, offended. "After  all, Yule-
tide is in a few weeks, and he's probably expecting a  present for
that. At least,  I suppose  they celebrate  Yuletide back  here in
Istar the same as we celebrate it in our time. Do you think -"
Caramon came to a sudden halt.
"What is  it'!" Tas  asked, alarmed  at the  horrified expression
on  the  big  man's  face. Hurriedly,  the kender  glanced around,
his hand closing over the hilt of a small knife he had tucked into
his own belt. "What do you see? I don't -"
"The  date!"  Caramon  cried.  "The   date,  Tas!   Yuletide!  In
Istar!"  Whirling around,  he grabbed  the startled  kender. "What
year is it? What year?"
"Why..."  Tas  gulped, trying  to think.  "I believe,  yes, some-
one told me it was - 962."
Caramon  groaned,  his  hands  dropped  Tas  and clutched  at his
head.
"What is it?" Tas asked.
"Think,  Tas,  think!"  Caramon  muttered.  Then,   clutching  at
his head in misery,  the big  man stumbled  blindly down  the cor-
ridor  in the  darkness. "What  do they  want me  to do?  What can
I do?"
Tas  followed  more slowly.  "Let's see.  This is  Yuletide, year
962  I.A.  Such  a ridiculously  high number.  For some  reason it
sounds familiar. Yuletide, 962.... Oh, I  remember!" he  said tri-
umphantly.  "That  was  the  last Yuletide  right before  .. right
before...."
The thought took the kender's breath away.
"Right before the Cataclysm!" he whispered.

_CHAPTER 10_

Denubis    set   down
the quill pen and rubbed his eyes. He sat in the quiet of the copy-
ing room, his hand over  his eyes,  hoping that  a brief  moment of
rest would help him. But  it didn't.  When he  opened his  eyes and
grasped the quill pen to  begin his  work again,  the words  he was
trying to translate still swam together in a meaningless jumble.
Sternly,  he  reprimanded  himself  and  ordered himself  to con-
centrate and - finally -  the words  began to  make sense  and sort
themselves  out. But  it was  difficult going.  His head  ached. It
had ached, it seemed,  for days  now, with  a dull,  throbbing pain
that was present even in his dreams.
"It's  this strange  weather," he  told himself  repeatedly. "Too
hot for the beginning of Yule season."
It  was  too  hot,  strangely  hot.  And the  air was  thick with
moisture,  heavy  and  oppressive.  The  fresh  breezes  had  seem-
ingly  been  swallowed  up  by  the  heat.  One hundred  miles away
at Kathay, so he had  heard, the  ocean lay  flat and  calm beneath
the fiery sun, so calm that no ships  could sail.  They sat  in the
harbor, their captains cursing, their cargo rotting.
Mopping  his   forehead,  Denubis   tried  to   continue  working
diligently, translating the  Disks of  Mishakal into  Solamnic. But

his mind wandered.  The words  made him  think of  a tale  he had
heard  some  Solamnic  knights  discussing last  night -  a grue-
some tale that Denubis kept trying to banish from his mind.
A  knight  named  Soth  had  seduced a  young elven  cleric and
then married her,  bringing her  home to  his castle  at Dargaard
Keep as his bride.  But this  Soth had  already been  married, so
the knights said, and there was more than  one reason  to believe
that his first wife had met a most foul end.
The  knights  had  sent a  delegation to  arrest Soth  and hold
him  for  trial,  but  Dargaard  Keep,  it was  said, was  now an
armed fortress - Soth's own loyal  knights defending  their lord.
What  made  it  particularly  haunting was  that the  elven woman
the lord had deceived remained  with him,  steadfast in  her love
and loyalty to the man, even though his guilt had been proven.
Denubis  shuddered  and  tried  to  banish the  thought. There!
He made an error. This was hopeless! He started to lay  the quill
down  again, then  heard the  door to  the copying  room opening.
Hastily, he lifted the quill pen and began to write rapidly.
"Denubis," said a soft, hesitant voice.
The  cleric  looked  up.  "Crysania,  my dear,"  he said,  with a
smile.
"Am I disturbing your work? I can come back -"
"No, no,"  Denubis assured  her. "I  am glad  to see  you. Very
glad." This  was quite  true. Crysania  had a  way of  making him
feel  calm  and  tranquil.  Even his  headache seemed  to lessen.
Leaving his high-backed writing stool, he found  a chair  for her
and  one  for  himself,  then  sat down  near her,  wondering why
she had come.
As if  in answer,  Crysania looked  around the  still, peaceful
room and smiled. "I like it here," she said. "It's so  quiet and,
well, private." Her smile faded. "I sometimes get tired  of... of
so many people," she said, her gaze going to the door that led to
the main part of the Temple.
"Yes, it is quiet," Denubis said. "Now, at any rate.  It wasn't
so, in past years. When I first came, it was filled with scribes,
translating the words of the gods into  languages so  that every-
one could read  them. But  the Kingpriest  didn't think  that was
necessary and - one by one - they all  left, finding  more impor-
tant things to do. Except me." He sighed. "I guess I'm  too old,"
he added gently, apologetically. "I tried  to think  of something
important  to  do,  and  I  couldn't.  So I  stayed here.  No one
seemed to mind... very much."

He  couldn't  help  frowning  slightly,  remembering  those long
talks  with  Revered  Son,  Quarath,  prodding  and poking  at him
to  make  something  of  himself.  Eventually,  the  higher cleric
gave  up,  telling  Denubis  he  was  hopeless.  So   Denubis  had
returned to his work, sitting day after day in  peaceful solitude,
translating  the scrolls  and the  books and  sending them  off to
Solamnia where they sat, unread, in some great library.
"But,  enough  about  me,"  he  added,  seeing   Crysania's  wan
face. "What  is the  matter, my  dear? Are  you not  feeling well?
Forgive  me,  but  I  couldn't  help  but  notice, these  past few
weeks, how unhappy you've seemed."
Crysania  stared  down  at  her hands  in silence,  then glanced
back up  at the  cleric. "Denubis,"  she began  hesitantly, "do...
do you think the church is... what it should be?"
That  wasn't  at  all  what he  had expected.  She had  more the
look of a  young girl  deceived by  a lover.  "Why, of  course, my
dear," Denubis said in some confusion.
"Really?" Lifting her  gaze, she  looked into  his eyes  with an
intent  stare that  made Denubis  pause. "You  have been  with the
church for a long time, before  the coming  of the  Kingpriest and
Quar  -  his  ministers.  You talk  about the  old days.  You have
seen it change. Is it better?"
Denubis opened his  mouth to  say, certainly,  yes, it  was bet-
ter.  How could  it be  otherwise with  such a  good and  holy man
as  the  Kingpriest  at its  head? But  Lady Crysania's  gray eyes
were staring straight into his soul, he realized suddenly, feeling
their searching, seeking gaze bringing light to all the  dark cor-
ners where he had been hiding  things -  he knew  - for  years. He
was reminded, uncomfortably, of Fistandantilus.
"I - well - of  course -  it's just  -" He  was babbling  and he
knew it. Flushing, he fell silent. Crysania nodded gravely,  as if
she had expected the answer.
"No, it is better," he said firmly, not wanting to see her young
faith bruised, as his had been.  Taking her  hand, he  leaned for-
ward.  "I'm  just  a  middle-aged  old man,  my dear.  And middle-
aged  old men  don't like  change. That's  all. To  us, everything
was  better  in  the  old  days. Why"  - he  chuckled -  "even the
water tasted better, it seems. I'm not used  to modern  ways. It's
hard  for  me  to  understand.  The  church  is  doing a  world of
good, my dear. It's bringing order  to the  land and  structure to
society -"
"Whether society wants it or not," Crysania muttered, but

Denubis ignored her.
"It's eradicating evil,"  he continued,  and suddenly  the story
of that knight - that Lord Soth - floated to the top of  his mind,
unbidden. He sank it  hurriedly, but  not before  he had  lost his
place in his lecture. Lamely, he tried to pick it up again, but it
was too late.
"Is it?" Lady Crysania was asking him. "Is it  eradicating evil?
Or are we like children,  left alone  in the  house at  night, who
light  candle after  candle to  keep away  the darkness.  We don't
see  that  the  darkness  has  a  purpose  -  though  we  may  not
understand it -  and so,  in our  terror, we  end up  burning down
the house!"
Denubis  blinked, not  understanding this  at all;  but Crysania
continued,  growing  more  and  more  restless  as she  talked. It
was  obvious,  Denubis  realized   uncomfortably,  that   she  had
kept this pent up inside her for weeks.
"We don't try  to help  those who  have lost  their way  find it
again!  We  turn  our  backs  on them,  calling them  unworthy, or
we  get  rid  of  them! Do  you know"  - she  turned on  Denubis -
"that  Quarath  has  proposed  ridding  the  world  of   the  ogre
races?"
"But, my  dear, ogres  are, after  all, a  murderous, villainous
lot -" Denubis ventured to protest feebly.
"Created  by  the  gods, just  as we  were," Crysania  said. "Do
we have the  right, in  our imperfect  understanding of  the great
scheme of things, to destroy anything the gods created?"
"Even  spiders?"  Denubis  asked  wistfully,  without  thinking.
Seeing  her  irritated  expression,  he  smiled. "Never  mind. The
ramblings of an old man."
"I  came  here, convinced  that the  church was  everything good
and true, and now I - I -" She put her head in her hands.
Denubis's  heart  ached  nearly  as much  as his  head. Reaching
out a  trembling hand,  he gently  stroked the  smooth, blue-black
hair,  comforting  her  as  he would  have comforted  the daughter
he never had.
"Don't feel ashamed of your questioning, child," he said, try-
ing to forget that he had been feeling ashamed  of his.  "Go, talk
to  the  Kingpriest.  He  will  answer  your  doubts. He  has more
wisdom than I."
Crysania looked up hopefully.
"Do you think -"
"Certainly."  Denubis  smiled.  "See  him  tonight, my  dear. He

will  be  holding  audience. Do  not be  afraid. Such  questions do
not anger him."
"Very well," Crysania said,  her face  filled with  resolve. "You
are right. It's been  foolish of  me to  wrestle with  this myself,
without help. I'll  ask the  Kingpriest. Surely,  he can  make this
darkness light."
Denubis  smiled and  rose to  his feet  as Crysania  rose. Impul-
sively,  she  leaned  over  and  kissed  him  gently on  the cheek.
"Thank you, my friend," she said  softly. "I'll  leave you  to your
work."
Watching her walk  from the  still, sunlit  room, Denubis  felt a
sudden, inexplicable sorrow and, then,  a very  great fear.  It was
as if he stood in a place of bright light, watching her walk into a
vast  and  terrible darkness.  The light  around him  grew brighter
and  brighter,  while  the  darkness  around  her grew  more horri-
ble, more dense.
Confused,  Denubis  put  his  hand  to  his  eyes. The  light was
real! It was streaming into this  room, bathing  him in  a radiance
so  brilliant  and  beautiful that  he couldn't  look upon  it. The
light pierced his  brain, the  pain in  his head  was excruciating.
And still, he  thought desperately,  I must  warn Crysania,  I must
stop her....
The light engulfed him, filling his soul  with its  radiant bril-
liance.  And  then,  suddenly, the  bright light  was gone.  He was
once  more  standing  in  the  sunlit  room.  But he  wasn't alone.
Blinking,  trying  to  accustom  his  eyes  to  the   darkness,  he
looked  around  and  saw  an  elf  standing in  the room  with him,
observing him coolly. The elf  was elderly,  balding, with  a long,
meticulously  groomed,  white  beard.  He  was  dressed   in  long,
white  robes,  the  medallion  of  Paladine  hung  about  his neck.
The expression  on the  elf's face  was one  of sadness,  such sad-
ness  that  Denubis  was  moved  to  tears, though  he had  no idea
why.
"I'm  sorry,"  Denubis  said  huskily.  Putting  his hand  to his
head,  he  suddenly realized  it didn't  hurt anymore.  "I-I didn't
see  you  come  in.  Can  I  help  you? Are  you looking  for some-
one?"
"No, I have found the one I seek," the elf said calmly, but still
with the same sad expression, "if you are Denubis."
"I am Denubis," the cleric replied, mystified. "But, forgive
me, I can't place you -"
"My name is Loralon," said the elf.

Denubis  gasped. The  greatest of  the elven  clerics, Loralon
had,  years  ago, fought  Quarath's rise  to power.  But Quarath
was  too  strong.  Powerful forces  backed him.  Loralon's words
of  reconciliation and  peace were  not appreciated.  In sorrow,
the old cleric had returned to his people, to the  wondrous land
of Silvanesti that  he loved,  vowing never  to look  upon Istar
again.
What was he doing here?
"Surely, you seek the Kingpriest," Denubis stammered,
"I'll -"
"No, there is only one in this Temple I seek and that  is you,
Denubis,"  Loralon  said.  "Come,  now. We  have a  long journey
ahead of us."
"Journey!"  Denubis  repeated stupidly,  wondering if  he were
going mad. "That's impossible. I've not left Istar since  I came
here, thirty years -"
"Come along, Denubis," said Loralon gently.
"Where?  How?  I don't  understand -"  Denubis cried.  He saw
Loralon standing  in the  center of  the sunlit,  peaceful room,
watching him, still with that same expression of  deep, unutter-
able  sadness.  Reaching  up, Loralon  touched the  medallion he
wore around his neck.
And then Denubis knew.  Paladine gave  his cleric  insight. He
saw the future. Blanching in horror, he shook his head.
"No," he whispered. "That is too dreadful."
"All  is not  decided. The  scales of  balance are  tipping, but
they have not yet been upset.  This journey  may be  only tempo-
rary, or it may last for time  beyond reckoning.  Come, Denubis,
you are needed here no longer."
The great elven cleric  stretched out  his hand.  Denubis felt
blessed with a  sense of  peace and  understanding he  had never
before  experienced,  even  in the  presence of  the Kingpriest.
Bowing his head, he reached  out and  took Loralon's  hand. But,
as he did so, he could not help weeping....

Crysania sat in a  corner of  the Kingpriest's  sumptuous Hall
of Audience, her hands folded calmly in her  lap, her  face pale
but  composed. Looking  at her,  no one  would have  guessed the
turmoil in her soul. No one,  perhaps, except  one man,  who had
entered the  room unnoticed  by anyone  and who  now stood  in a
shadowy alcove, watching Crysania.
Sitting there, listening to the musical voice of the Kingpriest,

hearing him discuss important  matters of  state with  his minis-
ters, hearing him go from politics to solving the great mysteries
of the universe with other  ministers, Crysania  actually blushed
to  think  she  had  even  considered  approaching  him  with her
petty questions.
Words of Elistan's came to  her mind.  "Do not  go to  others for
the  answers.  Look  in your  own heart,  search your  own faith.
You will either find the answer or come to see that the answer is
with the gods themselves, not with man."
And  so Crysania  sat, preoccupied  with her  thoughts, search-
ing her heart. Unfortunately,  the peace  she sought  eluded her.
Perhaps  there  were  no  answers to  her questions,  she decided
abruptly. Then she  felt a  hand on  her arm.  Starting, Crysania
looked up.
"There  are  answers  to  your  questions,  Revered  Daughter,"
said a voice that sent  a thrill  of shocked  recognition through
her  nerves,  "there  are answers,  but you  refuse to  listen to
them."
She  knew the  voice, but  - looking  eagerly into  the shadows
of the hood, she could not recognize the face. She glanced at the
hand  on  her  shoulder,  thinking  she  knew  that  hand.  Black
robes fell around it, and her  heart lurched.  But there  were no
silver runes  upon the  robes, such  as he  wore. Once  more, she
stared into the face. All she could see was the glitter of hidden
eyes, pale skin.... Then the hand left  her shoulder  and, reach-
ing up, turned back the front of the hood.
At  first,  Crysania  felt  bitter  disappointment.  The  young
man's eyes were not golden,  not shaped  like the  hourglass that
had become his symbol.  The skin  was not  tinted gold,  the face
was not frail and sickly. This man's  face was  pale, as  if from
long hours of study, but  it was  healthy, even  handsome, except
for its look of perpetual, bitter cynicism. The eyes  were brown,
clear and cold as glass, reflecting back all they  saw, revealing
nothing  within. The  man's body  was slender,  but well-muscled.
The  black,  unadorned  robes  he  wore  revealed the  outline of
strong  shoulders,  not the  stooped and  shattered frame  of the
mage. And then the man smiled, the thin lips parted slightly.
"It is you!" Crysania breathed, starting up from her chair.
The man placed  his hand  upon her  shoulder again,  exerting a
gentle  pressure  that  forced  her  back  down.  "Please, remain
seated, Revered Daughter," he said. "I will join you. It is quiet
here,  and  we  can  talk  without  interruption."   Turning,  he

motioned  with  a  graceful  gesture  and a  chair that  had been
across  the  room  suddenly  stood next  to him.  Crysania gasped
slightly and glanced  around the  room. But,  if anyone  else had
noticed,  they  were  all  studiously  intent  upon  ignoring the
mage.  Looking  back,  Crysania  found  Raistlin watching  her in
amusement, and she felt her skin grow warm.
"Raistlin," she said formally,  to cover  her confusion,  "I am
pleased to see you."
"And I am pleased  to see  you, Revered  Daughter," he  said in
that mocking voice that  grated on  her nerves.  "But my  name is
not' Raistlin."
She stared at  him, flushing  even more  now in  her embarrass-
ment. "Forgive me," she said, looking intently at his  face, "but
you reminded me strongly of someone I know - once knew."
"Perhaps this will clear up the mystery,"  he said  softly. "My
name, to those around here, is Fistandantilus."
Crysania  shivered  involuntarily,  the  lights  in   the  room
seemed  to  darken.  "No,"  she  said,  shaking her  head slowly,
"that cannot be! You came back... to learn from him!"
"I came back to become him," Raistlin replied.
"But...  I've heard  stories. He's  evil, foul  -" She  drew away
from Raistlin, her gaze fixed on him in horror.
"The evil is no more," Raistlin replied. "He is dead."
"You?" The word was a whisper.
"He  would  have  killed me,  Crysania," Raistlin  said simply,
"as he has murdered countless others. It was my life or his."
"We have exchanged one evil for another," Crysania
answered in a sad, hopeless voice. She turned away.
I  am  losing  her! Raistlin  realized instantly.  Silently, he
regarded her. She had shifted in her chair, turning her face from
him. He could see her profile, cold and pure as Solinari's light.
Coolly  he  studied  her, much  as he  studied the  small animals
that came under his knife when he probed for the secrets  of life
itself. Just as he stripped away their skins  to see  the beating
hearts  beneath, so  he mentally  stripped away  Crysania's outer
defenses to see her soul.
She was listening to the beautiful voice of the Kingpriest, and
on her face was  a look  of profound  peace. But  Raistlin remem-
bered her face as  he had  seen it  on entering.  Long accustomed
to  observing  others  and  reading  the  emotions  they  thought
they hid, he had seen the  slight line  appear between  her black
eyebrows,  he  had  seen  her  gray eyes  grow dark  and clouded.

She had kept her hands in  her lap,  but he  had seen  the fingers
twist the  cloth of  her gown.  He knew  of her  conversation with
Denubis.  He  knew  she  doubted,  that  her  faith  was wavering,
teetering on the edge of the  precipice. It  would take  little to
shove her over the edge. And, with a bit of patience on  his part,
she might even jump over of her own accord.
Raistlin  remembered  how  she  had   flinched  at   his  touch.
Drawing  near  her, he  reached out  and took  hold of  her wrist.
She  started and  almost immediately  tried to  break free  of his
hold. But  his grip  was firm.  Crysania looked  up into  his eyes
and could not move.
"Do you truly believe that of me?" Raistlin  asked in  the voice
of one who has suffered long and then returned to find it  was all
for nothing.  He saw  his sorrow  pierce her  heart. She  tried to
speak, but Raistlin continued, twisting the knife in her soul.
"Fistandantilus  planned  to  return  to  our time,  destroy me,
take  my  body,  and  pick  up  where the  Queen of  Darkness left
off. He plotted to bring the evil dragons  under his  control. The
Dragon  Highlords,  like  my sister,  Kitiara, would  have flocked
to  his  standard.  The  world  would  be  plunged into  war, once
again."  Raistlin  paused.  "That  threat is  now ended,"  he said
softly.
His eyes held Crysania, just as his hand  held her  wrist. Look-
ing in them, she saw  herself reflected  in their  mirrorlike sur-
face.  And  she  saw herself,  not as  the pale,  studious, severe
cleric she had heard herself called more than  once, but  as some-
one beautiful and caring. This man had  come to  her in  trust and
she  had  let him  down. The  pain in  his voice  was unendurable,
and Crysania tried once  again to  speak, but  Raistlin continued,
drawing her ever nearer.
"You  know  my  ambitions,"  he  said.  "To  you,  I  opened  my
heart. Is it my design to renew the war? Is it  my desire  to con-
quer the world? My sister, Kitiara, came  to me  to ask  this very
thing, to seek my help. I refused, and you, I fear, paid  the con-
sequences."  Raistlin  sighed and  lowered his  eyes. "I  told her
about  you,  Crysania,  and  of  your  goodness  and  your  power.
She  was  enraged  and  sent  her  death  knight  to  destroy you,
thinking to end your influence over me."
"Do  I  have influence  over you  then?" Crysania  asked softly,
no longer trying to break free of Raistlin's hold. Her voice trem-
bled with joy. "Can I dare  hope that  you have  seen the  ways of
the church and -"

"The  ways  of  this  church?"  Raistlin  asked, his  voice once
again  bitter  and  mocking.  Withdrawing  his  hand  abruptly, he
sat back in his  chair, gathering  his black  robes about  him and
regarding Crysania with a sneering smile.
Embarrassment,  anger,  and  guilt  stained Crysania's  cheeks a
faint pink,  her gray  eyes darkened  to deep  blue. The  color in
her  cheeks spread  to her  lips and  suddenly she  was beautiful,
something  Raistlin  noticed  without  meaning  to.   The  thought
annoyed  him  beyond  all  bounds,  threatening  to   disrupt  his
concentration. Irritably, he pushed it away.
"I  know  your  doubts,  Crysania,"  he  continued  abruptly. "I
know  what you  have seen.  You have  found the  church to  be far
more  concerned  with  running  the world  than teaching  the ways
of the gods. You  have seen  its clerics  double-dealing, dabbling
in  politics,  spending  money for  show that  might have  fed the
poor.  You  thought  to  vindicate  the  church,  when   you  came
back; to discover that others caused the  gods in  their righteous
anger  to  hurl  the fiery  mountain down  upon those  who forsook
them. You sought to blame... magic-users, perhaps."
Crysania's  flush  deepened,  she  could  not  look  at  him and
turned  her face  away, but  her pain  and humiliation  were obvi-
ous.
Raistlin  continued  mercilessly.  "The  time  of  the Cataclysm
draws near. Already, the true clerics have left the  land.... Yes,
didn't  you  know?  Your  friend, Denubis,  has gone.  You, Crysa-
nia, are the only true cleric left in the land."
Crysania stared  at Raistlin  in shock.  "That's... impossible,"
she  whispered.  Her  eyes  glanced  around  the  room.   And  she
could hear, for the first time, the  conversations of  those gath-
ered in  knots away  from the  Kingpriest. She  heard talk  of the
Games,  she  heard  arguments  over  the  distribution  of  public
funds, the routing of  armies, the  best means  to bring  a rebel-
lious land under control - ail in the name of the church.
And  then,  as  if  to drown  out the  other, harsh  voices, the
sweet,  musical voice  of the  Kingpriest welled  up in  her soul,
calming  her  troubled  spirit.  The  Kingpriest was  here, still.
Turning from the darkness, she  looked toward  his light  and felt
her  faith,  once more  strong and  pure, rise  up to  defend her.
Coolly, she looked back at Raistlin.
"There is still goodness in the world," she said sternly. Stand-
ing she started to leave. "As long as that holy man, who is
surely blessed of the gods, rules, I cannot believe that  the gods

visited their wrath upon the church.  Say, rather,  it was  on the
world  for  ignoring  the  church," she  continued, her  voice low
and  passionate.  Raistlin  had  risen as  well and,  watching her
intently, moved nearer to her.
She did not seem to  notice but  kept on.  "Or for  ignoring the
Kingpriest! He must foresee it! Perhaps even now  he is  trying to
prevent it! Begging the gods to have mercy!"
"Look  at  this  man,"  Raistlin whispered,  " 'blessed'  of the
gods."  Reaching  out,  the mage  took hold  of Crysania  with his
strong  hands  and  forced  her  to  face  the  Kingpriest.  Over-
whelmed  with  guilt  for  having doubted  and angry  with herself
for having carelessly allowed Raistlin to  see within  her, Crysa-
nia angrily tried to free herself of his hold, but he  gripped her
firmly, his fingers burning into her skin.
"Look!" he  repeated. Shaking  her slightly,  he made  her raise
her  head  to look  directly into  the light  and glory  that sur-
rounded the Kingpriest.
Raistlin felt the body he held so near his own start to tremble,
and  he  smiled  in  satisfaction.  Moving  his  black-hooded head
near hers, Raistlin whispered in her ear, his breath  touching her
cheek.
"What do you see, Revered Daughter?"
His only answer was a heartbroken moan.
Raistlin's smile deepened. "Tell me," he persisted.
"A   man,"   Crysania   faltered,  her   shocked  gaze   on  the
Kingpriest.  "Only  a  human  man.  He  looks  weary   and...  and
frightened. His skin sags, he hasn't slept  for nights.  Pale blue
eyes dart here and there in  fear -"  Suddenly, she  realized what
she had been saying.  Accutely aware  of Raistlin's  nearness, the
warmth  and  the  feel  of  the strong,  muscled body  beneath the
soft, black robes, Crysania broke free of his grip.
"What  spell  is  this  you  have  cast  over me?"  she demanded
angrily, turning to confront him.
"No  spell, Revered  Daughter," Raistlin  said quietly.  "I have
broken the spell he weaves around himself in his fear. It  is that
fear  which  will  prove  his undoing  and bring  down destruction
upon the world."
Crysania  stared  at  Raistlin  wildly.  She  wanted  him  to be
lying, she willed him  to be  lying. But  then she  realized that,
even if he was, it didn't matter. She could no longer lie  to her-
self.
Confused, frightened, and bewildered, Crysania turned

around and, half-blinded by her tears,  ran out  of the  Hall of
Audience.
Raistlin watched her go, feeling neither elation nor satisfac-
tion at his  victory. It  was, after  all, no  more than  he had
expected.  Sitting  down again,  near the  fire, he  selected an
orange from a bowl of fruit sitting on a table and casually tore
off its peel as he stared thoughtfully into the flames.
One  other  person  in  the  room  watched  Crysania  flee the
audience  chamber.  He  watched  as  Raistlin  ate  the  orange,
draining the fruit of its juice first, then devouring the pulp.
His face pale  with anger  vying with  fear, Quarath  left the
Hall  of Audience,  returning to  his own  room, where  he paced
the floor until dawn.

_CHAPTER 11_

It became known in
later history as the Night of Doom, that  night the  true clerics
left  Krynn.  Where  they  went  and  what  their  fate  may have
been,  not even  Astinus records.  Some say  they were  seen dur-
ing the bleak, bitter days of the  War of  the Lance,  three hun-
dred years  later. There  are many  elves who  will swear  on all
they  hold dear  that Loralon,  greatest and  most devout  of the
elven clerics, walked the tortured lands of  Silvanesti, grieving
at its downfall and  blessing the  efforts of  those who  gave of
themselves to help in its rebuilding.
But, for most on Krynn, the  passing of  the true  clerics went
unnoticed.  That night,  however, proved  to be  a Night  of Doom
in many ways for others.
Crysania fled the Hall of  Audience of  the Kingpriest  in con-
fusion  and  fear. Her  confusion was  easily explained.  She had
seen that greatest of beings, the Kingpriest,  the man  that even
clerics in her own day still revered,  as a  human afraid  of his
own  shadow,  a  human  who  hid  himself  behind spells  and who
let others rule for him. All of the doubts and misgivings she had
developed   about   the   church   and   its  purpose   on  Krynn
returned.

As  for  what  she  feared,  that  she could  not or  would not
define.
On  first  leaving  the  Hall, she  stumbled along  blindly without
any  clear  idea  of  where  she  was  going or  what she  was doing.
Then  she  sought refuge  in a  corner, dried  her tears,  and pulled
herself  together.  Ashamed  of  her   momentary  loss   of  control,
she knew at once what she had to do.
She must find Denubis. She would prove Raistlin wrong.
Walking through the  empty corridors  lit by  Solinari's waning
light,  Crysania  went  to  Denubis's chamber.  This tale  of vanish-
ing  clerics  could  not  be  true.  Crysania  had,  in  fact,  never
believed  in  the  old  legends  about the  Night of  Doom, consider-
ing  them children's  tales. Now,  she still  refused to  believe it.
Raistlin was... mistaken.
She  hurried  on  without  pause,  familiar   with  the   way.  She
had  visited  Denubis  in  his  chambers  several  times  to  discuss
theology or history, or  to listen  to his  stories of  his homeland.
She knocked on the door.
There was no answer.
"He's  asleep,"  Crysania said  to herself,  irritated at  the sudden
shiver that shook  her body.  "Of course,  it's past  Deep Watch.
I'll return in the morning."
But she knocked again  and even  called out  softly, "Denubis."
Still no answer.
"I'll come back.  After all,  it's only  been a  few hours  since I
saw  him,"  she  said to  herself again,  but she  found her  hand on
the  doorknob,  gently  turning  it.  "Denubis?"  she  whispered, her
heart  throbbing  in her  throat. The  room was  dark, it  faced into
an  inner  courtyard  and  so  the  window  let  in  nothing  of  the
moon's  light.  For  a moment  Crysania's will  failed her.  "This is
ridiculous!"   she    reprimanded   herself,    already   envisioning
Denubis's  embarrassment  and  her  own  if  the   man  woke   up  to
find her creeping into his bed chamber in the dead of night.
Firmly,  Crysania  threw  open  the  door,  letting the  light from
the torches in the corridor shine into  the small  room. It  was just
the way he had left it - neat, orderly... and empty.
Well,  not  quite  empty.  The  man's books,  his quill  pens, even
his clothes were still there, as if he had just stepped out for a few
minutes, intending to  return directly.  But the  spirit of  the room
was gone, leaving it cold and vacant as the still-made bed.
For  a  moment,  the  lights  in the  corridor blurred  before Cry-
sania's eyes. Her legs  felt weak  and she  leaned against  the door.

Then, as before, she forced herself to be calm, to  think ration-
ally. Firmly, she shut the door and, even more firmly,  made her-
self walk down the sleeping corridors toward her own room.
Very  well,  the  Night  of  Doom  had  come. The  true clerics
were  gone. It  was nearly  Yule. Thirteen  days after  Yule, the
Cataclysm  would  strike.  That  thought brought  her to  a halt.
Feeling weak and  sick, she  leaned against  a window  and stared
unseeing into a  garden bathed  in white  moonlight. So  this was
the  end  of  her  plans,  her  dreams, her  goals. She  would be
forced to go back to  her own  time and  report nothing  but dis-
mal failure.
The  silver  garden  swam  in  her  sight.  She  had  found the
church corrupt, the Kingpriest apparently at fault for the terri-
ble destruction of the world. She had even failed in her original
intent, to draw  Raistlin from  the folds  of darkness.  He would
never listen to her. Right now, probably, he was laughing  at her
with that terrible, mocking laugh....
"Revered Daughter?" came a voice.
Hastily  wiping  her  eyes,  Crysania  turned. "Who  is there?"
she  asked,  trying to  clear her  throat. Blinking  rapidly, she
stared  into  the  darkness, then  caught her  breath as  a dark,
robed  figure  emerged  from  the shadows.  She could  not speak,
her voice failed.
"I  was  on  my  way  to my  chambers when  I saw  you standing
here," said the voice,  and it  was not  laughing or  mocking. It
was  cool  and  tinged  with  cynicism, but  there was  a strange
quality to it, a warmth, that made Crysania tremble.
"I hope you are not ill," Raistlin said,  coming over  to stand
beside her. She could not see his face, hidden by the  shadows of
the dark hood. But she could see his eyes, glittering,  clear and
cold in the moonlight.
"No,"  Crysania  murmured  in  confusion  and  turned  her face
away, devoutly hoping that all traces of tears were gone.  But it
did little good. Weariness,  strain, and  her own  failings over-
whelmed  her.  Though  she  sought  desperately to  control them,
the tears came again, sliding down her cheeks.
"Go away,  please," she  said, squeezing  her eyes  shut, swal-
lowing the tears like bitter medicine.
She felt warmth envelop her  and the  softness of  velvet black
robes brush against  her bare  arm. She  smelled the  sweet scent
of spices and rose petals and a vaguely cloying scent of  decay -
bat's wings, perhaps, the skull of some  animal -  those mysteri-

ous things magicians used to cast  their spells.  And then  she felt
a  hand  touch  her  cheek,  slender  fingers, sensitive  and strong
and burning with that strange warmth.
Either  the  fingers  brushed  the  tears  away  or they  dried at
their  burning  touch,  Crysania  wasn't  certain. Then  the fingers
gently  lifted  her chin  and turned  her head  away from  the moon-
light.  Crysania couldn't  breathe, her  heartbeat stifled  her. She
kept her  eyes closed,  fearing what  she might  see. But  she could
feel Raistlin's  slender body,  hard beneath  the soft  robes, press
against hers. She could feel that terrible warmth...
Crysania  suddenly  wanted   his  darkness   to  enfold   her  and
hide  her  and  comfort  her.  She  wanted   that  warmth   to  burn
away  the  cold  inside  of her.  Eagerly, she  raised her  arms and
reached  out  her  hands...  and  he  was gone.  She could  hear the
rustle of his robes receding in the stillness of the corridor.
Startled,   Crysania   opened   her   eyes.  Then,   weeping  once
more,  she  pressed  her  cheek  against the  cold glass.  But these
were tears of joy.
"Paladine,"  she  whispered,  "thank  you.  My  way  is  clear.  I
will not fail!"

A  dark-robed  figure  stalked  the  Temple  halls.  Any  who  met
it  shrank  away  from  it  in  terror, shrank  from the  anger that
could  be felt  if not  seen on  the hooded  face. Raistlin  at last
entered his own deserted  corridor, hit  the door  to his  room with
a blast that nearly shattered it, and  caused flames  to leap  up in
the  grate  with  nothing  more than  a glance.  The fire  roared up
the  chimney  and Raistlin  paced, hurling  curses at  himself until
he was  too tired  to walk.  Then he  sank into  a chair  and stared
at the fire with a feverish gaze.
"Fool!"  he  repeated.  "I  should have  foreseen this!"  His fist
clenched. "I should  have known.  This body,  for all  its strength,
has  the   great  weakness   common  to   mankind.  No   matter  how
intelligent,  how  disciplined  the  mind,  how controlled  the emo-
tions, that waits in the shadows like a great  beast, ready  to leap
out and take over." He snarled in rage  and dug  his nails  into his
palm until it bled. "I can still see her! I can see her  ivory skin,
her pale, soft lips. I can smell her hair and feel the curving soft-
ness of her body next to mine!"
"No!" This was fairly a shriek. "This must not, will not be
allowed to happen! Or perhaps.... " A thought. "What if I
were  to  seduce  her?  Would  that  not  put  her  even more  in my

power?"  The  thought  was  more  than  tempting,  it   brought  such
a rush of desire to the young man that his entire body shook.
But  the  cold  and  calculating, logical  part of  Raistlin's mind
took  over.  "What  do  you  know  of  lovemaking?"  he  asked  him-
self with a  sneer. "Of  seduction? In  this, you  are a  child, more
stupid than your behemoth of a brother."
Memories  of  his  youth came  back to  him in  a flood.  Frail and
sickly,  noted  for  his biting  sarcasm and  his sly  ways, Raistlin
had  certainly  never  attracted  the  attention  of women,  not like
his  handsome  brother.   Absorbed,  obsessed   by  his   studies  of
magic, he  had not  felt the  loss -  much. Oh,  once he  had experi-
mented.   One   of   Caramon's  girlfriends,   bored  by   easy  con-
quest,  thought  the  big  man's  twin   brother  might   prove  more
interesting.  Goaded by  his brother's  gibes and  those of  his fel-
lows,  Raistlin  had  given  way  to  her  coarse  overtures.  It had
been  a  disappointing  experience  for  both   of  them.   The  girl
returned  gratefully  to Caramon's  arms. For  Raistlin, it  had sim-
ply  proved  what  he  had  long  suspected  -  that  he  found  true
ecstasy only in his magic.
But  this  body  -  younger,  stronger, more  like his  brother's -
ached  with  a  passion  he  had  never  before  experienced.  Yet he
could  not  give  way to  it. "I  would end  up destroying  myself" -
he  saw  with  cold  clarity -  "and, far  from furthering  my objec-
tive,  might well  harm it.  She is  virgin, pure  in mind  and body.
That  purity is  her strength.  I need  it tarnished,  but I  need it
intact."
Having  firmly  resolved  this  and   being  long   experienced  in
the practice  of exerting  strict mental  control over  his emotions,
the young  mage relaxed  and sat  back in  his chair,  letting weari-
ness  sweep  over  him. The  fire died  low, his  eyes closed  in the
rest that would renew his flagging power.
But, before he drifted off to sleep, still sitting in the chair, he
saw  once  more,  with  unwanted  vividness,  a single  tear glisten-
ing in the moonlight.

The   Night   of   Doom   continued.   An   acolyte   was  awakened
from  a  sound  sleep and  told to  report to  Quarath. He  found the
elven cleric sitting in his chambers.
"Did  you  send  for  me,  my  lord?"  the acolyte  asked, attempt-
ing  to  stifle a  yawn. He  looked sleepy  and rumpled.  Indeed, his
outer  robes  had  been  put  on  backward  in  his  haste  to answer
the summons that had come so late in the night.

"What is the meaning of this report?" Quarath demanded,
tapping at a piece of paper on his desk.
The  acolyte  bent  over  to  look,  rubbing the  sleep out  of his
eyes enough to make the writing coherent.
"Oh, that," he said after a moment. "Just what it says, my
lord."
"That  Fistandantilus  was  not  responsible  for  the death  of my
slave? I find that very difficult to believe."
"Nonetheless, my lord, you may question the  dwarf your-
self.  He  confessed  -  after  a  great deal  of monetary
persuasion - that he had in reality been hired by the lord
named there, who was apparently  incensed at  the church's
takeover of his holdings on the outskirts of the city."
"I know what he's incensed about!" Quarath snapped. "And
killing my slave would be just like  Onygion -  sneaky and
underhanded. He doesn't dare face me directly."
Quarath sat, musing. "Then why did that big slave commit
the deed?" he asked suddenly, giving the acolyte  a shrewd
glance.
"The   dwarf  stated   that  this   was  something   arranged  pri-
vately  between  himself  and  Fistandantilus.  Apparently  the first
'job'  of  this  nature  that came  his way  was to  be given  to the
slave, Caramon."
"That  wasn't  in  the  report,"  Quarath  said,  eyeing  the young
man sternly.
"No,"  the  acolyte  admitted,  flushing.  "I-I  really  don't like
putting  anything  about...  the   magic-user...  down   in  writing.
Anything like that, where he might read it -"
"No, I don't suppose I blame you," Quarath muttered. "Very
well, you may go."
The acolyte nodded, bowed, and returned thankfully to his
bed.
Quarath  did  not  go  to  his  bed  for  long  hours,   however,  but
sat  in  his  study,  going  over   and  over   the  report.   Then,  he
sighed.  "I  am  becoming  as   bad  as   the  Kingpriest,   jumping  at
shadows  that  aren't  there.  If  Fistandantilus  wanted  to   do  away
with   me,  he   could  manage   it  within   seconds.  I   should  have
realized - this is not his style." He rose to his feet, finally. "Still,
he  was  with   her  tonight.   I  wonder   what  that   means?  Perhaps
nothing.   Perhaps   the   man  is   more  human   than  I   would  have
supposed.  Certainly  the  body  he  has  appeared   in  this   time  is
better than those he usually dredges up."

The  elf smiled  grimly to  himself as  he straightened  his desk
and filed the report away carefully. 'Yule  is approaching.  I will
put  this  from my  mind until  the holiday  season is  past. After
all, the time is  fast coming  when the  Kingpriest will  call upon
the  gods  to  eradicate  evil from  the face  of Krynn.  That will
sweep  this  Fistandantilus  and  those  who  follow him  back into
the darkness which spawned them."
He yawned, then, and stretched. "But I'll take care of Lord
Onygion first."

The  Night  of  Doom  was nearly  ended. Morning  lit the  sky as
Caramon  lay in  his cell,  staring into  the gray  light. Tomorrow
was another game, his first since the "accident."
Life had not been  pleasant for  the big  warrior these  last few
days.  Nothing   had  changed   outwardly.  The   other  gladiators
were  old  campaigners,  most  of  them,  long  accustomed  to  the
ways of the Game.
"It  is  not  a  bad  system,"  Pheragas said  with a  shrug when
Caramon  confronted  him  the  day  after   his  return   from  the
Temple.  "Certainly  better  than  a  thousand  men   killing  each
other  on  the  fields  of  battle.  Here,  if  one  nobleman feels
offended by another, their  feud is  handled secretly,  in private,
to the satisfaction of all."
"Except the innocent man who dies for a cause he doesn't
care about or understand!" Caramon said angrily.
"Don't  be  such  a baby!"  Kiiri snorted,  polishing one  of her
collapsible  daggers.  "By  your  own  account,  you did  some mer-
cenary  work.  Did  you   understand  or   care  about   the  cause
then?  Didn't  you  fight  and  kill  because  you were  being well
paid? Would you have fought if you  weren't? I  don't see  the dif-
ference."
"The  difference  is   I  had   a  choice!"   Caramon  responded,
scowling.  "And  I  knew  the  cause  I fought  for! I  never would
have  fought  for  anyone  I didn't  believe was  in the  right! No
matter  how  much  money  they  paid  me!   My  brother   felt  the
same. He and I -" Caramon abruptly fell silent.
Kiiri  looked  at  him  strangely,  then  shook  her head  with a
grin. "Besides," she added lightly, "it adds spice, an edge of real
tension. You'll fight better from now on. You'll see."
Thinking of this conversation as he lay in the darkness, Car-
amon tried to reason it out in his slow, methodical fashion.
Maybe  Kiiri  and  Pheragas  were  correct,  maybe  he was  being a

baby,  crying  because the  bright, glittering  toy he  had enjoyed
playing  with  suddenly  cut  him. But  - looking  at it  every way
possible - he still couldn't believe it was  right. A  man deserved
a choice, to choose his own way  to live,  his own  way to  die. No
one else had the right to determine that for him.
And  then,  in  the  predawn,  a crushing  weight seemed  to fall
on  Caramon.  He  sat up,  leaning on  one elbow,  staring unseeing
into  the gray  cell. If  that was  true, if  every man  deserved a
choice,  then  what  about  his  brother'?  Raistlin  had  made his
choice - to  walk the  ways of  night instead  of day.  Did Caramon
have the right to drag his brother from those paths?
His   mind   went  back   to  those   days  he   had  unwittingly
recalled  when talking  to Kiiri  and Pheragas  - those  days right
before  the  Test, those  days that  had been  the happiest  in his
life - the days of mercenary work with his brother.
The  two  fought  well  together,  and  they  were   always  wel-
comed  by  nobles.  Though  warriors  were  common  as   leaves  in
the  trees,  magic-users  who  could and  would join  the fighting
were   another   thing  altogether.   Though  many   nobles  looked
somewhat  dubious  when  they  saw  Raistlin's  frail   and  sickly
appearance,  they  were  soon  impressed  by  his  courage  and his
skill.  The  brothers  were  paid  well  and  were  soon   much  in
demand.
But  they  always  selected the  cause they  fought for  with care.
"That   was   Raist's   doing,"   Caramon   whispered   to  himself
wistfully.  "I  would have  fought for  anyone, the  cause mattered
little to me. But Raistlin insisted that the cause had to be a just
one.  We  walked  away  from  more  than  one  job because  he said
it  involved  a  strong man  trying to  grow stronger  by devouring
others....
"But that's what  Raistlin's doing!"  Caramon said  softly, star-
ing up at the ceiling. "Or is it? That's what they say  he's doing,
those magic-users. But  can I  trust them?  Par-Salian was  the one
who got him into  this, he  admitted that!  Raistlin rid  the world
of this  Fistandantilus creature.  By all  accounts, that's  a good
thing. And Raist told me  he didn't  have anything  to do  with the
Barbarian's  death.  So  he  hasn't  really  done  anything  wrong.
Maybe  we've  misjudged  him....   Maybe  we   have  no   right  to
try to force him to change...."
Caramon  sighed.  "What  should  I  do?"  Closing  his   eyes  in
forlorn  weariness, he  fell asleep,  and soon  the smell  of warm,
freshly baked muffins filled his mind.

The sun lit the sky. The Night  of Doom  ended. Tasslehoff
rose from his bed, eagerly greeted the new day,  and decided
that he - he personally - would stop the Cataclysm.

_CHAPTER 12_

Alter time!"    Tassle-
hoff  said eagerly,  slipping over  the garden  wall into  the sacred
Temple  area  and  dropping  down  to  land  in   the  middle   of  a
flower  bed.  Some  clerics  were  walking  in  the  garden,  talking
among   themselves   about   the   merriment   of   the   forthcoming
Yule  season.  Rather  than  interrupt  their  conversation,  Tas did
what  he  considered  the  polite  thing  and flattened  himself down
among  the flowers  until they  left, although  it meant  getting his
blue leggings dirty.
It  was  rather  pleasant, lying  among the  red Yule  roses, so
called  because  they  grew   only  during   the  Yule   season.  The
weather  was  warm,  too  warm,  most   people  said.   Tas  grinned.
Trust   humans.  If   the  weather   was  cold,   Yule-type  weather,
they'd  complain  about  that,  too.  He   thought  the   warmth  was
delightful.  A  trifle  hard to  breathe in  the heavy  air, perhaps,
but - after all - you couldn't have everything.
Tas listened to the clerics with interest. The Yule parties must
be  splendid  things,  he  thought,  and  briefly  considered attend-
ing.  The  first  one  was  tonight  - Yule  Welcoming. It  would end
early,  since everyone  wanted to  get lots  of sleep  in preparation
for  the  big  Yule  parties  themselves, which  would begin  at dawn

tomorrow  and  run  for days  - the  last celebration  before the
harsh, dark winter set in.
"Perhaps  I'll  attend  that  party  tomorrow,"  Tas  thought. He
had  supposed  that  a  Yule  Welcoming party  in the  Temple would
be solemn  and grand  and, therefore,  dull and  boring -  at least
from  a  kender  viewpoint. But  the way  these clerics  talked, it
sounded quite lively.
Caramon  was  fighting  tomorrow  -  the   Games  being   one  of
the  highlights  of  the Yule  season. Tomorrow's  fight determined
which teams would have the right to  face each  other in  the Final
Bout - the last game  of the  year before  winter forced  the clos-
ing of the arena. The  winners of  this last  game would  win their
freedom.  Of  course,  it  was  already  predetermined  who  would
win  tomorrow  -  Caramon's  team.  For  some  reason,   this  news
had sent Caramon into a gloomy depression.
Tas  shook  his  head.  He  never would  understand that  man, he
decided. All this sulking  about honor.  After all,  it was  only a
game.  Anyway,  it made  things easy.  It would  be simple  for Tas
to sneak off and enjoy himself.
But  then  the  kender  sighed.  No, he  had serious  business to
attend  to  -  stopping  the  Cataclysm was  more important  than a
party,  maybe  even  a couple  of parties.  He'd sacrifice  his own
amusement to this great cause.
Feeling  very  self-righteous  and  noble  (and   suddenly  quite
bored), the kender glared at the clerics irritably,  wishing they'd
hurry  up.  Finally,  they  strolled  inside,  leaving  the  garden
empty.  Heaving  a  sigh  of  relief,  Tas  picked  himself  up and
brushed off the dirt. Plucking a Yule rose, he stuck it in his top-
knot  for  decoration  in honor  of the  season, then  slipped into
the Temple.
It,  too,  was  decorated  for  the Yule  season, and  the beauty
and  splendor  took  the  kender's  breath  away. He  stared around
in  delight,  marveling  at the  thousands of  Yule roses  that had
been raised  in gardens  all over  Krynn and  brought here  to fill
the  Temple  corridors  with  their  sweet  fragrance.  Wreaths  of
everbloom  added  a  spicy  scent,   sunlight  glistened   off  its
pointed,  polished  leaves  twined  with  red  velvet   and  swans'
feathers. Baskets of rare and exotic fruits  stood on  nearly every
table - gifts  from all  over Krynn  to be  enjoyed by  everyone in
the  Temple.  Plates  of  wonderful  cakes  and   sweetmeats  stood
beside  them.  Thinking  of  Caramon,   Tas  stuffed   his  pouches
full,  happily  picturing  the  big  man's  delight.  He  had never

known Caramon to stay  depressed in  the face  of a  crystal sug-
ared almond puff.
Tas  roamed  the  halls,  lost in  happiness. He  almost forgot
why he  had come  and had  to remind  himself continually  of his
Important  Mission.  No  one  paid any  attention to  him. Every-
one he passed was intent on  the upcoming  celebration or  on the
business of running  the government  or the  church or  both. Few
even  gave  Tas  a  second glance.  Occasionally, a  guard stared
sternly at him,  but Tas  just smiled  cheerily, waved,  and went
on.  It  was  an  old  kender  proverb  -  Don't change  color to
match  the  walls.  Look  like  you  belong  'and the  walls will
change color to match you.
Finally, after many  windings and  turnings (and  several stops
to  investigate interesting  objects, some  of which  happened to
fall into the  kender's pouches),  Tas found  himself in  the one
corridor that was not decorated, that was  not filled  with merry
people   making   gleeful  party   arrangements,  that   was  not
resounding  with  the  sounds  of  choirs  practicing  their Yule
hymns. In this corridor, the curtains  were still  drawn, denying
the sun admittance. It was  chill and  dark and  forbidding, more
so than ever because of the contrast to the rest of the world.
Tas crept down the hall, not walking softly for  any particular
reason except that the corridor was so  grimly silent  and gloomy
it  seemed  to expect  everyone who  entered to  be the  same and
would  be  highly  offended  if  he weren't.  The last  thing Tas
wanted  to  do  was  offend a  corridor, he  told himself,  so he
walked quietly. The possibility that  he might  be able  to sneak
up on Raistlin without the mage  knowing it  and catch  a glimpse
of  some  wonderful  magical  experiment certainly  never crossed
the kender's mind.
Drawing near  the door,  he heard  Raistlin speaking  and, from
the tone, it sounded like he had a visitor.
"Drat," was Tas's first thought. "Now I'll have to wait to talk
to him until this  person leaves.  And I'm  on an  Important Mis-
sion, too.  How inconsiderate.  I wonder  how long  they're going
to be."
Putting his ear to the keyhole - to see if he could  figure out
how much longer the  person planned  to stay  - Tas  was startled
to hear a woman's voice answer the mage.
"That  voice  sounds  familiar,"  said  the kender  to himself,
pressing closer to listen.  "Of course!  Crysania! I  wonder what
she's doing here."

"You're right, Raistlin," Tas heard her say with a sigh, "this is
much  more  restful  than  those  garish  corridors.  When  I first
came here, I  was frightened.  You smile!  But I  was. I  admit it.
This  corridor  seemed  so  bleak  and desolate  and cold.  But now
the hallways of the Temple are filled with an  oppressive, stifling
warmth.  Even  the  Yule  decorations  depress  me.  I see  so much
waste, money squandered that could be helping those in need."
She  stopped  speaking,  and  Tas  heard a  rustle. Since  no one
was talking,  the kender  quit listening  and put  his eyes  to the
keyhole.  He could  see inside  the room  quite clearly.  The heavy
curtains  were drawn,  but the  chamber was  lit with  soft candle-
light. Crysania sat in a chair, facing him.  The rustling  sound he
heard  was apparently  her stirring  in impatience  or frustration.
She rested  her head  on her  hand, and  the look  on her  face was
one of confusion and perplexity.
But  that  was  not  what  made  the kender  open his  eyes wide.
Crysania  had  changed!  Gone  were  the  plain,   unadorned  white
robes, the severe hair style. She was dressed  as the  other female
clerics  in  white  robes,  but  these  were  decorated  with  fine
embroidery.  Her  arms  were  bare,  though  a slender  golden band
adorned  one,  enhancing  the  pure  whiteness  of  her  skin.  Her
hair  fell  from a  central part  to sweep  down around  her shoul-
ders with  feathery softness.  There was  a flush  of color  in her
cheeks,  her  eyes  were  warm  and  their  gaze  lingered  on  the
black-robed figure that sat across from her, his back to Tas.
"Humpf," said the kender with interest. "Tika was right."
"I  don't  know  why  I come  here," Tas  heard Crysania  say after
a moment's pause.
I  do,  the  kender  thought  gleefully,  quickly moving  his ear
back to the keyhole so he could hear better.
Her  voice  continued.  "I  am  filled  with  such  hope  when  I
come to  visit you,  but I  always leave  depressed and  unhappy. I
plan to  show you  the ways  of righteousness  and truth,  to prove
to  you that  only by  following those  ways can  we hope  to bring
peace  to  our  world.  But  you  always   turn  my   words  upside
down and inside out."
"Your  questions  are  your  own,"  Tas  heard Raistlin  say, and
there  was  another  rustling sound,  as if  the mage  moved closer
to  the  woman.  "I simply  open your  heart so  that you  may hear
them. Surely Elistan counsels against blind faith...."
Tas heard a sarcastic note in the mage's voice, but apparently
Crysania  did  not  detect it,  for she  answered quickly  and sin-

cerely, "Of course. He encourages us to question and  often tell:
us  of  Goldmoon's  example  -  how  her  questioning led  to the
return of the true gods. But questions should lead one to better
understanding,  and   your  questions   only  make   me  confused
and miserable!"
"How well  I know  that feeling,"  Raistlin murmured  so softly
that  Tas  almost  didn't  hear  him.  The kender  heard Crysania
move in her  chair and  risked a  quick peep.  The mage  was near
her,  one  hand  resting  on her  arm. As  he spoke  those words,
Crysania  moved  nearer  him, impulsively  placing her  hand over
his. When she  spoke, there  was such  hope and  love and  joy in
her voice that Tas felt warm all over.
"Do  you  mean  that?"  Crysania  asked   the  mage.   "Are  my
poor words  touching some  part of  you? No,  don't look  away! I
can see  by your  expression that  you have  thought of  them and
pondered them. We are so alike! I knew that the first time  I met
you.  Ah,  you  smile  again, mocking  me. Go  ahead. I  know the
truth. You told me the same thing, in the Tower.  You said  I was
as  ambitious  as  you were.  I've thought  about it,  and you're
right. Our ambitions take different forms,  but perhaps  they are
not as dissimilar as I once believed. We both live  lonely lives,
dedicated  to  our studies.  We open  our hearts  to no  one, not
even  those who  would be  closest to  us. You  surround yourself
with  darkness,  but,  Raistlin,  I  have  seen beyond  that. The
warmth, the light..."
Tas quickly put his eye back to the keyhole. He's going to kiss
her! he thought, wildly excited. This is wonderful! Wait  until I
tell Caramon.
"Come  on,  fool!"  he instructed  Raistlin impatiently  as the
mage  sat  there,  his  hands  on  Crysania's  arms. "How  can he
resist?"  the  kender  muttered,  looking  at the  woman's parted
lips, her shining eyes.
Suddenly  Raistlin  let  loose  of  Crysania  and  turned  away
from her, abruptly rising out of his chair. "You had  better go,"
he  said in  a husky  voice. Tas  sighed and  drew away  from the
door in disgust. Leaning against the wall, he shook his head.
There  was  the  sound of  coughing, deep  and harsh,  and Cry-
sania's voice, gentle and filled with concern.
"It is nothing," Raistlin said as he opened  the door.  "I have
felt unwell for several days. Can you not  guess the  reason?" he
asked, pausing with the door half ajar. Tas pressed  back against
the wall so they wouldn't see him, not  wanting to  interrupt (or

miss) anything. "Haven't you felt it?"
"I  have  felt  something,"  Crysania   murmured  breathlessly.
"What do you mean?"
"The  anger of  the gods,"  Raistlin answered,  and it  was obvi-
ous to  Tas that  this wasn't  the answer  Crysania had  hoped for.
She seemed to  droop. Raistlin  did not  notice, but  continued on.
"Their  fury  beats  upon  me, as  if the  sun were  drawing nearer
and nearer to this  wretched planet.  Perhaps that  is why  you are
feeling depressed and unhappy."
"Perhaps," murmured Crysania.
"Tomorrow  is  Yule,"  Raistlin  continued  softly.  "Thirteen days
after  that,  the  Kingpriest  will  make  his demand.  Already, he
and  his  ministers  plan  for it.  The gods  know. They  have sent
him  a  warning  - the  vanishing of  the clerics.  But he  did not
heed  it.  Every day,  from Yule  on, the  warning signs  will grow
stronger,  clearer.  Have  you  ever  read Astinus's  Chronicles of
the  Last  Thirteen  Days?  They  are  not  pleasant  reading,  and
they will be less pleasant to live through."
Crysania  looked  at  him,  her  face  brightening.   "Come  back
with  us  before then,"  she said  eagerly. "Par-Salian  gave Cara-
mon  a  magical  device that  will take  us back  to our  own time.
The kender told me -"
"What   magical   device?"   Raistlin   demanded   suddenly,  and
the strange tone of his voice sent a thrill through the  kender and
startled  Crysania. "What  does it  look like?  How does  it work?"
His eyes burned feverishly.
"I-I don't know," Crysania faltered.
"Oh, I'll tell  you," Tas  offered, stepping  out from  against the
wall. "Gee, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It's just that I
couldn't  help  overhearing.  Merry  Yule  to  you  both,   by  the
way," Tas extended his small hand, which no one took.
Both  Raistlin and  Crysania were  staring at  him with  the same
expressions worn  on the  faces of  those who  suddenly see  a spi-
der  drop  into  their  soup  at  dinner. Unabashed,  Tas continued
prattling cheerfully, putting his  hand in  his pocket.  "What were
we  talking about?  Oh, the  magical device.  Yes, well,"  Tas con-
tinued  more  hurriedly,  seeing  Raistlin's  eyes  narrow   in  an
alarming  fashion,  "when it's  unfolded, it's  shaped like  a... a
sceptre and it  has a...  a ball  at one  end, all  glittering with
jewels. It's about  this big."  The kender  spread his  hands about
an  arm's  length  apart.  "That's when  it's stretched  out. Then,
Par-Salian did something to it and it -"

"Collapsed in upon itself," Raistlin finished, "until  you could
carry it in your pocket."
"Why,  yes!"  Tas  said  excitedly. "That's  right! How  did you
know?"
"I  am  familiar  with  the object,"  Raistlin replied,  and Tas
noticed again a strange sound  to the  mage's voice,  a quivering,
a tenseness - fear? Or elation? The  kender couldn't  tell. Crysa-
nia noticed it, too.
"What is it?" she asked.
Raistlin  didn't  answer  immediately,  his  face  was  suddenly a
mask, unreadable, impassive, cold.  "I hesitate  to say,"  he told
her.  "I  must study  on this  matter." Flicking  a glance  at the
kender - "What  is it  you want?  Or are  you simply  listening at
keyholes?"
"Certainly not!" Tas said, insulted. "I came to talk to  you, if
you and Lady  Crysania are  finished, that  is," he  amended hast-
ily, his glance going to Crysania.
She  regarded  him  with  quite  an  unfriendly  expression, the
kender thought, then  turned away  from him  to Raistlin.  "Will I
see you tomorrow?" she asked.
"I think not," he said. "I will not, of course, be attending the
Yule party."
"Oh, but I don't want to go either -" Crysania began.
"You  will  be  expected,"  Raistlin  said  abruptly.  "Besides, I
have too long neglected my studies  in the  pleasure of  your com-
pany."
"I  see,"  Crysania  said. Her  own voice  was cool  and distant
and, Tasslehoff could tell, hurt and disappointed.
"Farewell,  gentlemen,"  she said  after a  moment, when  it was
apparent  Raistlin wasn't  going to  add anything  further. Bowing
slightly,  she turned  and walked  down the  dark hall,  her white
robes seeming to take the light away as she left.
"I'll tell Caramon you send your regards," Tas called  after her
helpfully,  but  Crysania  didn't turn  around. The  kender turned
to  Raistlin with  a sigh.  "I'm afraid  Caramon didn't  make much
of an impression on  her. But,  then, he  was all  fuddled because
of the dwarf spirits -"
Raistlin   coughed.   "Did   you   come   here  to   discuss  my
brother?"  he  interrupted  coldly,  "because,  if  so,   you  can
leave -"
"Oh, no!" Tas said hastily. Then he grinned up  at the  mage. "I
came to stop the Cataclysm!"

For the first time in his life, the kender had the satisfaction of
seeing his words absolutely stun  Raistlin. It  was not  a satisfac-
tion  he  enjoyed  long,  however.  The mage's  face went  white and
stiff, his mirrorlike eyes seemed  to shatter,  allowing Tas  to see
inside,  into  those  dark,  burning  depths  the mage  kept hidden.
Hands  as strong  as the  claws of  a predatory  bird sank  into the
kender's  shoulders,   hurting  him.   Within  seconds,   Tas  found
himself  thrown  inside  Raistlin's  room.  The  door  slammed  shut
with a shattering bang.
"What gave you this idea?" Raistlin demanded.
Tas shrank backward, startled, and glanced around the
room  uneasily,  his  kender  instincts telling  him he  better look
for someplace to hide.
"Uh  -  you  d-did,"  Tas  stammered.  "Well,  n-not  exactly. But
you  said  something  about   m-my  coming   back  here   and  being
able  to  alter  time.  And,  I  thought, st-stopping  the Cataclysm
would be a sort of good thing -"
"How  did  you  plan  to  do  it?"  Raistlin  asked, and  his eyes
burned with a hot fire that made Tas sweat just looking into it.
"Well, I planned to  discuss it  with you  first, of  course," the
kender said,  hoping Raistlin  was still  subject to  flattery, "and
then I thought - if you said it was all right - that I would just go
and  talk to  the Kingpriest  and tell  him he  was making  a really
big mistake  - one  of the  All Time  Big Mistakes,  if you  take my
meaning. And, I'm sure, once I explained, that he'd listen -"
"I'm  sure,"  Raistlin  said,  and  his  voice  was cool  and con-
trolled. But Tas thought he detected, oddly, a note of  vast relief.
"So"  -  the  mage  turned  away  -  "you  intend  to  talk  to  the
Kingpriest. And what if he refuses to listen? What then?"
Tas paused, his mouth open. "I guess I hadn't considered
that," the kender said,  after a  moment. He  sighed, then
shrugged. "We'll go home."
"There's another way," Raistlin said softly,  sitting down  in his
chair  and  regarding  the  kender  with  his  mirrorlike  eyes.  "A
sure way! A way you could stop the Cataclysm without fail."
"There is?" Tas said eagerly. "What?"
"The  magical  device,"  Raistlin  answered,  spreading  his slen-
der  hands.  "Its  powers  are  great,  far  beyond  what Par-Salian
told  that idiot  brother of  mine. Activate  it on  the Day  of the
Cataclysm,  and  its  magic  will  destroy  the fiery  mountain high
above the world, so that it harms no one."
"Really?" Tas gasped. "That's wonderful." Then he frowned.

"But, how can I be sure. Suppose it doesn't work -"
"What  have  you  got to  lose?" Raistlin  asked. "If,  for some
reason, it fails,  and I  truly doubt  it." The  mage smiled  at the
kender's naivete. "It was, after all, created  by the  highest level
magic-users -"
"Like dragon orbs?" Tas interrupted.
"Like  dragon  orbs,"  Raistlin  snapped,  irritated  at  the inter-
ruption. "But if it did fail, you could always use  it to  escape at
the last moment."
"With Caramon and Crysania," Tas added.
Raistlin did not  answer, but  the kender  didn't notice  in his
excitement. Then he thought of something.
"What  if  Caramon  decides  to  leave  before  then?"  he asked
fearfully.
"He  won't,"  Raistlin  answered  softly.  "Trust  me,"  he added,
seeing Tas about to argue.
The  kender  pondered  again,  then  sighed.  "I  just  thought of
something.  I  don't  think  Caramon  will let  me have  the device.
Par-Salian told him to guard it with his life. He never lets  it out
of his sight and locks it up in a chest  when he  has to  leave. And
I'm  sure  he  wouldn't  believe  me  if  I tried  to explain  why I
wanted it."
"Don't  tell  him.  The day  of the  Cataclysm is  the day  of the
Final Bout," Raistlin said, shrugging. "If  it is  gone for  a short
time, he'll never miss it."
"But, that would be stealing!" Tas said, shocked.
Raistlin's lips  twitched. "Let  us say  - borrowing,"  the mage
amended  soothingly.  "It's  for  such  a  worthy  cause!  Caramon
won't  be  angry.  I  know  my  brother. Think  how proud  he will
be of you!"
"You're right," Tas said, his eyes shining. "I'd  be a  true hero,
greater  than  Kronin  Thistleknot  himself!  How  do  I   find  out
how to work it?"
"I'll give you instructions," Raistlin said,  rising. He  began to
cough  again.  "Come  back...  in  three  days'  time.   And  now...
I must rest."
"Sure," Tas said cheerfully, getting to his feet. "I hope you feel
better."  He started  for the  door. Once  there, however,  he hesi-
tated. "Oh, say, I don't have a gift for you. I'm sorry -"
"You have given me a gift," Raistlin said, "a gift of inestima-
ble value. Thank you."
"I  have?"  Tas  said,  astonished.  "Oh,  you must  mean stopping

the Cataclysm. Well, don't mention it. I -"
Tas suddenly found himself in the middle of the garden, star-
ing at the rosebushes and an extremely surprised cleric who had
seen the kender apparently materialize out of nowhere, right in
the middle of the path.
"Great Reorx's beard! I wish I knew how to do  that," Tassle-
hoff said wistfully.

_CHAPTER 13_

On Yule day came
the first of what would be later known  as the  Thirteen Calami-
ties, (note that Astinus records them in  the Chronicles  as the
Thirteen Warnings).
The day dawned  hot and  breathless. It  was the  hottest Yule
day anyone - even  the elves  - could  remember. In  the Temple,
the  Yule  roses  drooped  and  withered, the  everbloom wreaths
smelled as if  they had  been baked  in an  oven, the  snow that
cooled the wine in silver bowls melted so rapidly that  the ser-
vants  did  nothing  all  day but  run back  and forth  from the
depths of the rock cellars to the party rooms,  carrying buckets
of slush.
Raistlin woke on  that morning,  in the  dark hour  before the
dawn,  so ill  he could  not rise  from his  bed. He  lay naked,
bathed in sweat, a prey to the  fevered hallucinations  that had
caused him  to rip  off his  robes and  the bedcovers.  The gods
were  indeed  near,  but  it  was  the closeness  of one  god in
particular  -  his  goddess, the  Queen of  Darkness -  that was
affecting him. He could feel her  anger, as  he could  sense the
anger of all the gods at the Kingpriest's attempt to destroy the
balance they sought to achieve in the world.

Thus  he  had  dreamed  of  his  Queen, but  she had  chosen not
to appear to  him in  her anger  as might  have been  expected. He
had  not  dreamed   of  the   terrible  five-headed   dragon,  the
Dragon of All Colors and  of None  that would  try to  enslave the
world in the Wars of the Lance. He had  not seen  her as  the Dark
Warrior, leading  her legions  to death  and destruction.  No, she
had  appeared to  him as  the Dark  Temptress, the  most beautiful
of  all  women, the  most seductive,  and thus  she had  spent the
night with him, tantalizing him  with the  weakness, the  glory of
the flesh.
Closing his eyes, shivering in  the room  that was  cool despite
the heat  outdoors, Raistlin  pictured to  himself once  again the
fragrant  dark  hair  hanging  over  him; he  felt her  touch, her
warmth.  Reaching  up  his  hands,  letting  himself  sink beneath
her spell, he had parted the  tangled hair  - and  seen Crysania's
face!
The  dream  ended,  shattered  as  his  mind  took  control once
more.  And  now  he  lay  awake,  exultant  in  his  victory,  yet
knowing the price it had cost. As  if to  remind him,  a wrenching
coughing fit seized him.
"I will not give in," he  muttered when  he could  breathe. "You
will  not  win me  over so  easily, my  Queen." Staggering  out of
bed, so weak he had to pause  more than  once to  rest, he  put on
the black robes and made  his way  to his  desk. Cursing  the pain
in  his  chest,  he opened  an ancient  text on  magical parapher-
nalia and began his laborious search.

Crysania, too,  had slept  poorly. Like  Raistlin, she  felt the
nearness of all the gods, but of her god - Paladine - most of all.
She felt his anger, but it was tinged  with a  sorrow so  deep and
devastating  that   Crysania  could   not  bear   it.  Overwhelmed
with guilt, she turned  away from  that gentle  face and  began to
run.  She  ran  and  ran,  weeping,  unable to  see where  she was
going. She  stumbled and  was falling  into nothingness,  her soul
torn  with  fear.  Then strong  arms caught  her. She  was enfolded
in soft black robes, held  near a  muscular body.  Slender fingers
stroked her hair, soothing her. She looked into a face -
Bells. Bells broke the stillness. Startled,  Crysania sat  up in
bed,  looking  around  wildly.  Then,  remembering  the  face  she
had  seen,  remembering  the  warmth  of  his  body  and  the com-
fort she had found there,  she put  her aching  head in  her hands
and wept.

Tasslehoff,  on  waking,  at  first felt  disappointment. Today
was  Yule, he  remembered, and  also the  day Raistlin  said Dire
Things  would  begin  to  happen.  Looking  around  in  the  gray
light that filtered through their window, the only dire thing Tas
saw  was  Caramon,  down on  the floor,  huffing and  puffing his
way grimly through morning exercises.
Although  Caramon's  days  were  filled  with   weapons'  prac-
tice,  working  out  with  his   team  members,   developing  new
parts of their routine, the big man  still fought  a never-ending
battle  with  his  weight.  He had  been taken  off his  diet and
allowed to eat the same food  as the  others. But  the sharp-eyed
dwarf  soon  noticed  that  Caramon was  eating about  five times
more than anyone else!
Once,  the big  man had  eaten for  pleasure. Now,  nervous and
unhappy  and  obsessed  by  thoughts  of  his   brother,  Caramon
sought  consolation  in  food as  another might  seek consolation
in drink. (Caramon had, in  fact, tried  that once,  ordering Tas
to sneak a bottle of dwarf spirits in to him. But, unused  to the
strong alcohol,  it had  made him  violently sick  - much  to the
kender's secret relief.)
Arack decreed,  therefore, that  Caramon could  eat only  if he
performed  a  series  of  strenuous  exercises each  day. Caramon
often  wondered  how the  dwarf knew  if he  missed a  day, since
he  did  them early  in the  morning before  anyone else  was up.
But   Arack   did   know,  somehow.   The  one   morning  Caramon
had  skipped  the  exercises, he  had been  denied access  to the
mess hall by a grinning, club-wielding Raag.
Growing  bored  with  listening  to  Caramon  grunt  and  groan
and swear,  Tas climbed  up on  a chair,  peering out  the window
to  see if  there was  anything dire  happening outside.  He felt
cheered immediately.
"Caramon!  Come  look!"  he  called  in  excitement.  "Have you
ever seen a sky that peculiar shade before?"
"Ninety-nine,  one  hundred,"  puffed  the  big  man.  Then Tas
heard a  large "ooof."  With a  thud that  shook the  room, Cara-
mon flopped down on  his now  rock-hard belly  to rest.  Then the
big man heaved himself up off the  stone floor  and came  to look
out  the  barred  window, mopping  the sweat  from his  body with
a towel.
Casting  a  bored  glance  outside,  expecting  nothing  but an
ordinary  sunrise,  the  big  man blinked,  then his  eyes opened

wide.
"No,"  he  murmured,  draping  the  towel  around his  neck and
coming to  stand behind  Tas, "I  never did.  And I've  seen some
strange things in my time, too."
"Oh, Caramon!" Tas cried, "Raistlin was right. He said -"
"Raistlin!"
Tas gulped. He hadn't meant to bring that up.
"Where  did  you  see Raistlin?"  Caramon demanded,  his voice
deep and stern.
"In the Temple, of course," Tas answered as if it were the most
common thing in the world. "Didn't  I mention  I went  there yes-
terday?"
"Yes, but you -"
"Well, why else would I go except to see our friends?"
"You never -"
"I saw Lady Crysania and Raistlin. I'm  sure I  mentioned that.
You  never  do  listen   to  me,   you  know,"   Tas  complained,
wounded. "You sit there on  that bed,  every night,  brooding and
sulking and  talking to  yourself. 'Caramon,'  I could  say, 'the
roof's caving in,' and you'd say, 'That's nice, Tas.' "
"Look, kender, I know that if I had heard you mention -"
"Lady Crysania,  Raistlin, and  I had  a wonderful  little chat,"
Tas  hurried  on,  "all  about Yule  - by  the way,  Caramon, you
should  see how  beautifully they've  decorated the  Temple! It's
filled  with  roses  and everbloom  and, say,  did I  remember to
give you that candy?  Wait, it's  right over  there in  my pouch.
Just a minute" - the kender tried to jump off the chair, but Car-
amon had him cornered -  "well, I  guess it  can wait.  Where was
17 Oh,  yes" -  seeing Caramon  scowl -  "Raistlin and  Lady Cry-
sania  and I  were talking  and, oh,  Caramon! It's  so exciting.
Tika was right, she's in love with your brother."
Caramon  blinked,  having  completely  lost  the thread  of the
conversation,  which  Tas,  being rather  careless with  his pro-
nouns, didn't help.
"No,  I  don't  mean  Tika's  in love  with your  brother," Tas
amended,  seeing  Caraman's  confusion.  "I  mean   Lady  Crysan-
ia's in love with your brother! It was great fun.  I was  sort of
leaning against Raistlin's closed door, resting, waiting for them
to finish their  conversation, and  I happened  to glance  in the
keyhole  and  he almost  kissed her,  Caramon! Your  brother! Can
you imagine! But he didn't." The  kender sighed.  "He practically
yelled at her to leave. She did, but she didn't want to,  I could

tell. She was all dressed up and looked really pretty."
Seeing  Caramon's face  darken and  the preoccupied  look steal
over it, Tas began to breathe a bit easier.  "We got  to talking
about  the  Cataclysm,  and  Raistlin  mentioned how  Dire Things
would  begin  happening  today  -  Yule  - as  the gods  tried to
warn the people to change."
"In  love  with  him?"  Caramon  muttered. Frowning,  he turned
away, letting Tas slip off the chair.
"Right. Unmistakably,"  the kender  said glibly,  hurrying over
to his pouch and digging through it  until he  came to  the batch
of  sweetmeats  he  had  brought  back.  They  were  half-melted,
sticking together in  a gooey  mass, and  they had  also acquired
an outer coating  of various  bits and  pieces from  the kender's
pouch, but  Tas was  fairly certain  Caramon would  never notice.
He was right. The big  man accepted  the treat  and began  to eat
without even glancing at it.
"He  needs  a  cleric, they  said," Caramon-mumbled,  his mouth
full. "Were they right, after all? Is he going to go through with
it? Should I let him? Should I  try to  stop him?  Do I  have the
right to stop him? If she chooses to go with him, isn't  that her
choice?  Maybe that  would be  the best  thing for  him," Caramon
said softly, licking his sticky fingers. "Maybe, if she loves him
enough ..."
Tasslehoff sighed in relief and sank  down on  his bed  to wait
for the breakfast call. Caramon  hadn't thought  to ask  the ken-
der why he'd gone to see Raistlin in the first place. And Tas was
certain  now,  that  he'd  never remember  he hadn't.  His secret
was safe....

The sky was clear that Yule day, so clear  it seemed  one could
look  up  into  the  vast  dome  that covered  the world  and see
realms  beyond.  But, though  everyone glanced  up, few  cared to
fix their gazes upon it long enough to see anything. For  the sky
was indeed "a peculiar shade," as Tas said - it was green.
A strange,  noxious, ugly  green that,  combined with  the sti-
fling heat and the heavy, hard-to-breathe air, effectively sucked
the joy and merriment  out of  Yule. Those  forced to  go outside
to attend parties hurried through the sweltering streets, talking
about the odd weather irritably, viewing it as a personal insult.
But they spoke in hushed voices,  each feeling  a tiny  sliver of
fear prick their holiday spirit.
The party inside the Temple was somewhat more cheerful,

being  held  in  the  Kingpriest's  chambers  that were  shut away
from the outside world. None could  see the  strange sky,  and all
those who came within the  presence of  the Kingpriest  felt their
irritation  and  fear  melt  away.  Away  from  Raistlin, Crysania
was once again under  the Kingpriest's  spell and  sat near  him a
long time. She did not speak, she simply let his  shining presence
comfort  her  and banish  the dark,  nighttime thoughts.  But she,
too, had  seen the  green sky.  Remembering Raistlin's  words, she
tried to recall what she had heard of the Thirteen Days.
But  it  was  all  children's tales  that were  muddled together
with the dreams she had had last night.  Surely, she  thought, the
Kingpriest  will  notice!  He  will  heed  the   warnings....  She
willed time to change or, if  that were  not possible,  she willed
the Kingpriest innocent.  Sitting within  his light,  she banished
from her mind the picture she  had seen  of the  frightened mortal
with  his  pale  blue,  darting  eyes.  She  saw  a   strong  man,
denouncing  the  ministers  who  had  deceived  him,  an  innocent
victim of their treachery....

The crowd  at the  arena that  day was  sparse, most  not caring
to  sit  out  beneath  the  green  sky,  whose color  deepened and
darkened more and more fearfully as the day wore on.
The  gladiators  themselves  were  uneasy,  nervous,   and  per-
formed  their  acts  half-heartedly.  Those  spectators  who  came
were sullen, refusing to cheer, cat-calling  and hurling  gibes at
even their favorites.
"Do  you  often  have  such  skies?"  Kiiri  asked,  glancing up
with  a  shudder  as  she and  Caramon and  Pheragas stood  in the
corridors, awaiting their turn in the  arena. "If  so, I  know why
my people choose to live beneath the sea!"
"My  father  sailed  the  sea,"  growled  Pheragas,  "as  did my
grandfather before him, as  did I,  before I  tried to  knock some
sense into the first mate's head with a belaying pin and  got sent
here  for  my  pains. And  I've never  seen a  sky this  color. Or
heard of one either. It bodes ill, 111 wager."
"No  doubt,"  Caramon  said   uncomfortably.  It   had  suddenly
begun to sink into  the big  man that  the Cataclysm  was thirteen
days  away!  Thirteen  days...  and  these  two  friends,  who had
grown  as  dear  to  him  as  Sturm and  Tanis, these  two friends
would perish! The rest of the inhabitants of Istar meant little to
him.  From  what  he  had seen,  they were  a selfish  lot, living
mainly  for  pleasure  and  money  (though he  found he  could not

look upon the children without a pang of sorrow), but these
two - He had to warn them, somehow. If they left  the city,
they might escape.
Lost in his thoughts, he had paid little attention to the fight in
the  arena.  It  was  between  the Red  Minotaur, so  called because
the  fur that  covered his  bestial face  had a  distinctly reddish-
brown  cast  to  it,  and  a  young  fighter  - a  new man,  who had
arrived  only  a  few   weeks  before.   Caramon  had   watched  the
young man's training with patronizing amusement.
But  then  he  felt  Pheragas,  who  was  standing  next  to  him,
stiffen.  Caramon's  gaze  went  immediately to  the ring.  "What is
it?"
"That  trident,"  Pheragas  said  quietly,  "have  you  ever  seen
one like it in the prop room?"
Caramon  stared  hard  at  the  Red  Minotaur's   weapon,  squint-
ing  against  the  harsh  sun  blazing  in  the   green-glazed  sky.
Slowly, he shook his  head, feeling  anger stir  inside of  him. The
young   man  was   completely  outclassed   by  the   minotaur,  who
had fought in  the arena  for months  and who,  in fact,  was rival-
ing  Caramon's  team  for  the  championship.  The  only  reason the
young  man  had  lasted  as  long as  he had  was the  skilled show-
manship  of   the  minotaur,   who  blundered   around  in   a  pre-
tended  battle  rage  that  actually  won  a  few  laughs  from  the
audience.
"A  real  trident.  Arack  intends  to  blood  the  young  man, no
doubt,"  Caramon  muttered.  "Look  there,  I  was  right," pointing
to  three  bleeding   scratches  that   suddenly  appeared   on  the
young man's chest.
Pheragas  said  nothing,  only  flicked  a  glance  at  Kiiri, who
shrugged.
"What  is  it?"  Caramon  shouted  above  the  roar of  the crowd.
The  Red  Minotaur  had  just won  by neatly  tripping up  his oppo-
nent and pinning him to the mat,  thrusting the  points of  the tri-
dent down around his neck.
The  young  man  staggered  to  his  feet, feigning  shame, anger,
and humiliation as he had  been taught.  He even  shook his  fist at
his  victorious  opponent  before  he stalked  from the  arena. But,
instead  of  grinning  as  he  passed Caramon  and his  team, enjoy-
ing  a  shared  joke  on  the  audience,  the  young   man  appeared
strangely  preoccupied  and  never  looked  at  them.  His  face was
pale,  Caramon  saw,  and  beads  of  sweat stood  out on  his fore-
head.  His  face  twisted  with pain,  and he  had his  hand clasped

over the bloody scratches.
"Lord  Onygion's  man,"  Pheragas  said  quietly, laying  a hand
on  Caramon's  arm.  "Count  yourself  fortunate,  my  friend. You
can quit worrying."
"What?"  Caramon  gaped  at  the  two  in  confusion.   Then  he
heard  a  shrill  scream and  a thud  from within  the underground
tunnel.  Whirling  around,   Caramon  saw   the  young   man  fall
into  a  writhing  heap  on  the  floor,  clutching his  chest and
screaming in agony.
"No!"  Kiiri  commanded,  holding  onto  Caramon.  "Our  turn
next. Look, Red Minotaur comes off."
The  minotaur  sauntered  past  them,  ignoring  them   as  that
race  ignores  all  it  considers beneath  them. The  Red Minotaur
also  walked  past  the dying  young man  without a  glance. Arack
came  scurrying  down  the  tunnel, Raag  behind. With  a gesture,
the dwarf ordered the ogre to remove the now lifeless body.
Caramon  hesitated,  but  Kiiri  sank  her  nails into  his arm,
dragging him out  into the  hideous sunlight.  "The score  for the
Barbarian is settled," she hissed out of the corner of  her mouth.
"Your master had nothing to do  with it,  apparently. It  was Lord
Onygion, and now he and Quarath are even."
The crowd  began to  cheer and  the rest  of Kiiri's  words were
lost. The spectators had begun to forget  their oppression  at the
sight  of  their  favorite  trio.  But  Caramon didn't  hear them.
Raistlin had  told him  the truth!  He hadn't  had anything  to do
with the Barbarian's death.  It had  been coincidence,  or perhaps
the dwarf's perverted  idea of  a joke.  Caramon felt  a sensation
of relief flow over him.
He  could go  home! At  last he  understood. Raistlin  had tried
to tell him. Their paths were different, but  his brother  had the
right  to  walk his  as he  chose. Caramon  was wrong,  the magic-
users  were  wrong,  Lady   Crysania  was   wrong.  He   would  go
home  and  explain. Raistlin  wasn't harming  anyone, he  wasn't a
threat. He simply wanted to pursue his studies in peace.
Walking out into the arena, Caramon waved back to the
cheering crowd in elation.
The  big  man  even enjoyed  that day's  fighting. The  bout was
rigged, of course, so that  his team  would win  - setting  up the
final  battle  between them  and the  Red Minotaur  on the  day of
the  Cataclysm.  But  Caramon  didn't  need  to worry  about that.
He  would  be  long  gone,  back  at  home  with  Tika.  He  would
warn his two friends first, of course, and urge them to leave this

doomed  city. Then  he'd apologize  to his  brother, tell  him he
understood,  take  Lady  Crysania  and  Tasslehoff back  to their
own  time,  and  begin  his  life anew.  He'd leave  tomorrow, or
perhaps the day after.
But  it  was  at  the  moment  when Caramon  and his  team were
taking  their  bows after  a well-acted  battle that  the cyclone
struck the Temple of Istar.
The  green  sky had  deepened to  the color  of dark  and stag-
nant  swamp  water  when  the  swirling clouds  appeared, snaking
down  out  of  the  vast  emptiness to  wrap their  sinuous coils
about one of the seven towers of the Temple and tear it  from its
foundations. Lifting it into the air, the cyclone broke  the mar-
ble into fragments fine as hail and sent  it rattling  down upon
the city in a stinging rain.
No  one  was hurt  seriously, though  many suffered  small cuts
from being struck by the sharp pieces  of rock.  The part  of the
Temple that was destroyed  was used  for study  and for  the work
of  the  church. It  had -  fortunately -  been empty  during the
holiday. But the inhabitants of  the Temple  and the  city itself
were thrown into a panic.
Fearing  that  cyclones  might  start   descending  everywhere,
people fled the arena and clogged the streets in panicked efforts
to reach their homes. Within the  Temple, the  Kingpriest's musi-
cal voice  fell silent,  his light  wavered. After  surveying the
wreckage,  he and  his ministers  - the  Revered Sons  and Daugh-
ters of Paladine  - descended  to an  inner sanctuary  to discuss
the matter. Everyone else hurried about, trying to clean  up, the
wind  having  overturned  furniture,  knocked  paintings  off the
walls, and sent clouds of dust drifting down over everything.
This is the  beginning, Crysania  thought fearfully,  trying to
force  her  numb hands  to quit  shaking as  she picked  up frag-
ments of fine china from the dining hall. This is only the begin-
ning...
And it will get worse.

_CHAPTER 14_

It is the forces of
evil, working to defeat  me," cried  the Kingpriest,  his musical
voice sending a thrill of courage through the souls of those lis-
tening. "But I will not  give in!  Neither must  you! We  must be
strong in the face of this threat...."
"No,"  Crysania  whispered  to  herself  in  despair.  "No, you
have  it  all  wrong!  You don't  understand! How  can you  be so
blind!"
She  was  sitting  at  Morning Prayers,  twelve days  after the
First  of  the Thirteen  Warnings had  been given  - but  had not
been heeded. Since then, reports had poured in from all  parts of
the continent, telling of other strange events -  a new  one each
day.
"King Lorac reports that, in Silvanesti,  the trees  wept blood
for an entire day," the Kingpriest recounted, his  voice swelling
with the awe and horror of the  events he  related. "The  city of
Palanthas is covered in a dense  white fog  so thick  people wan-
der around lost if they venture out into the streets.
"In Solamnia, no fires will burn. Their hearths lie cold and
barren. The forges are shut down, the coals might as well be ice
for all the warmth they give. Yet, on  the plains  of Abanasinia,

the prairie grass has caught fire. The flames rage out of control,
filling  the  skies  with  black smoke  and driving  the Plainsmen
from their tribal lodges.
"Just this  morning, the  griffons carried  word that  the elven
city of Qualinost  is being  invaded by  the forest  animals, sud-
denly turned strange and savage -"
Crysania   could   bear   it   no   longer.  Though   the  women
glanced at her in shock as she stood up,  she ignored  their glow-
ering looks and left the Services, fleeing  into the  corridors of
the Temple.
A jagged flash of lightning  blinded her,  the vicious  crack of
thunder  immediately  following  made  her  cover  her  face  with
her hands.
"This  must  cease  or I  will go  mad!" she  murmured brokenly,
cowering in a corner.
For  twelve  days,  ever  since  the  cyclone,   a  thunderstorm
raged over Istar, flooding the city with rain and hail.  The flash
of  lightning  and  peals  of  thunder  were   almost  continuous,
shaking  the  Temple,  destroying   sleep,  battering   the  mind.
Tense,  numb  with  fatigue  and  exhaustion and  terror, Crysania
sank down in a chair, her head in her hands.
A  gentle  touch on  her arm  made her  start in  alarm, jumping
up.  She  faced  a  tall,  handsome  young man  wrapped in  a sop-
ping wet cloak.  She could  see the  outlines of  strong, muscular
shoulders.
"I'm sorry, Revered Daughter, I  didn't mean  to scare  you," he
said in a deep voice that was as vaguely familiar as his face.
"Caramon!"  Crysania  gasped  in  relief,  clutching  at  him as
something  real  and  solid.  There was  another bright  flash and
explosion. Crysania squeezed  her eyes  shut, gritting  her teeth,
feeling  even  Caramon's  strong,  muscular body  tense nervously.
He held onto her, steadying her.
"I-I  had  to  go to  Morning Prayers,"  Crysania said  when she
could be heard. "It must be horrible out  there. You're  soaked to
the skin!"
"I've tried for days to see you -" Caramon began.
"I-I know," Crysania faltered. "I'm sorry.  It's just  that I-I've
been busy -"
"Lady  Crysania,"  Caramon  interrupted,  trying  to   keep  his
voice steady. "We're  not talking  about an  invitation to  a Yule
Party. Tomorrow this city will cease to exist! I -"
"Hush!"    Crysania    commanded.    Nervously,    she   glanced

about. "We  cannot talk  here!" A  flash of  lightning and  a shat-
tering  crash  made  her  cringe, but  she regained  control almost
immediately. "Come with me."
Caramon  hesitated  then,  frowning,  followed  her  as  she  led
the  way  through  the  Temple  into  one  of  several  dark, inner
rooms. Here, the  lightning at  least could  not penetrate  and the
thunder  was  muffled.  Shutting the  door carefully,  Crysania sat
down in a chair and motioned Caramon to do the same.
Caramon   stood   a   moment,   then   sat   down,  uncomfortable
and  on  edge,  acutely  conscious  of  the circumstances  of their
last  meeting  when  his  drunkenness  had  nearly gotten  them all
killed.  Crysania  might  have  been  thinking  of  this,  too. She
regarded  him  with  eyes  that  were  cold and  gray as  the dawn.
Caramon flushed.
"I  am  glad  to see  your health  has improved,"  Crysania said,
trying to keep the severity out of her voice and failing entirely.
Caramon's flush grew deeper. He looked down at the floor.
"I'm  sorry,"  Crysania  said abruptly.  "Please forgive  me. I-I
haven't slept for nights, ever since this started." She put a trem-
bling hand to her forehead.  "I can't  think," she  added hoarsely.
"This incessant noise...."
"I  understand,"  Caramon  said,  glancing  up  at her.  "And you
have every right to despise me. I  despise myself  for what  I was.
But  that  really  doesn't  matter  now. We've  got to  leave, Lady
Crysania!"
"Yes,  you're  right." Crysania  drew a  deep breath.  "We've got
to get out of here. We have only hours  left to  escape. I  am well
aware  of  it,  believe  me."  Sighing,  she  looked  down  at  her
hands. "I have failed," she said  dully. "I  kept hoping,  up until
this  last  moment,  that  somehow  things  might  change.  But the
Kingpriest is blind! Blind!"
"That's  not why  you've been  avoiding me  though, is  it?" Car-
amon  asked,   his  voice   expressionless.  "Preventing   me  from
leaving?"
Now  it  was  Crysania  who  blushed.  She  looked  down  at  her
hands,  twisting  in  her  lap.  "No," she  said so  softly Caramon
barely  heard.  "No,  I-I  didn't  want  to leave  without... with-
out....
"Raistlin,"  Caramon  finished.  "Lady  Crysania,  he  has  magic
of his own. It brought him  here in  the first  place. He  has made
his choice. I've come to realize that. We should leave -"
"Your  brother has  been terribly  ill," Crysania  said abruptly.

Caramon looked up quickly, his face drawn with concern.
"I  have  tried  for days  to see  him, ever  since Yule,  but he
refused admittance  to all,  even to  me. And  now, today,  he has
sent  for  me," Crysania  continued, feeling  her face  burn under
Caramon's penetrating gaze. "I am going  to talk  to him,  to per-
suade him to come with us. If his health is impaired, he  will not
have the strength to use his magic."
"Yes,"   Caramon   muttered,   thinking   about   the  difficulty
involved  in  casting  such  a  powerful,  complex spell.  It had
taken  Par-Salian  days,  and  he  was  in  good  health. "What's
wrong with Raist?" he asked suddenly.
"The  nearness  of the  gods affects  him," Crysania  replied, "as
it does others, though they refuse to admit it." Her voice died in
sorrow, but she pressed her  lips together  tightly for  a moment,
then  continued.  "We  must  be  prepared to  move quickly,  if he
agrees to come with us -"
"If he doesn't?" Caramon interrupted.
Crysania  blushed.  "I  think...  he  will,"  she  said, overcome
by confusion, her thoughts  going back  to the  time in  his cham-
bers  when  he  had  been  so near  her, the  look of  longing and
desire in his eyes, the admiration. "I've  been... talking  to him
...  about  the wrongness  of his  ways. I've  shown him  how evil
can never build or create,  how it  can only  destroy and  turn in
upon  itself. He  has admitted  the validity  of my  arguments and
promised to think about them."
"And he loves you," Caramon said softly.
Crysania could not meet the man's gaze. She could not
answer.  Her  heart  beat  so she  could not,  for a  moment, hear
above  the  pulsing  of  her  blood.  She  could  sense  Caramon's
dark  eyes  regarding  her  steadily  as  the thunder  rumbled and
shook  the  Temple  around  them.   Crysania  gripped   her  hands
together  to stop  their trembling.  Then she  was aware  of Cara-
mon rising to his feet.
"My  lady,"  he  said  in  a  hushed,  solemn  voice, "if  you are
right, if  your goodness  and your  love can  turn him  from those
dark  paths  that he  walks and  lead him  - by  his own  choice -
into  the  light,  I  would...  I  would  -"  Caramon  choked  and
turned his head hurriedly.
Hearing  so  much  love  in  the  big man's  voice and  seeing the
tears  he  tried  to  hide,  Crysania was  overcome with  pain and
remorse.  She  began  to   wonder  if   she  had   misjudged  him.
Standing up, she gently touched  the man's  huge arm,  feeling its

great  muscles  tense  as  Caramon fought  to bring  himself under
control.
"Must you return? Can't you stay -"
"No."  Caramon  shook his  head. "I've  got to  get Tas,  and the
device Par-Salian gave  me. It's  locked away.  And then,  I have
friends.... I've been trying to convince them to leave the city.
It may be too late, but I've got to make one more attempt -"
"Certainly," Crysania  said. "I  understand. Return  as quickly
as you can. Meet me... meet me in Raistlin's rooms."
"I will, my lady," he replied  fervently. "And  now I  must go,
before my friends leave for practice." Taking her hand in his, he
clasped  it  firmly,  then  hurried  away.  Crysania  watched him
walk back out into the corridor, whose  torchlights shone  in the
gloomy  darkness.  He   moved  swiftly   and  surely,   not  even
flinching when  he passed  a window  at the  end of  the corridor
and was suddenly illuminated by a  brilliant flash  of lightning.
It  was  hope  that  anchored his  storm-tossed spirit,  the same
hope Crysania felt suddenly welling up inside her.
Caramon  vanished  into  the  darkness  and  Crysania, catching
up her white robes in one  hand, quickly  turned and  climbed the
stairs  to the  part of  the Temple  that housed  the black-robed
mage.
Her good spirits and her  hope failed  slightly as  she entered
that corridor. Here the  full fury  of the  storm seemed  to rage
unabated.  Not  even  the  heaviest curtains  could keep  out the
blinding lightning, the thickest walls could not muffle the peals
of  thunder.  Perhaps  because of  some ill-fitting  window, even
the  wind  itself  seemed  to have  penetrated the  Temple walls.
Here  no  torches  would  burn,  not  that  they were  needed, so
incessant was the lighting.
Crysania's black  hair blew  in her  eyes, her  robes fluttered
around  her. As  she neared  the mage's  room at  the end  of the
corridor, she could hear the rain beat against the glass. The air
was  cold and  damp. Shivering,  she hastened  her steps  and had
raised her hand to  knock upon  the door  when the  corridor sud-
denly sizzled with a blue-white flash of lightning.  The simulta-
neous  explosion of  thunder knocked  Crysania against  the door.
It flew open, and she was in Raistlin's arms.
It was like her dream. Almost sobbing in  her terror,  she nes-
tled close to the velvet softness of the  black robes  and warmed
herself by the heat of his body. At first, that body next to hers
was tense, then she felt it relax. His arms tightened  around her

almost convulsively, a hand reached up to stroke her hair,
soothingly, comfortingly.
"There,  there,"  he  whispered  as  one  might  to  a  frightened
child, "fear not  the storm,  Revered Daughter.  Exult in  it! Taste
the  power  of  the  gods,  Crysania!  Thus  do  they  frighten  the
foolish. They cannot harm us - not if you choose otherwise."
Gradually   Crysania's  sobs   lessened.  Raistlin's   words  were
not  the  gentle  murmurings  of  a  mother.  Their  meaning  struck
home to her. She lifted her head, looking up at him.
"What  do  you  mean?"  she   faltered,  suddenly   frightened.  A
crack had appeared  in his  mirrorlike eyes,  permitting her  to see
the soul burning within.
Involuntarily,  she  started  to  push  away  from  him,   but  he
reached  out  and,  smoothing  the  tangled  black  hair   from  her
face  with  trembling  hands,  whispered,  "Come  with   me,  Crysa-
nia! Come with me to  a time  when you  will be  the only  cleric in
the  world,  to  the time  when we  may enter  the portal  and chal-
lenge  the  gods,  Crysania!  Think  of  it!  To  rule, to  show the
world such power as this!"
Raistlin  let  go  his grasp.  Raising his  arms, the  black robes
shimmering  about  him  as  the  lightning  flared  and  the thunder
roared,  he  laughed.  And  then  Crysania  saw  the  feverish gleam
in  his  eyes  and the  bright spots  of color  on his  deathly pale
cheeks.  He  was  thin,  far  thinner  than  when  she had  seen him
last.
"You're  ill,"  she  said,  backing  up,  her  hands  behind her,
reaching for the door. "I'll get help...."
"No!"  Raistlin's  shout  was  louder than  the thunder.  His eyes
regained  their  mirrored  surface,  his  face  was  cold  and  com-
posed.  Reaching  out,  he  grasped  her wrist  with a  painful grip
and  jerked  her  back  into  the  room.   The  door   slammed  shut
behind her. "I am ill," he said more quietly, "but there is no help,
no cure for  my malady  but to  escape this  insanity. My  plans are
almost  completed.  Tomorrow,   the  day   of  the   Cataclysm,  the
attention  of  the  gods  will  be  turned to  the lesson  they must
inflict  upon  these  poor  wretches.  The  Dark  Queen will  not be
able  to  stop  me  as  I  work  my magic  and carry  myself forward
to  the one  time in  history when  she is  vulnerable to  the power
of a true cleric!"
"Let me go!" Crysania cried, pain and outrage submerging
her fear. Angrily, she wrenched her arm free of his grasp. But
she  still  remembered  his  embrace,  the  touch  of  his hands....

Hurt  and  ashamed,   Crysania  turned   away.  "You   must  work
your  evil  without  me,"  she  said, her  voice choked  with her
tears. "I will not go with you."
"Then you will die," Raistlin said grimly.
"Do  you  dare  threaten  me!"  Crysania  cried,  whirling around
to face him, shock and fury drying her eyes.
"Oh,  not  by  my hand,"  Raistlin said  with a  strange smile.
"You will die by the hands of those who sent you here."
Crysania  blinked,  stunned.  Then  she  quickly  regained  her
composure.  "Another  trick?"  she  asked  coldly,  backing  away
from him,  the pain  in her  heart at  his deception  almost more
than  she  could bear.  She wanted  only to  leave before  he saw
how much he had been able to hurt her -
"No  trick, Revered  Daughter," Raistlin  said simply.  He ges-
tured to a book with  red binding  that lay  open upon  his desk.
"See for  yourself. Long  I studied  -" He  swept his  hand about
the  rows  and  rows  of  books  that  lined  the  wall. Crysania
gasped. These had not been here  the last  time. Looking  at her,
he nodded. "Yes, I brought them from  far-off places.  I traveled
far in search of many of them. This  one I  finally found  in the
Tower of  High Sorcery  at Wayreth,  as I  suspected all  along I
might. Come, look at it."
"What is  it?" Crysania  stared at  the volume  as if  it might
have been a coiled, poisonous serpent.
"A  book,  nothing  more." Raistlin  smiled wearily.  "I assure
you it will not  change into  a dragon  and carry  you off  at my
command. I repeat - it is a book, an  encyclopedia, if  you will.
A very ancient one, written during the Age of Dreams."
"Why  do  you want  me to  see this?  What does  it have  to do
with me?" Crysania asked  suspiciously. But  she had  ceased edg-
ing  her  way  toward  the door.  Raistlin's calm  demeanor reas-
sured her. She had  even ceased  to notice,  for the  moment, the
lightning and cracking of the storm outside.
"It is an encyclopedia of magical  devices produced  during the
Age  of  Dreams,"  Raistlin  continued imperturbably,  never tak-
ing his eyes from Crysania, seeming to draw  her nearer  with his
gaze as he stood beside the desk. "Read -"
"I cannot read the  language of  magic," Crysania  said, frown-
ing, then her brow cleared. "Or are you going to  'translate' for
me?" she inquired haughtily.
Raistlin's eyes flared in swift anger, but the anger was almost
instantly  replaced  by  a  look of  sadness and  exhaustion that

went straight to Crysania's heart. "It is not  written in  the lan-
guage  of  magic,"  he  said softly.  "I would  not have  asked you
here  otherwise."  Glancing  down at  the black  robes he  wore, he
smiled the twisted, bitter smile. "Long ago,  I willingly  paid the
penalty.  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  have  hoped  you  would
trust me."
Biting  her  lip,  feeling  deeply  ashamed,  though  she  had no
idea  why,  Crysania  crossed  around  to  the  other  side  of the
desk.  She stood  there, hesitantly.  Sitting down,  Raistlin beck-
oned  to  her,  and she  took a  step forward  to stand  beside the
open  book.  The  mage  spoke  a  word  of  command, and  the staff
that leaned up against the wall  near Crysania  burst into  a flood
of yellow light, startling her nearly as much as the lightning.
"Read," Raistlin said, indicating the page.
Trying  to  compose  herself,  Crysania  glanced  down,  scanning
the  page,  though  she  had  no  idea what  she sought.  Then, her
attention  was  captured. Device  of Time  Journeying read  one of
the entries and, beside it, was  pictured a  device similar  to the
one the kender had described.
"This  is it?"  she asked,  looking up  at Raistlin.  "The device
Par-Salian gave Caramon to get us back?"
The  mage nodded,  his eyes  reflecting the  yellow light  of the
staff.
"Read," he repeated softly.
Curious,  Crysania  scanned  the  text.  There  was  little  more
than  a  paragraph,  describing the  device, the  great mage  - now
long  forgotten  - who  had designed  and built  it -  the require-
ments  for  its  use.  Much  of  the  description  was  beyond  her
understanding,  dealing  with  things arcane.  She grasped  at bits
and pieces -
...  will  carry  the  person  already under  a time  spell forward
or  backward...  must  be  assembled   correctly  and   the  facets
turned  in  the  prescribed  order....  will  transport  one person
only, the person to whom it is given at the time the spell  is cast
... device's use is restricted to elves, humans, ogres...  no spell
word required....
Crysania  came  to  the  end  and glanced  up at  Raistlin uncer-
tainly.  He  was  watching  her  with  a  strange,  expectant look.
There was  something there  he was  waiting for  her to  find. And,
deep within, she felt a  disquiet, a  fear, a  numbness, as  if her
heart understood the text more quickly than her brain.
"Again," Raistlin said.

Trying  to  concentrate,  though  she was  now once  more aware
of  the storm  outside that  seemed to  be growing  in intensity,
Crysania looked back at the text.
And there it was.  The words  leaped out  at her,  reaching for
her throat, choking her.
Transport one person only....
Transport one person only!
Crysania's legs gave way. Fortunately,  Raistlin moved  a chair
behind her or she might have fallen to the floor.
For  long  moments  she  stared  into the  room. Though  lit by
lightning and the magical light of  the staff,  it had,  for her,
grown suddenly dark.
"Does he know?" she asked finally, through numb lips.
"Caramon?"  Raistlin  snorted.  "Of course  not. If  they had
told him, he would have broken his fool neck trying to get  it to
you and would beg you on his  knees to  use it  and give  him the
privilege of dying in your stead. I can think of little else that
would make him happier.
"No, Lady  Crysania, he  would have  used it  confidently, with
you standing  beside him  as well  as the  kender, no  doubt. And
he  would  have  been  devastated  when  they  explained  to  him
why  he  returned  alone.  I  wonder  how  Par-Salian  would have
managed  that,"  Raistlin added  with a  grim smile.  "Caramon is
quite  capable  of  tearing  that Tower  down around  their ears.
But that is neither here nor there."
His  gaze caught  hers, though  she would  have avoided  it. He
compelled her, by the force of his will, to  look into  his eyes.
And, once again, she saw herself, but this time alone  and terri-
bly frightened.
"They sent you back here to die, Crysania," Raistlin said  in a
voice that was little more than  a breath,  yet it  penetrated to
Crysania's very core, echoing louder in her  mind than  the thun-
der. "This is the good you tell me about? Bah! They live in fear,
as does the Kingpriest! They fear you as they  fear me.  The only
path to good, Crysania, is my path!  Help me  defeat the  evil. I
need you...."
Crysania closed her eyes.  She could  see once  again, vividly,
Par-Salian's handwriting on the note  she had  found -  your life
or your soul - gain one and you  will lose  the other!  There are
many  ways  back  for  you,  one  of  which  is  through Caramon.
He  had  purposely misled  her! What  other way  existed, besides
Raistlin's?  Is  this  what-  the mage  meant? Who  could answer

her? Was there anyone, anyone in this bleak and desolate
world she could trust?
Her  muscles  twitching,  contracting, Crysania  pushed herself
up from her chair. She did not look at Raistlin, she stared ahead
at  nothing.  "I  must  go..."  she  muttered  brokenly,  "I must
think...."
Raistlin did not try to stop her. He did not even stand. He
spoke no word - until she reached the door.
"Tomorrow," he whispered. "Tomorrow...."

_CHAPTER 15_

It  took  all  of Cara-
mon's strength, plus that of two  of the  Temple guards,  to force
the  great  doors  of the  Temple open  and let  him out  into the
storm.  The  wind hit  him full  force, driving  the big  man back
against the stone wall and pinning him there for an instant, as if
he   were  no   bigger  than   Tas.  Struggling,   Caramon  fought
against it and  finally won,  the gale  force relenting  enough to
allow him to continue down the stairs.
The  fury  of  the  storm  was  somewhat  lessened as  he walked
among the tall buildings of the city, but  it was  still difficult
going. Water ran a foot deep  in some  places, swirling  about his
legs, threatening more than once to  sweep him  off his  feet. The
lightning half-blinded him, the thunder was deafening.
Needless to say,  he saw  few other  people. The  inhabitants of
Istar  cowered indoors,  alternately cursing  or calling  upon the
gods.  The  occasional  traveler  he passed,  driven out  into the
storm  by  who  knows what  desperate reason,  clung to  the sides
of the buildings or stood huddled miserably in doorways.
But Caramon trudged on, anxious to get back to the arena.
His heart was filled with hope, his spirits were high, despite the
storm.  Or  perhaps  because of  the storm.  Surely now  Kiiri and

Pheragas  would  listen  to  him  instead  of giving  him strange,
cold looks when he tried to persuade them to flee Istar.
"I  can't  tell  you  how  I  know, I  just know!"  he pleaded.
"There's disaster coming, I can smell it!"
"And miss the final tournament?" Kiiri said coolly.
"They won't hold it in this weather!" Caramon waved his
arms.
"No storm this fierce ever lasts long!" Pheragas said.  "It will
blow itself out, and we'll have  a beautiful  day. Besides"  - his
eyes narrowed - "what would you do without us in the arena?"
"Why, fight  alone, if  need be,"  Caramon said,  somewhat flus-
tered. He  planned to  be long  gone by  that time  - he  and Tas,
Crysania and perhaps... perhaps....
"If  need  be... "  Kiiri had  repeated in  an odd,  harsh tone,
exchanging  glances  with  Pheragas. "Thanks  for thinking  of us,
friend," she said with a scathing glance at the iron  collar Cara-
mon  wore,  the  collar  that  matched  her  own, "but  no thanks.
Our  lives  would be  forfeit -  runaway slaves!  How long  do you
think we'd live out there?"
"It  won't  matter,  not after...  after..." Caramon  sighed and
shook  his  head  miserably.  What  could  he  say?  How  could he
make   them   understand?  But   they  had   not  given   him  the
chance.  They  walked  off  without  another  word,   leaving  him
sitting alone in the mess hall.
But, surely, now  they would  listen! They  would see  that this
was  no  ordinary  storm.  Would  they  have  time  to   get  away
safely? Caramon frowned  and wished,  for the  first time,  he had
paid more attention  to books.  He had  no idea  how wide  an area
the devastating effect of the  fall of  the fiery  mountain encom-
passed. He shook his head. Maybe it was already too late.
Well,  he  had tried,  he told  himself, slogging  along through
the water. Wrenching his mind from the plight  of his  friends, he
forced  himself  to think  more cheerful  thoughts. Soon  he would
be gone from this terrible place. Soon this would all seem  like a
bad dream.
He  would be  back home  with Tika.  Maybe with  Raistlin! "I'll
finish building the new house," he  said, thinking  regretfully of
all  the time  he had  wasted. A  picture came  into his  mind. He
could see himself, sitting by the fire in  their new  home, Tika's
head resting in his lap. He'd tell her all about their adventures.
Raistlin would  sit with  them, in  the evenings;  reading, study-
ing, dressed in white robes....

"Tika  won't believe  a word  of this,"  Caramon said  to himself.
"But it won't  matter. She'll  have the  man she  fell in  love with
home  again.  And  this  time, he  won't leave  her, ever,  for any-
thing!"  He  sighed,  feeling her  crisp red  curls wrap  around his
fingers, seeing them shine in the firelight.
These  thoughts  carried   Caramon  through   the  storm   and  to
the arena. Pulling out the block in the  wall that  was used  by all
the  gladiators  on  their  nocturnal rambles.  (Arack was  aware of
its existence but, by tacit arrangement,  turned a  blind eye  to it
as  long  as  the  privilege  wasn't  abused.)  No  one  was  in the
arena,  of  course.  Practice  sessions  had  all   been  cancelled.
Everyone  was  huddled   inside,  cursing   the  foul   weather  and
making bets on whether or not they would fight tomorrow.

Arack  was  in a  mood nearly  as foul  as the  elements, counting
over and over the pieces of gold  that would  slip through  his fin-
gers if he had to cancel the Final Bout - the sporting event  of the
year in Istar. He tried to cheer  himself up  with the  thought that
he  had  promised  him  fine  weather  and  he,  if  anyone,  should
know. Still, the dwarf stared gloomily outside.
From  his  vantage  point, a  window high  above the  grounds in
the  tower  of  the  arena,  he  saw  Caramon  creep  through  the
stone  wall.  "Raag!"  He  pointed.  Looking  down,   Raag  nodded
in  understanding  and,  grabbing  the huge  club, waited  for the
dwarf to put away his account books.

Caramon  hurried  to  the cell  he shared  with the  kender, eager
to  tell  him  about  Crysania  and Raistlin.  But when  he entered,
the small room was empty.
"Tas?"  he  said,  glancing  around  to  make  certain  he  hadn't
overlooked  him in  the shadows.  But a  flash of  lightning illumi-
nated  the  room  more  brightly  than daylight.  There was  no sign
of the kender.
"Tas,   come   out!   This   is  no   time  for   games!"  Caramon
ordered sternly.  Tasslehoff had  nearly frightened  him out  of six
years'  growth  one  day  by  hiding  under  the  bed,  then leaping
out  when  Caramon's  back  was  turned. Lighting  a torch,  the big
man  got  down,  grumbling,  on  his  hands  and  knees  and flashed
the light under the bed. No Tas.
"I hope the little fool didn't try to go out in this storm!" Cara-
mon said to himself, his irritation changing to sudden concern.
"He'd get blown  back to  Solace. Or  maybe he's  in the  mess hall,

waiting for me. Maybe he's  with Kiiri  and Pheragas.  That's it!
I'll just grab the device, then join him -"
Talking  to  himself, Caramon  went over  to the  small, wooden
chest  where  he  kept  his armor.  Opening it,  he took  out the
fancy, gold costume. Giving it a scornful  glance, he  tossed the
pieces on the floor. "At least I won't have  to wear  that get-up
again,"  he  said  thankfully.  "Though"  -  he  grinned somewhat
shamefacedly - "it'd be  fun to  see Tika's  reaction when  I put
that on! Wouldn't she laugh? But I'll bet she'd like it, just the
same."  Whistling  cheerfully,  Caramon  quickly  took everything
out of the chest and, using the  edge of  one of  the collapsible
daggers, carefully prized up the false bottom  he had  built into
it.
The whistle died on his lips.
The chest was empty.
Frantically, Caramon  felt all  over the  inside of  the chest,
though it was quite obvious that a pendant as large as  the magi-
cal device wouldn't  have been  likely to  slip through  a crack.
His  heart  beating wildly  with fear,  Caramon scrambled  to his
feet and began to search the room,  flashing the  torchlight into
every  corner,  peering  once  more  under  the  beds.   He  even
ripped up his straw mattress and  was starting  to work  on Tas's
when he suddenly noticed something.
Not only  was the  kender gone,  but so  were his  pouches, all
his beloved possessions. And so was his cloak.
And then Caramon knew. Tas had taken the device.
But  why?...  Caramon  felt for  a moment  as if  lightning had
struck him, the sudden  understanding sizzling  his way  from his
brain to his body with a shock that paralyzed him.
Tas had seen Raistlin  - he  had told  Caramon about  that. But
what had Tas  been doing  there? Why  had he  gone to  see Raist-
lin?  Caramon suddenly  realized that  the kender  had skillfully
steered the conversation away from that point.
Caramon  groaned.  The  curious  kender  had, of  course, ques-
tioned him about  the device,  but Tas  had always  seemed satis-
fied  with Caramon's  answers. Certainly,  he had  never bothered
it.  Caramon  checked, occasionally,  to make  sure it  was still
there - one did that as a matter of habit when living with a ken-
der.  But,  if Tas  had been  curious enough  about it,  he would
have taken it to Raistlin.... He did that often in the  old days,
when he found something magical.
Or maybe Raistlin tricked Tas into bringing it to him! Once

he  had  the device,  Raistlin could  force them  to go  with him.
Had  he  been  plotting  this all  along? Had  he tricked  Tas and
deceived  Crysania?  Caramon's  mind   stumbled  about   his  head
in confusion. Or maybe -
"Tas!"  Caramon  cried,  suddenly  latching onto  firm, positive
action. "I have to find Tas! I have to stop him!"
Feverishly, the big  man grabbed  up his  soaking wet  cloak. He
was  barreling  out  the  door  when  a  huge dark  shadow blocked
his path.
"Out  of  my  way,  Raag,"  Caramon  growled,  completely for-
getting, in his anxiety, where he was.
Raag reminded him instantly, his giant hand closing over
Caramon's huge shoulder. "Where go, slave?"
Caramon  tried to  shake off  the ogre's  grip, but  Raag's hand
simply  tightened  its  grip.  There  was  a crunching  sound, and
Caramon gasped in pain.
"Don't hurt him, Raag," came  a voice  from somewhere
around Caramon's kneecaps. "He's got to fight tomorrow.
What's more, he's got to win!"
Raag pushed Caramon  back into  the cell  with as  little effort
as a grown man  playfully tosses  a child.  The big  warrior stum-
bled backward, falling heavily on the stone floor.
"You  sure  are  busy  today,"  Arack  said  conversationally,
entering the cell and plopping down on the bed.
Sitting  up,  Caramon  rubbed  his bruised  shoulder. He  cast a
quick  glance  at  Raag,  who  was  still  standing,  blocking the
door. Arack continued.
"You've  already been  out once  in this  foul weather,  and now
you're  heading out  again?" The  dwarf shook  his head.  "No, no.
I can't allow it. You might catch cold...."
"Hey,"  Caramon  said,  grinning  weakly  and  licking  his  dry
lips. "I was just going to the mess hall to find Tas -" He cringed
involuntarily as a bolt of lightning  exploded outside.  There was
a cracking sound and a sudden odor of burning wood.
"Forget it.  The kender  left," Arack  said, shrugging,  "and it
looked to me like he left for good - had his stuff all packed."
Caramon  swallowed,  clearing  his  throat.  "Let  me  go find
him then -" he began.
Arack's grin  twisted suddenly  into a  vicious scowl.  "I don't
give  a  damn about  the little  bastard! I  got my  money's worth
outta him, I figure, in what he stole  for me  already. But  you -
I've got quite  an investment  in you.  Your little  escape plan's

failed, slave."
"Escape?"  Caramon  laughed  hollowly.  "I  never  -  You  don't
understand -"
"So  I  don't  understrand?" Arack  snarled. "I  don't understand
that you've been trying to get two of my  best fighters  to leave?
Trying to ruin me, are  you?" The  dwarf's voice  rose to  a shrill
shriek  above the  howl of  the wind  outside. "Who  put you  up to
this?"  Arack's   expression  became   suddenly  shrewd   and  cun-
ning. "It wasn't your master, so don't lie. He's been to see me."
"Raist  -  er  -  Fist-Fistandantil  -"  Caramon  stammered,  his
jaw dropping.
The  dwarf  smiled  smugly.  "Yeah.  And   Fistandantilus  warned
me  you  might try  something like  this. Said  I should  watch you
carefully.  He  even suggested  a fitting  punishment for  you. The
final  fight  tomorrow  will  not  be  between  your  team  and the
minotaurs.  It  will  be  you  against Kiiri  and Pheragas  and the
Red  Minotaur!"  The  dwarf  leaned  over,  leering  into Caramon's
face. "And their weapons will be real!"
Caramon  stared  at  Arack  uncomprehendingly  for a
moment. Then, "Why?" he murmured bleakly. "Why does he
want to kill me?"
"Kill  you?" The  dwarf cackled.  "He doesn't  want to  kill you!
He thinks you'll win! 'It's a test,' he says to me, 'I don't want a
slave  who  isn't  the  best!  And  this  will  prove  it.  Caramon
showed  me  what  he  could  do  against  the  Barbarian.  That was
his first test. Let's make this test harder on  him,' he  says. Oh,
he's a rare one, your master!"
The  dwarf  chuckled,  slapping  his  knees  at the  thought, and
even  Raag  gave  a  grunt  that  might  have  been  indicative  of
amusement.
"I  won't  fight," Caramon  said, his  face hardening  into firm,
grim lines.  "Kill me!  I won't  fight my  friends. And  they won't
fight me!"
"He  said  you'd  say  that!"  The  dwarf  roared.   "Didn't  he,
Raag!  The  very  words.  By  gar,  he knows  you! You'd  think you
two was kin! 'So,' he says to me, 'if he refuses  to fight,  and he
will, I have  no doubt,  then you  tell him  that his  friends will
fight in his stead, only they will  fight the  Red Minotaur  and it
will be the minotaur who has the real weapons.' "
Caramon   remembered   vividly   the   young   man   writhing  in
agony on the stone  floor as  the poison  from the  minotaur's tri-
dent coursed through his body.

"As  for  your  friends  fighting  you" -  the dwarf  sneered -
"Fistandantilus took care of that, too. After what he  told them,
I think they're gonna be real eager to get in the arena!"
Caramon's  head  sank  to  his  chest. He  began to  shake. His
body  convulsed  with  chills,  his  stomach wrenched.  The enor-
mity  of  his  brother's  evil overwhelmed  him, his  mind filled
with darkness and despair.
Raistlin has deceived us  all, deceived  Crysania, Tas,  me! It
was  Raistlin  who made  me kill  the Barbarian.  He lied  to me!
And he's lied to Crysania, too.  He's no  more capable  of loving
her than the dark moon is  capable of  lighting the  night skies.
He's  using  her!  And  Tas?  Tas!  Caramon  closed his  eyes. He
remembered  Raistlin's look  when he  discovered the  kender, his
words  -  "kender can  alter time....  is this  how they  plan to
stop me?" Tas was a danger  to him,  a threat!  He had  no doubt,
now, where Tas had gone....
The  wind outside  howled and  shrieked, but  not as  loudly as
the  pain  and  anguish  in  Caramon's  soul. Sick  and nauseous,
wracked  by  icy  spasms  of needle-sharp  pain, the  big warrior
completely  lost  any   comprehension  of   what  was   going  on
around him. He didn't see Arack's gesture,  nor feel  Raag's huge
hands grab hold of him. He didn't even feel  the bindings  on his
wrists....
It was only later, when the awful feelings of sickness and hor-
ror passed, that he woke  to a  realization of  his surroundings.
He  was  in  tiny,  windowless  cell  far  underground,  probably
beneath the arena. Raag was fastening a chain to the  iron collar
around  his neck  and was  bolting that  chain to  a ring  in the
stone wall. Then the  ogre shoved  him to  the floor  and checked
the leather thongs that bound Caramon's wrists.
"Not too tight," Caramon  heard the  dwarf's voice  warn, "he's
got to fight tomorrow...."
There was a distant rumble  of thunder,  audible even  this far
beneath  the  ground.  At  the  sound,  Caramon  looked  up hope-
fully. We can't fight in this weather -
The  dwarf  grinned  as  he  followed   Raag  out   the  wooden
door. He started to slam it shut, then poked his head  around the
corner, his beard wagging in  glee as  he saw  the look  on Cara-
mon's face.
"Oh, by the way. Fistandantilus says it's going to be a beauti-
ful  day  tomorrow.  A  day  that  everyone  on  Krynn  will long
remember...."

The door slammed shut and locked.
Caramon sat alone in the dense, damp darkness. His mind
was calm, the sickness and shock having wiped it clean as slate
of any feeling, any emotion. He was alone.  Even Tas  was gone.
There was no one he could turn to  for advice,  no one  to make
his decisions for him anymore. And then, he realized, he didn't
need anyone. Not to make this decision.
Now  he  knew,  now  he  understood.  This  is  why  the  mages
had sent  him back.  They knew  the truth.  They wanted  him to
learn it for himself. His twin was lost, never to be reclaimed.
Raistlin must die.

_CHAPTER 16_

None slept in Istar
that night.
The  storm increased  in fury  until it  seemed it  must destroy
everything  in its  path. The  wind's keening  was like  the deadly
wail  of  the  banshee,  piercing even  the continuous  crashing of
the  thunder.  Splintered  lightning  danced  among   the  streets,
trees  exploded  at  its  fiery  touch.  Hail  rattled  and bounced
among  the  streets,  knocking  bricks  and  stones   from  houses,
shattering the thickest glass, allowing the wind  and rain  to rush
into   homes   like   savage   conquerors.   Flood   waters  roared
through the  streets, carrying  away the  market stalls,  the slave
pens, carts and carriages.
Yet, no one was hurt.
It was as if the gods, in this last hour, held their hands cupped
protectively  over  the living;  hoping, begging  them to  heed the
warnings.
At  dawn,  the  storm  ceased.  The  world  was  suddenly filled
with  a  profound  silence.  The  gods waited,  not even  daring to
breathe, lest they miss the one small cry that  might yet  save the
world.
The sun rose in a pale blue, watery sky. No bird sang to wel-

come it, no leaves rustled in  the morning  breeze, for  there was
no  morning  breeze.  The air  was still  and deathly  calm. Smoke
rose from the smoldering trees in straight  lines to  the heavens,
the  flood  waters  dwindled  away   rapidly  as   though  whisked
down  a  huge  drain.  The people  crept outdoors,  staring around
in  disbelief   that  there   was  not   more  damage   and  then,
exhausted  from  sleepless  nights preceding,  went back  to their
beds.
But there was, after all, one person in  Istar who  slept peace-
fully through the  night. The  sudden silence,  in fact,  woke him
up.
As  Tasslehoff  Burrfoot  was  fond  of  recounting  -   he  had
talked  to  spooks  in  Darken  Wood,  met several  dragons (flown
on  two),  come  very  near  the   accursed  Shoikan   Grove  (how
near  improved with  each telling),  broke a  dragon orb,  and had
been  personally  responsible  for  the  defeat  of  the  Queen of
Darkness  (with  some  help).  A   mere  thunderstorm,   even  the
likes  of  a  thunderstorm  such  as  this  one, wasn't  likely to
frighten him, much less disturb his sleep.
It  had been  a simple  matter to  retrieve the  magical device.
Tas  shook  his  head over  Caramon's naive  pride in  the clever-
ness of his hiding place. Tas had refrained  from telling  the big
man,  but  that  false  bottom  could  have  been detected  by any
kender over the age of three.
Tas lifted the magical device out of the box eagerly, staring at
it  with  wonder  and  delight.  He  had  forgotten  how  charming
and lovely it was,  folded down  into an  oval pendant.  It seemed
impossible that his hands would  transform it  into a  device that
would perform such a miracle!
Hurriedly, Tas went  over Raistlin's  instructions in  his mind.
The  mage  had  given  them  to  him  only a  few days  before and
had   made   him  memorize   them  -   figuring  that   Tas  would
promptly  lose  written  instructions,  as  Raistlin had  told him
caustically.
They were not difficult, and Tas had them in moments.

Thy time is thy own
Though across it you travel.
Its expanses you see
Whirling through forever,
Obstruct not its flow.
Grasp firmly the end and the beginning,

Turn them back upon themselves, and
All that is loose shall be secure.
Destiny be over your own head.

The device  was so  beautiful, Tas  could have  lingered, admir-
ing  it,  for long  moments. But  he didn't  have long  moments, so
he hastily thrust it  into one  of his  pouches, grabbed  his other
pouches   (just   in   case  he   found  anything   worth  carrying
along  -  or  anything  found him),  put on  his cloak  and hurried
out.  On  the  way,  he  thought about  his last  conversation with
the mage just a few days previous.
"  'Borrow'  the object  the night  before," Raistlin  had coun-
seled  him.  "The  storm  will  be  frightening, and  Caramon might
take it into his head to leave. Besides, it will be easiest for you
to  slip into  the room  known as  the Sacred  Chamber of  the Tem-
ple unnoticed  while the  storm rages.  The storm  will end  in the
morning,  and  then  the  Kingpriest and  his ministers  will begin
the  processional.  They  will  be  going  to  the  Sacred Chamber,
and it is there that the Kingpriest  will make  his demands  of the
gods.
"You  must  be  in  the  chamber  and  you  must   activate  the
device at the very moment the Kingpriest ceases to speak -"
"How will it stop it?" Tas interrupted eagerly.  "Will I  see it
shoot  a ray  of light  up to  heaven or  something? Will  it knock
the Kingpriest flat?"
"No," Raistlin answered, coughing softly,  "it will  not -  um -
knock the Kingpriest flat. But you are right about the light."
"I am?" Tas's mouth gaped open. "I just guessed! That's
fantastic! I must be getting good at this magic stuff."
"Yes," Raistlin replied dryly,  "now, to  continue before  I was
interrupted -"
"Sorry, it won't happen  again," Tas  apologized, then  shut his
mouth as Raistlin glared at him.
'You  must  sneak  into  the  Sacred  Chamber during  the night.
The area behind the altar is  lined with  curtains. Hide  there and
you will not be discovered."
"Then  I'll stop  the Cataclysm,  go back  to Caramon,  and tell
him all about it 1 I'll be a hero -" Tas stopped, a  sudden thought
crossing his mind. "But, how can I be  a hero  if I  stop something
that  never  started? I  mean, how  will they  know I  did anything
if I didn't -"
"Oh, they'll know...." said Raistlin softly.

"They will? But I still don't see - Oh, you're busy, I guess. I
suppose I should go? All right. Say,  well, you're  leaving after
this is all over," Tas said, being rather firmly propelled toward
the  door  by  Raistlin's hand  on his  shoulder. "Where  are you
going?"
"Where I choose," said Raistlin;
"Could I come with you?" Tas asked eagerly.
"No,  you'll  be  needed  back  in  your  own  time,"  Raistlin
answered,  staring  at  the  kender  very strangely  - or  so Tas
thought at the time. "To look after Caramon...."
"Yes, I guess you're right." The kender sighed. "He does take a
lot of looking after." They reached the door. Tas regarded it for
a moment, then  looked up  wistfully at  Raistlin. "I  don't sup-
pose  you  could...  sort of  swoosh me  somewhere, like  you did
the last time? It's great fun...."
Checking  a  sigh,  Raistlin  obligingly "swooshed"  the kender
into  a  duck  pond,   to  Tas's   vast  amusement.   The  kender
couldn't recall, in fact, when Raistlin had been so nice to him.
It must be  because of  my ending  the Cataclysm,  Tas decided.
He's probably really grateful, just doesn't  know how  to express
it properly. Or maybe he's not allowed to be grateful  since he's
evil.
That was an interesting thought  and one  Tas considered  as he
waded out of the pond and went, dripping, back to the arena.
Tas recalled it again as he left the arena the night before the
Cataclysm that  wasn't going  to happen,  but his  thoughts about
Raistlin were rudely  interrupted. He  hadn't realized  quite how
bad  the  storm  had  grown  and  was  somewhat  amazed   at  the
ferocity of the  wind that  literally picked  him up  and slammed
him  back  against  the  stone wall  of the  arena when  he first
darted  outside.  After pausing  a moment  to recover  his breath
and  check  to  see  if  anything was  broken, the  kender picked
himself up and  started off  toward the  Temple again,  the magi-
cal device firmly in hand.
This time, he had  presence of  mind enough  to hug  the build-
ings, finding that the wind didn't buffet  him so  there. Walking
through the  storm proved  to be  rather an  exhilarating experi-
ence, in fact. Once lightning struck a tree next to him, smashing
it to smithereens.  (He had  often wondered,  what exactly  was a
smithereen?) Another  time he  misjudged the  depth of  the water
running in the  street and  found himself  being washed  down the
block  at  a rapid  rate. This  was amusing  and would  have been

even more fun if he had been able to breathe. Finally, the water
dumped him rather abruptly  in an  alley, where  he was  able to
get back onto his feet and continue his journey.
Tas  was  almost  sorry  to  reach  the  Temple after  so many
adventures,   but   -   reminding   himself  of   his  Important
Mission  -  he  crept  through  the  garden  and  made  his  way
inside. Once there, it was, as Raistlin  had predicted,  easy to
lose himself in the confusion created by the storm. Clerics were
running  everywhere,  trying to  mop up  water and  broken glass
from  shattered  windows,  relighting  blown  out  torches, com-
forting those who could no longer stand the strain.
He  had  no  idea  where  the  Sacred  Chamber was,  but there
was  nothing  he  enjoyed  more  than  wandering  around strange
places. Two or three hours (and several bulging  pouches later),
he ran across a room that precisely matched  Raistlin's descrip-
tion.
No torches lit the room; it was not being used at present, but
flashes of lightning illuminated it brightly enough for the ken-
der to see the altar and the curtains Raistlin had described. By
this time, being rather fatigued,  Tas was  glad to  rest. After
investigating the room and  finding it  boringly empty,  he made
his way past the  altar (empty  as well)  and ducked  behind the
curtains, rather hoping (even if he was tired) to find some kind
of secret cave where the Kingpriest performed holy rites forbid-
den to the eyes of mortal men.
Looking around, he sighed.  Nothing. Just  a wall,  covered by
curtains. Sitting down behind the curtains,  Tas spread  out his
cloak to dry, wrung the water out of his topknot,  and -  by the
flashes   of   lightning  coming   through  the   stained  glass
windows -  began to  sort through  the interesting  objects that
had made their way into his pouches.
After a while, his eyes grew too  heavy to  keep open  and his
yawns were beginning to hurt his jaws. Curling up on  the floor,
he drifted off to sleep, only mildly annoyed  by the  booming of
the  thunder.  His  last thought  was to  wonder if  Caramon had
missed him yet and, if so, was he very angry?...
The next thing Tas knew, it  was quiet.  Now, why  that should
have startled him out of perfectly  sound sleep  was at  first a
complete  mystery.  It  was  also  somewhat of  a mystery  as to
where he was, exactly, but then he remembered.
Oh, yes. He was in the Sacred Chamber of the Temple of the
Kingpriest of Istar. Today was the day of  the Cataclysm,  or it

would  have  been.  Perhaps,  more  accurately,  today  wasn't the
day  of the  Cataclysm. Or  today had  been the  day of  the Cata-
clysm. Finding this all very  confusing -  altering time  was such
a bother - Tas decided not to think about it and to try  to figure
out, instead, why it was so quiet.
Then,  it  occurred  to him.  The storm  had stopped!  Just like
Raistlin said it would.  Rising to  his feet,  he peeked  out from
between  the  curtains  into  the  Sacred  Chamber.   Through  the
windows,  he  could  see  bright sunlight.  Tas gulped  in excite-
ment.
He had no  idea what  time it  was but,  from the  brilliance of
the sunlight,  it must  be close  to midmorning.  The processional
would  start  soon,  he  remembered,  and  would  take a  while to
wind  through  the  Temple.  The  Kingpriest  had called  upon the
gods at High Watch, when the sun reached its zenith in the sky.
Sure enough, just  as Tas  was thinking  about it,  bells pealed
out,  right  above him,  it seemed,  their clanging  startling him
more  than  the  thunder.  For a  moment he  wondered if  he might
be  doomed  to  go  through  life  hearing  nothing   but  bonging
sounds  ring  in  his  ears.  Then  the bells  in the  tower above
stopped and, after a few  moments more,  so did  the bells  in his
head. Heaving a sigh  of relief,  he peeked  out between  the cur-
tains  into  the  Chamber again  and was  just wondering  if there
was  a  chance  someone  might  come  back here  to clean  when he
saw a shadowy figure slip into the room.
Tas  drew  back.  Keeping  the  curtains open  only a  crack, he
peered  through with  one eye.  The figure's  head was  bowed, its
steps  were  slow  and  uncertain.  It  paused  a  moment  to lean
against one of the stone benches that flanked the altar as  if too
tired  to  continue  further,  then  it  sank  down to  its knees.
Though  it  was  dressed in  white robes  like nearly  everyone in
the Temple, Tas thought this figure looked  familiar, so,  when he
was fairly certain the figure's attention wasn't on him, he risked
widening the opening.
"Crysania!"  he  said to  himself with  interest. "I  wonder why
she's  here  so early?"  Then he  was seized  with a  sudden over-
whelming  disappointment.  Suppose  she  was  here  to   stop  the
Cataclysm as well! "Drat! Raistlin said I could," Tas muttered.
Then,  he  realized  she  was  talking  -  either to  herself or
praying - Tas wasn't  sure which.  Crowding as  close to  the cur-
tain as he dared, he listened to her soft words.
"Paladine, greatest, wisest god of eternal goodness, hear my

voice on  this most  tragic of  days. I  know I  cannot stop  what is
to come. And, perhaps it is a sign  of a  lack of  faith that  I even
question what you do.  All I  ask is  this -  help me  to understand!
If it is true that I must die, let me know  why. Let  me see  that my
death  will  serve  some  purpose.  Show  me that  I have  not failed
in all I came back here to accomplish.
"Grant  that  I  may  stay  here,  unseen,  and  listen to  what no
mortal  ever  heard  and  lived  to  relate  -   the  words   of  the
Kingpriest.  He  is  a  good  man,  too  good,  perhaps."  Crysania's
head  sank  into  her  hands.  "My  faith  hangs  by a  thread," she
said  so  softly  Tas  could  barely hear.  "Show me  some justifica-
tion for this terrible act. If it is your capricious whim, I will die
as  1  was  intended  to,  perhaps,  among  those  who long  ago lost
their faith in the true gods -"
"Say  not that  they lost  their faith,  Revered Daughter,"  came a
voice  from  the  air  that  so  startled the  kender he  nearly fell
through  the curtains.  "Say, rather,  that their  faith in  the true
gods  was  replaced  by  their faith  in false  ones -  money, power,
ambition...."
Crysania  raised  her  head  with a  gasp that  Tas echoed,  but it
was the sight of her face, not the  sight of  a shimmering  figure of
white  materializing  beside  her,  that  made  the  kender  draw  in
his  breath.  Crysania  had  obviously  not  slept  for  nights,  her
eyes  were  dark  and  wide, sunken  into her  face. Her  cheeks were
hollow,  her  lips  dry  and  cracked.  She   had  not   bothered  to
comb  her  hair  - it  fell down  about her  face like  black cobwebs
as she stared in fear and alarm at the strange, ghostly figure.
"Who-who are you?" she faltered.
"My  name  is  Loralon.  And  I  have  come  to  take  you  away.
You.were  not  intended  to  die,  Crysania.  You  are the  last true
cleric  now  on  Krynn  and  you  may  join  us,  who left  many days
ago."
"Loralon,  the  great  cleric  of  Silvanesti,"  Crysania murmured.
For  long  moments,  she  looked  at  him,  then,  bowing  her  head,
she  turned  away,  her  eyes  looking  toward  the altar.  "I cannot
go,"  she  said  firmly, her  hands clasped  nervously before  her as
she  knelt.  "Not  yet.  I must  hear the  Kingpriest. I  must under-
stand...."
"Don't  you  understand  enough  already?"  Loralon  asked
sternly. "What have you felt in your soul this night?"
Crysania  swallowed,  then  brushed back  her hair  with a
trembling hand. "Awe, humility," she whispered. "Surely, all

must feel that before the power of the gods...."
"Nothing  else?"  Loralon  pursued.  "Envy,  perhaps?  A  desire
to emulate them? To exist on the same level?"
"No!"  Crysania  answered  angrily,  then  flushed,  averting her
face.
"Come  with  me  now,  Crysania,"  Loralon  persisted.   "A  true
faith  needs  no  demonstrations,  no  justification  for believing
what it knows in its heart to be right."
"The  words  my  heart  speaks  echo  hollow  in  my  mind," Cry-
sania returned.  "They are  no more  than shadows.  I must  see the
truth, shining in the clear light of day! No, I will not leave with
you. I will stay and hear what  he says!  I will  know if  the gods
are justified!"
Loralon  regarded  her  with a  look that  was more  pitying than
angry. "You do not look into the light, you stand  in front  of it.
The  shadow you  see cast  before you  is your  own. The  next time
you will see clearly, Crysania, is  when you  are blinded  by dark-
ness... darkness unending. Farewell, Revered Daughter."
Tasslehoff  blinked  and  looked  around. The  old elf  was gone!
Had  he  ever  really  been  there?  the kender  wondered uneasily.
But  he  must  have, because  Tas could  still remember  his words.
He  felt  chilled  and  confused.  What  had   he  meant?   It  all
sounded  so  strange.  And   what  had   Crysania  meant   -  being
sent here to die?
Then  the  kender  cheered  up.  Neither of  them knew  that the
Cataclysm  wasn't  going  to  happen.   No  wonder   Crysania  was
feeling gloomy and out of sorts.
"She'll probably  perk up  quite a  bit when  she finds  out that
the world isn't going to be devastated after all," Tas said to him-
self.
And  then the  kender heard  distant voices  raised in  song. The
processional!  It  was  beginning.  Tas  almost whooped  in excite-
ment.  Fearing  discovery, he  quickly covered  his mouth  with his
hands. Then he took a  last, quick  peek out  at Crysania.  She sat
forlornly, cringing at the sound  of the  music. Distorted  by dis-
tance, it was shrill, harsh, and  unlovely. Her  face was  so ashen
Tas  was  momentarily  alarmed,  but  then  he  saw her  lips press
together  firmly,  her eyes  darken. She  stared, unseeing,  at her
folded hands.
"You'll feel better soon," Tas told her silently, then the kender
ducked back behind the curtain to remove the wonderful magi-
cal device  from his  pouch. Sitting  down, he  held the  device in

his hands, and waited.
The processional lasted forever, at  least as  far as  the kender
was  concerned.  He  yawned.  Important  Missions   were  certainly
dull,  he  decided  irritably,  and  hoped  someone  would appreci-
ate  what  he'd  gone  thmugh  when  it  was  all  over.  He  would
have dearly loved  to tinker  with the  magical device,  but Raist-
lin had impressed  upon him  that he  was to  leave it  alone until
the time came and then follow  the instructions  to the  letter. So
intent had been the look in Raistlin's eyes and  so cold  his voice
that it  had penetrated  even the  kender's careless  attitude. Tas
sat holding the magical object, almost afraid to move.
Then, just as he was  beginning to  give up  in despair  (and his
left foot was slowing losing all  sensation), he  heard a  burst of
beautiful voices right outside the room!  A brilliant  light welled
through  the  curtains.  The  kender  fought  his   curiosity,  but
finally couldn't resist  just one  peep. He  had, after  all, never
seen the Kingpriest.  Telling himself  that he  needed to  see what
was  going  on,  he  peeked  through  the  crack  in  the  curtains
again.
The light nearly blinded him.
"Great  Reorx!"  the  kender  muttered,  covering his  eyes with
his hands. He recalled once  looking up  at the  sun when  a child,
trying to figure out if it really was a giant gold coin and, if so,
how he could get it out of the sky. He'd been forced  to go  to bed
for three days with cold rags over his eyes.
"I  wonder  how  he  does  that?"  Tas  asked,  daring   to  peep
through his fingers again. He stared  into the  heart of  the light
just as  he had  stared into  the sun.  And he  saw the  truth. The
sun wasn't a golden coin. The Kingpriest was just a man.
The kender did  not experience  the terrible  shock felt  by Cry-
sania  when  she saw  through the  illusion to  the real  man. Per-
haps  this  was  because Tas  had no  preconceived notions  of what
the  Kingpriest  should look  like. Kender  hold absolutely  no one
and nothing in awe (though Tas  had to  admit he  felt a  bit queer
around  the  death  knight,  Lord  Soth).  He was,  therefore, only
mildly  surprised to  see that  the most  holy Kingpriest  was sim-
ply  a  middle-aged  human, balding,  with pale  blue eyes  and the
terrified look of a deer caught in a thicket.  Tas was  surprised -
and disappointed.
"I've gone to all this trouble for nothing," the kender thought
irritably. "There isn't going to be a Cataclysm. I don't think this
man  could  make  me  angry  enough  to  throw  a  pie at  him, let

alone a whole fiery mountain."
But  Tas  had  nothing else  to do  (and he  was really  dying to
work  the  magical  device),  so  he  decided  to stick  around and
watch and listen.  Something might  happen after  all. He  tried to
see  Crysania,  wondering  how she  felt about  this, but  the halo
of  light  surrounding  the  Kingpriest was  so bright  he couldn't
see anything else in the room.
The  Kingpriest  walked  to  the  front  of  the   altar,  moving
slowly,  his  eyes  darting  left  and right.  Tas wondered  if the
Kingpriest  would  see  Crysania,  but  apparently  he  was blinded
by  his own  light as  well, for  his eyes  passed right  over her.
Arriving at the atlar, he did not kneel to  pray, as  had Crysania.
Tas  thought  he  might have  started to,  but then  the Kingpriest
angrily shook his head and remained standing.
From his vantage point  behind and  slightly to  the left  of the
altar, Tas had an  excellent look  at the  man's face.  Once again,
the  kender  gripped  the  magical device  in excitement.  For, the
look  of  sheer  terror in  the watery  eyes had  been hidden  by a
mask of arrogance.
"Paladine,"  the  Kingpriest  trumpeted,  and  Tas  had  the dis-
tinct  impression  that  the  man  was conferring-with  some under-
ling.  "Paladine,  you  see the  evil that  surrounds me!  You have
been  witness  to  the  calamities  that have  been the  scourge of
Krynn  these  past  days.  You  know  that  this  evil  is directed
against  me, personally,  because I  am the  only one  fighting it!
Surely you  must see  now that  this doctrine  of balance  will not
work!"
The Kingpriest's  voice lost  the harsh  blare, becoming  soft as
a flute. "I understand, of course.  You had  to practice  this doc-
trine  in  the  old  days,  when  you  were weak.  But you  have me
now,  your  right  arm,  your   true  representative   upon  Krynn.
With  our  combined  might,  I  can  sweep  evil  from  this world!
Destroy  the  ogre  races!  Bring  the  wayward  humans  into line!
Find  new  homelands  far  away  for  the  dwarves  and  kender and
gnomes, those races not of your own creation -"
How insulting! Tas  thought, incensed.  I've half  a mind  to let
them go ahead and drop a mountain on him!
"And I will rule in glory," the Kingpriest's voice rose to a cre-
scendo, "creating an age to rival even the  fabled Age  of Dreams!"
The Kingpriest spread his  arms wide.  "You gave  this and  more to
Huma,  Paladine,  who  was  nothing  but a  renegade knight  of low
birth!  I  demand  that  you  give  me,  too,  the  power  to drive

away the shadows of evil that darken this land!"
The Kingpriest fell silent, waiting, his arms upraised.
Tas held his breath, waiting, too, clutching the magical
device in his hands.
And then, the kender felt it -  the answer.  A horror  crept over
him, a fear he'd never experienced  before, not  even in  the pres-
ence  of  Lord  Soth or  the Shoikan  Grove. Trembling,  the kender
sank  to  his  knees  and  bowed  his  head,  whimpering  and shak-
ing,  pleading  with  some  unseen  force  for mercy,  for forgive-
ness.  Beyond  the  curtain,  he  could  hear  his  own  incoherent
mumblings  echoed,  and  he  knew  Crysania  was  there   and  that
she, too, felt the terrible hot anger that rolled over him like the
thunder from the storm.
But   the   Kingpriest   did   not  speak   a  word.   He  simply
remained,  staring  up expectantly  into the  heavens he  could not
see  through  the  vast  walls  and ceilings  of his  Temple... the
heavens he could not see because of his own light.

_CHAPTER 17_

His mind firmly
resolved  upon  a  course  of  action,   Caramon  fell   into  an
exhausted sleep and,  for a  few hours,  was blessed  with obliv-
ion. He  awakened with  a start  to find  Raag bending  over him,
breaking his chains.
"What about these?" Caramon asked, raising his bound
wrists.
Raag  shook  his  head.  Although  Arack  didn't   really  think
even  Caramon  would  be  foolish  enough  to  try  and overpower
the  ogre  unarmed,  the  dwarf  had seen  enough madness  in the
man's eyes last night not to risk taking chances.
Caramon  sighed.  He  had,  indeed, considered  that possibility
as he had considered many others last night, but had rejected it.
The important thing was to  stay alive  - at  least until  he had
made  certain  Raistlin was  dead. After  that, it  didn't matter
anymore....
Poor Tika.... She would wait and wait, until one day she
would wake and realize he was never coming home.
"Move!" Raag grunted.
Caramon  moved,  following  the  ogre  up  the  damp  and twist-
ing stairs leading from the storage rooms  beneath the  arena. He

shook  his  head,  clearing  it  of  thoughts  of Tika.  Those might
weaken  his resolve,  and he  could not  afford that.  Raistlin must
die. It was as if the lightning last night had illuminated a part of
Caramon's  mind  that had  lain in  darkness for  years. At  last he
saw the true extent of his brother's ambition,  his lust  for power.
At  last  Caramon  quit  making  excuses  for  him.  It  galled him,
but  he  had  to  admit  that  even  that  dark  elf,  Dalamar, knew
Raistlin far better than he, his twin brother.
Love  had  blinded  him,  and  it  had,  apparently,  blinded Cry-
sania,  too.  Caramon  recalled  a  saying  of Tanis's:  "I've never
seen   anything   done   out   of  love   come  to   evil."  Caramon
snorted. Well,  there was  a first  time for  everything -  that had
been a favorite saying of old Flint's. A first time... and a last.
Just  how  he  was  going  to  kill  his  brother,  Caramon didn't
know.  But  he  wasn't  worried.  There  was  a  strange  feeling of
peace  within  him.  He  was  thinking  with a  clarity and  a logic
that  amazed  him.  He  knew he  could do  it. Raistlin  wouldn't be
able  to  stop  him  either, not  this time.  The magic  time travel
spell  would   require  the   mage's  complete   concentration.  The
only thing that could possibly stop Caramon was death itself.
And  therefore,  Caramon  said  grimly  to  himself, I'll  have to
live.
He  stood  quietly  without   moving  a   muscle  or   speaking  a
word as Arack and Raag struggled to get him into his armor.
"I  don't  like  it,"  the dwarf  muttered more  than once  to the
ogre  as  they  dressed  Caramon.  The  big  man's   calm,  emotion-
less  expression  made the  dwarf more  uneasy than  if he  had been
a raging bull. The only time Arack saw  a flicker  of life  on Cara-
mon's  stoic  face  was  when  he  buckled  his shortsword  onto his
belt.  Then  the big  man had  glanced down  at it,  recognizing the
useless prop for what it was. Arack saw him smile bitterly.
"Keep  your  eye  on  him,"  Arack   instructed,  and   Raag  nod-
ded.  "And keep  him away  from the  others until  he goes  into the
arena."
Raag   nodded  again,   then  led   Caramon,  hands   bound,  into
the  corridors  beneath  the  arena where  the others  waited. Kiiri
and  Pheragas glanced  over at  Caramon as  he entered.  Kiiri's lip
curled,  and  she  turned  coldly   away.  Caramon   met  Pheragas's
gaze  unflinchingly,  his  eyes neither  begging nor  pleading. This
was  not  what  Pheragas  had  expected,  apparently.  At  first the
black  man   seemed  confused,   then  -   after  a   few  whispered
words  from  Kiiri  -  he;too,  turned  away.  But  Caramon  saw the

man's shoulders slump and he saw him shake his head.
There  was  a  roar from  the crowd  then, and  Caramon shifted
his gaze to what he could see of the stands.  It was  nearly mid-
day,  the Games  started promptly  at High  Watch. The  sun shone
in the sky, the crowd -  having had  some sleep  - was  large and
in  a  particularly  good  humor.  There  were  some  preliminary
fights scheduled - to whet the crowd's  appetite and  to heighten
the tension. But the true attraction was the Final Bout - the one
that would determine  the champion  - the  slave who  wins either
his freedom or - in the Red  Minotaur's case  - wealth  enough to
last him years.
Arack wisely kept up the pacing of the  first few  fights, mak-
ing them light,  even comic.  He'd imported  a few  gully dwarves
for the occasion. Giving  them real  weapons (which,  of course,
they had no idea how to use), he  sent them  into the  arena. The
audience howled its delight,  laughing until  many were  in tears
at  the  sight  of  the  gully  dwarves  tripping over  their own
swords, viciously  stabbing each  other with  the hilts  of their
daggers, or  turning and  running, shrieking,  out of  the arena.
Of course, the  audience didn't  enjoy the  event nearly  as much
as the  gully dwarves  themselves, who  finally tossed  aside all
weapons  and  launched into  a mud  fight. They  had to  be forc-
ibly removed from the ring.
The  crowd  applauded,  but  now  many  began  to  stomp  their
feet  in  good  humored,  if  impatient,  demand  for   the  main
attraction.  Arack  allowed this  to go  on for  several moments,
knowing  -  like  the  showman he  was -  that it  merely height-
ened  their  excitement.  He  was  right.  Soon  the  stands were
rocking as the crowd clapped and stomped and chanted.
And thus it was that no one in the crowd  felt the  first tremor.
Caramon  felt it,  and his  stomach lurched  as the  ground shud-
dered beneath his feet. He was chilled  with fear  - not  fear of
dying,  but  fear  that  he might  die without  accomplishing his
objective. Glancing up anxiously into the sky, he tried to recall
every  legend  he  had  ever  heard about  the Cataclysm.  It had
struck  near   midafternoon,  he   thought  he   remembered.  But
there had  been earthquakes,  volcanic eruptions,  dreadful natu-
ral  disasters  of all  kinds throughout  Krynn, even  before the
fiery  mountain  smashed  the city  of Istar  so far  beneath the
ground that the seas rushed in to cover it.
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, shiver-
ing 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 great-
est 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 roll-
ing  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 con-
tinued. "Whirling through forever, twist  top facing  me counter-
clockwise  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 magnifi-
cent  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 cen-
tral 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, trem-
bling 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  glimmer-
ing, 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 whim-
pered, 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 astonish-
ment  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.

It wasn't  until Caramon  started to  mount the  stairs leading
out into the arena, that Raag finally  removed the  bindings from
the gladiator's wrists. Flexing  his fingers,  grimacing, Caramon
followed Kiiri and  Pheragas and  the Red  Minotaur out  into the
center of the arena.  The audience  cheered. Caramon,  taking his
place  between  Kiiri  and Pheragas,  looked up  at the  sky ner-
vously. It was past High Watch,  the sun  was beginning  its slow
descent.
Istar would never live to see the sunset.
Thinking  of  this,  and  thinking  that  he, too,  would never
again see the sun's red rays  stream over  a battlement,  or melt
into the sea, or light the tops of the vallenwoods,  Caramon felt
tears sting his eyes. He wept not  so much  for himself,  but for
those two who stood beside him, who  must die  this day,  and for
all  those  innocents  who  would  perish  without  understanding
why.
He wept, too, for the brother he had loved, but his tears for
Raistlin were for someone who had died long ago.
"Kiiri,  Pheragas,"  Caramon  said  in  a  low  voice  when the
Minotaur  strode forward  to take  his bow  alone, "I  don't know
what the mage told you, but I never betrayed you."
Kiiri refused to even look at him. He saw her lip  curl. Phera-
gas, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, saw the stain of
tears  upon Caramon's  face and  hesitated, frowning,  before he,
too, turned away.
"It doesn't  matter, really,"  Caramon continued,  "whether you
believe me or not. You can  kill each  other for  the key  if you
want, because I'm finding my freedom my own way."
Now  Kiiri  looked  at  him,  her eyes  wide in  disbelief. The
crowd was on its feet, yelling  for the  Minotaur, who  was walk-
ing around the arena, waving his trident above his head.
"You're mad!" she whispered as  loudly as  she dared.  Her gaze

went  meaningfully  to  Raag.  As always,  the ogre's  huge, yel-
lowish body blocked the only exit.
Caramon's  gaze  followed  imperturbably,  his  face  not  chang-
ing expression.
"Our  weapons  are  real,  my  friend," Pheragas  said harshly.
"Yours are not!"
Caramon nodded, but did not answer.
"Don't do this!" Kiiri  edged closer.  "We'll help  you fake  it in
the arena today. I-I guess neither of us really believed the black-
robed one. You  must admit,  it seemed  weird -  you trying  to get
us to leave the city!  We thought,  like he  said, that  you wanted
the prize all to yourself. Look, pretend you're injured real early.
Get yourself carried off. We'll help you escape tonight -"
"There will be  no tonight,"  Caramon said  softly. "Not  for me,
not for any of us. I haven't got much time. I can't explain.  All I
ask is this - just don't try to stop me."
Pheragas  took  a breath,  but the  words died  on his  lips as
another tremor, this one more severe, shook the ground.
Now,  everyone  noticed.  The  arena  swayed  on its  stilts, the
bridges  over  the  Death Pits  creaked, the  floor rose  and fell,
nearly  knocking  the  Red  Minotaur  to  his  feet.  Kiiri grabbed
hold  of  Caramon.  Pheragas  braced  his  legs  like  a  sailor on
board  a  heaving  vessel. The  crowd in  the stands  fell suddenly
silent as  their seats  rocked beneath  them. Hearing  the cracking
of  the  wood,  some  screamed.  Several even  rose to  their feet.
But the tremor stopped as quickly as it had begun.
Everything  was  quiet,  too  quiet. Caramon  felt the  hair rise
on  his  neck  and  his  skin  prickle.  No birds  sang, not  a dog
barked. The crowd was silent, waiting in  fear. I  have to  get out
of  here!  Caramon  resolved.  His  friends didn't  matter anymore,
nothing  mattered.  He  had  just  one  fixed  objective -  to stop
Raistlin.
And  he  must  act  now,  before  the next  shock hit  and before
people  recovered  from  this  one.  Glancing quickly  around, Car-
amon  saw  Raag  standing  beside  the  exit,  the  ogre's  yellow,
mottled face creased in puzzlement, his slow  brain trying  to fig-
ure  out   what  was   going  on.   Arack  had   appeared  suddenly
beside  him,  staring  around,  probably  hoping  he   wouldn't  be
forced  to  refund  his  customers'  money.  Already the  crowd was
starting to settle down, though many glanced about uneasily.
Caramon  drew  a  deep  breath,  then,  gripping  Kiiri   in  his
arms,  he  heaved  with  all  his  strength,  hurling  the startled

woman  right  into  Pheragas,  sending  them  both tumbling  to the
ground.
Seeing  them  fall,  Caramon  whirled  around  and  propelled his
massive  body  straight  at  the  ogre,  driving his  shoulder into
Raag's gut with all the strength his months  of training  had given
him. It was a  blow that  would have  killed a  human, but  it only
knocked  the  wind  out  of  the  ogre.  The  force   of  Caramon's
charge sent them both crashing backward into the wall.
Desperately,  while   Raag  was   gasping  for   breath,  Caramon
grappled for the ogre's stout club. But just as he yanked it out of
Raag's   grip,  the   ogre  recovered.   Howling  in   anger,  Raag
brought  both  massive  hands  up  under  Caramon's  chin   with  a
blow that sent the big warrior flying back into the arena.
Landing  heavily,  Caramon  could  see   nothing  for   a  moment
except  sky  and  arena  whirling  around  and  around  him. Groggy
from  the  blow  his  warrior's  instincts  took  over.  Catching a
glimpse  of  movement  to  his  left, Caramon  rolled over  just as
the  minotaur's  trident  came  down  where   his  sword   arm  had
been.  He could  hear the  minotaur snarling  and growling  in bes-
tial fury.
Caramon  struggled  to  regain  his  feet,  shaking  his  head to
clear  it,  but  he knew  he could  never hope  to avoid  the mino-
taur's  second  strike.  And  then  a  black  body was  between him
and the  Red Minotaur.  There was  a flash  of steel  as Pheragas's
sword  blocked  the  trident  blow that  would have  finished Cara-
mon.  Staggering,  Caramon  backed  up  to  catch  his  breath  and
felt Kiiri's cool hands helping to support him.
"Are you all right?" she muttered.
"Weapon!"  Caramon  managed  to  gasp,  his  head  still ringing
from the ogre's blow.
"Take  mine,"  Kiiri  said, thrusting  her shortsword  into Cara-
mon's hands. "Then rest a moment. I'll handle Raag."
The  ogre,  wild  with rage  and the  excitement of  battle, bar-
reled toward them, his slavering jaws wide open.
"No! You need it -" Caramon began to protest, but Kiiri
only grinned at him.
"Watch!"  she  said  lightly,  then  spoke  strange  words  that
reminded  Caramon  vaguely  of  the  language  of   magic.  These,
however, had a faint accent, almost elvish.
And, suddenly Kiiri was gone. In her place stood a gigantic
she-bear. Caramon gasped, unable - for a moment - to com-
prehend  what  had  happened.  Then  he  remembered  -   Kiiri  was

a Sirine, gifted with the power to change her shape!
Rearing  up  on  her hind  legs, the  she-bear towered  over the
huge ogre. Raag came to a  halt, his  eyes wide  open in  alarm at
the  sight. Kiiri  roared in  rage, her  sharp teeth  gleamed. The
sunlight glinted off her  claws as  one of  her giant  paws lashed
out and caught Raag across his mottled face.
The  ogre  howled  in  pain,  streams  of yellowish  blood oozed
from the claw marks,  one eye  disappeared in  a mass  of bleeding
jelly.  The  bear  leaped on  the ogre.  Watching in  awe, Caramon
could see nothing but yellow skin and blood and brown fur.
The  crowd,  too,  although they  had yelled  in delight  at the
beginning,  suddenly became  aware that  this fight  wasn't faked.
This  was  for  real.  People  were  going  to  die.  There  was a
moment  of  shocked  silence,  then  -  here  and there  - someone
cheered. Soon the applause and wild yells were deafening.
Caramon  quickly  forgot  the  people  in  the  stands, however.
He  saw  his  chance.  Only  the  dwarf  stood  blocking  the exit
now, and Arack's  face, though  twisted in  anger, was  twisted in
fear as well. Caramon could easily get past him....
At that  moment, he  heard a  grunt of  pleasure from  the mino-
taur.  Turning,  Caramon   saw  Pheragas   slump  over   in  pain,
catching the  butt end  of the  trident in  his solar  plexus. The
minotaur  reversed  the stroke,  raising the  weapon to  kill, but
Caramon  yelled  loudly,  distracting  the  minotaur  long  enough
to throw him off stride.
The  Red  Minotaur  turned to  face this  new challenge,  a grin
on  his  red-furred  face.  Seeing  Caramon  armed  only   with  a
shortsword,  the  minotaur's  grin  broadened.  Lunging  at  Cara-
mon,  the  minotaur  sought to  end the  fight quickly.  But Cara-
mon sidestepped deftly.  Raising his  foot, he  kicked, shattering
the  minotaur's  kneecap. It  was a  painful, crippling  blow, and
sent the minotaur stumbling to the ground.
Knowing  his  enemy was  out for  at least  a few  moments, Car-
amon  ran  over  to  Pheragas.  The  black  man  remained  huddled
over, grasping his stomach.
"C'mon,"   Caramon   grunted,  putting   his  arm   around  him.
"I've seen you take a hit like that, get up, and eat a five-course
meal. What's the matter!"
But  there was  no answer.  Caramon felt  the man's  body shiver
convulsively,  and  he  saw that  the shining  black skin  was wet
with  sweat.  Then  Caramon  saw  the  three bleeding  slashes the
trident had cut in the man's arm....

Pheragas looked up  at his  friend. Seeing  Caramon's horrified
gaze,  he  realized he  understood. Shuddering  in pain  from the
poison  that  was coursing  through his  veins, Pheragas  sank to
his knees. Caramon's big arms closed around him.
"Take...  take  my  sword."  Pheragas choked.  "Quickly, fool!"
Hearing  from  the  sounds his  enemy was  making that  the mino-
taur  was  back  on his  feet, Caramon  hesitated only  a second,
then took the large sword from Pheragas's shaking hand.
Pheragas pitched over, writhing in pain.
Gripping  the  sword,  tears  blinding  his eyes,  Caramon rose
and  whirled,  blocking  the Red  Minotaur's sudden  thrust. Even
though  limping  on  one  leg, the  minotaur's strength  was such
that  he  easily compensated  for the  painful injury.  Then, too,
the minotaur knew that all it took was a scratch to kill his vic-
tim,  and  Caramon  would  have  to  come  inside  the  trident's
range to use his sword.
Slowly the two stalked  each other,  circling round  and round.
Caramon  no  longer  heard  the  crowd  that  was   stamping  and
whistling and cheering madly at the  sight of  real blood.  He no
longer  thought  of  escape, he  had no  idea -  even -  where he
was. His warrior's instincts had taken over.  He knew  one thing.
He had to kill.
And  so  he  waited.  Minotaurs had  one major  fault, Pheragas
taught  him.  Believing themselves  to be  superior to  all other
races,  minotaurs  generally  underestimate  an   opponent.  They
make  mistakes,  if  you  wait  them  out.  The Red  Minotaur was
no   exception.   The   minotaur's   thoughts  became   clear  to
Caramon - pain  and anger,  outrage at  the insult,  an eagerness
to end the life of this dull-witted, puny human.
The  two  edged  nearer  and  nearer the  spot where  Kiiri was
still locked in a vicious battle with Raag, as Caramon could tell
by  the  sounds  of growling  and shrieking  from the  ogre. Sud-
denly,  apparently  preoccupied  with  watching   Kiiri,  Caramon
slipped  in  a  pool of  yellow, slimy  blood. The  Red Minotaur,
howling in  delight, lunged  forward to  impale the  human's body
on the trident.
But  the  slip  had  been feigned.  Caramon's sword  flashed in
the sunlight. The minotaur, seeing he had  been fooled,  tried to
recover from this forward lunge. But he  had forgotten  his crip-
pled knee. It would  not bear  his weight,  and the  Red Minotaur
fell  to  the  arena  floor,  Caramon's  sword  cleaving  cleanly
through the bestial head.

Jerking  his  sword  free,  Caramon  heard a  horrible snarling
behind him and turned just in  time to  see the  great she-bear's
jaws  clamp  over Raag's  huge neck.  With a  shake of  her head,
Kiiri bit deeply into the jugular vein.  The ogre's  mouth opened
wide in a scream none would ever hear.
Caramon   started   toward   them   when   he   caught   sudden
movement to his right. Quickly  he turned,  every sense  alert as
Arack hurtled past him, the dwarf's  face an  ugly mask  of grief
and  fury.  Caramon  saw  the  dagger flash  in the  dwarf's hand
and he  hurled himself  forward, but  he was  too late.  He could
not  stop  the  blade  that  buried itself  in the  bear's chest.
Instantly, the dwarf's  hand was  awash in  red, warm  blood. The
great  she-bear roared  in pain  and anger.  One huge  paw lashed
out.  Catching  hold  of  the  dwarf,  with  her  last convulsive
strength,  Kiiri  lifted Arack  and threw  him across  the arena.
The  dwarf's  body  smashed  against  the  Freedom   Spire  where
hung  the  golden  key,  impaling  it upon  one of  the countless
ornate protrusions. The dwarf  gave a  fearsome shriek,  then the
entire pinnacle  collapsed, crashing  into the  flame-filled pits
below.
Kiiri  fell, blood  pouring from  the gash  in her  breast. The
crowd  was  going  wild,  screaming  and yelling  Caramon's name.
The big man  did not  hear. Bending  down, he  took Kiiri  in his
arms.  The  magical  spell  she  had  woven  unraveled.  The bear
was gone, and he held Kiiri close to his chest.
"You've won, Kiiri," Caramon whispered. "You're free."
Kiiri  looked  up  at him  and smiled.  Then her  eyes widened,
the life left them. Their dying gaze remained fixed upon the sky,
almost  -  it  seemed  to Caramon  - expectantly,  as if  now she
knew what was coming.
Gently  laying  her  body  down  upon  the  blood-soaked  arena
floor, Caramon rose to his  feet. He  saw Pheragas's  body frozen
in its last, agonized throes. He  saw Kiiri's  sightless, staring
eyes.
"You  will  answer for  this, my  brother," Caramon  said softly.
There  was  a  noise  behind  him,  a  murmuring  like  the angry
roar of the  sea before  the storm.  Grimly, Caramon  gripped his
sword  and  turned,   preparing  to   face  whatever   new  enemy
awaited  him.  But  there was  no enemy,  only the  other gladia-
tors.  At  the  sight  of  Caramon's,  tear-streaked  and  blood-
stained face, one by one, they  stood aside,  making way  for him
to pass.

Looking  at  them,  Caramon  realized  that  -  at  last -  he was
free. Free to find his brother, free to put an end to this evil for-
ever. He felt his soul soar, death held little  meaning and  no fear
for him anymore.  The smell  of blood  was in  his nostrils,  and he
was filled with the sweet madness of battle.
Thirsting  now  with  the  desire  for  revenge,  Caramon  ran  to
the edge  of the  arena, preparing  to descend  the stairs  that led
down  to  the  tunnels  beneath  it,  when the  first of  the earth-
quakes shattered the doomed city of Istar.

_CHAPTER 18_

Crysania   neither
saw  nor heard  Tasslehoff. Her  mind was  blinded by  a myriad
colors that swirled within its depths, sparkling  like splendid
jewels,  for  suddenly  she understood.  This was  why Paladine
had brought her back here  - not  to redeem  the memory  of the
Kingpriest - but to learn from his mistakes. And she  knew, she
knew in her soul, that she had learned. She could call upon the
gods  and  they  would  answer  -  not  with  anger -  but with
power! The cold darkness within her broke  open, and  the freed
creature sprang from its shell, bursting into the sunlight.
In a  vision, she  saw herself  - one  hand holding  high the
medallion of Paladine, its platinum flashing  in the  sun. With
her other hand, she called forth legions of believers, and they
swarmed around her with  adoring, rapt  expressions as  she led
them to lands of beauty beyond imagining.
She didn't have the  Key yet  to unlock  the door,  she knew.
And it could not happen  here, the  wrath of  the gods  was too
great for her to penetrate. But where to find the Key, where to
find the door,  even? The  dancing colors  made her  dizzy, she
could not see or think.  And then  she heard  a voice,  a small
voice, and felt hands clutching at her robes. "Raistlin..." she

heard the voice say, the rest of  the words  were lost.  But sud-
denly her mind cleared. The  colors vanished,  as did  the light,
leaving her alone in the darkness that was  calm and  soothing to
her soul.
"Raistlin," she murmured. "He tried to tell me...."
Still  the  hands  clutched at  her. Absently,  she disengaged
them and thrust them aside. Raistlin would take  her to  the Por-
tal, he would help her find the Key. Evil  turns in  upon itself,
Elistan said. So Raistlin would unwittingly help  her. Crysania's
soul sang in a joyous  anthem to  Paladine. When  I return  in my
glory, with goodness in my hand, when all the  evil in  the world
is vanquished, then Raistlin himself will see  my might,  he will
come to understand and believe.
"Crysania!"
The  ground  shook beneath  Crysania's feet,  but she  did not
notice the tremor. She heard a voice call her name, a soft voice,
broken by coughing.
"Crysania."  It  spoke again.  "There is  not much  time. Hurry!"
Raistlin's  voice!  Looking  around  wildly,   Crysania  searched
for  him,  but  she saw  no one.  And then  she realized,  he was
speaking to her mind, guiding her.  "Raistlin," she  murmured, "I
hear you. I am coming."
Turning, she ran down the aisle  and out  into the  Temple. The
kender's cry behind her fell on deaf ears.

"Raistlin?"  said  Tas,  puzzled,  glancing  around.   Then  he
understood.  Crysania  was  going  to  Raistlin!  Somehow,  magi-
cally, he was calling to her and she was going to find  him! Tas-
slehoff  dashed  out  into  the  corridor  of  the  Temple  after
Crysania. Surely, she would make Raistlin fix the device....
Once  in  the  corridor, Tas  glanced up  and down  and spotted
Crysania  quickly.  But  his  heart  nearly  jumped  out  on  the
floor - she was  running so  swiftly she  had nearly  reached the
end of the hall.
Making certain  the broken  pieces of  the magical  device were
secure in his pouch, Tas ran grimly  after Crysania,  keeping her
fluttering white robes in his sight for as long as possible.
Unfortunately,  that  wasn't  very  long. She  immediately van-
ished around a corner.
The kender ran as he had never run before, not even when
the imagined terrors of Shoikan Grove had been chasing him.
His  topknot  of  hair  streamed  out  behind  him,  his  pouches

The brilliant light still filled  the corridor,  illuminating the
bodies  of  the  dead  and  dying.  Cracks  gaped  in   the  Temple
walls, the ceiling  sagged, dust  choked the  air. And  within that
light, Tas could still hear the  voice, only  now its  lovely music
had faded. It sounded harsh, shrill, and off-key.
"The gods come.... "

Outside  the   great  arena,   running  through   Istar,  Caramon
fought  his  way  through  death-choked  streets. Much  like Crysa-
nia's, his mind, too, heard Raistlin's voice. But it was  not call-
ing  to  him. No,  Caramon heard  it as  he had  heard it  in their
mother's womb, he heard the  voice of  his twin,  the voice  of the
blood they shared.
And  so Caramon  paid no  heed to  the screams  of the  dying, or
the  pleas for  help from  those trapped  beneath the  wreckage. He
paid  no  heed  to  what  was   happening  around   him.  Buildings
tumbled  down  practically   on  top   of  him,   stones  plummeted
into  the  streets,  narrowly  missing  him.  His  arms  and  upper
body  were soon  bleeding from  small, jagged  cuts. His  legs were
gashed in a hundred places.
But he did  not stop.  He did  not even  feel the  pain. Climbing
over  debris,  lifting  giant beams  of wood  and hurling  them out
of  his  way,  Caramon  slowly  made  his  way  through  the  dying
streets  of  Istar to  the Temple  that gleamed  in the  sun before
him. In his hand, he carried a bloodstained sword.

Tasslehoff   followed   Crysania  down,   down,  down   into  the
very bowels  of the  ground -  or so  it seemed  to the  kender. He
hadn't  even  known  such  places  in  the  Temple existed,  and he
wondered  how  he  had  come  to miss  all these  hidden staircases
in  his  many  ramblings.  He  wondered,  too,  how  Crysania  came
to  know  of  their  existence.  She  passed  through  secret doors
that were not visible even to Tas's kender eyes.
The  earthquake  ended,  the  Temple  shook  a  moment  longer in
horrified  memory,  then  shivered  and was  still once  more. Out-
side was death and chaos, but inside all was  still and  silent. It
seemed  to  Tas  as  if  everything  in the  world was  holding its
breath, waiting....
Down  here  -  wherever  here  was  -  Tas  saw   little  damage,
perhaps  because it  was so  far beneath  the ground.  Dust clouded
the  air,  making  it  hard to  breathe or  see and  occasionally a
crack appeared in a wall, or a torch fell to the floor. But most of

the torches were still in their sconces on the wall, still burning,
casting an eerie glow in the drifting dust.
Crysania  never  paused  or  hesitated,  but pressed  on rapidly,
though Tas soon lost all  sense of  direction or  of where  he was.
He  had  managed  to keep  up with  her fairly  easily, but  he was
growing  more  and  more  tired and  hoped that  they would  get to
wherever  they  were  going  soon. His  ribs hurt  dreadfully. Each
breath he drew burned like fire, and his legs  felt like  they must
belong to a thick-legged, iron-shod dwarf.
He  followed  Crysania  down  another  flight  of  marble stairs,
forcing  his  aching  muscles  to  keep  moving.  Once at  the bot-
tom,  Tas  looked  up  wearily  and  his heart  rose for  a change.
They  were in  a dark,  narrow hallway  that ended,  thankfully, in
a wall, not another staircase!
Here, a single torch burned in a sconce above a darkened
doorway.
With  a  glad  cry,  Crysania hurried  through the  doorway, van-
ishing into the darkness beyond.
"Of  course!"  Tas  realized thankfully.  "Raistlin's laboratory!
It must be down here."
Hurrying  forward,  he  was  very  near  the  door when  a great,
dark  shape  bore  down  on  him  from  him  behind,  tripping him.
Tas tumbled to the floor,  the pain  in his  ribs making  him catch
his breath.
Looking  up,  fighting  the  pain,  the kender  saw the  flash of
golden  armor  and  the  torchlight  glisten  upon  the blade  of a
sword.  He  recognized  the  man's   bronze,  muscular   body,  but
the  man's face  - the  face that  should have  been so  familiar -
was the face of someone Tas had never seen before.
"Caramon?"  he  whispered  as  the  man  surged  past   him.  But
Caramon  neither  saw  him  nor heard  him. Frantically,  Tas tried
to stand up.
Then  the  aftershock  hit  and  the   ground  rocked   out  from
beneath  Tas's  feet.  Lurching  back  against a  wall, he  heard a
cracking sound above him and saw the ceiling start to give way.
"Caramon!"  he  cried, but  his voice  was lost  in the  sound of
wood  tumbling  down  on  top  of  him, knocking  him in  the head.
Tas struggled to stay conscious, despite the  pain. But  his brain,
as if stubbornly refusing  to have  anything more  to do  with this
mess, snuffed out the lights. Tas sank into darkness.

_CHAPTER 19_

Hearing in her mind
Raistlin's  calm  voice  drawing her  past death  and destruction,
Crysania  ran  without  hesitation  into  the  room  that  lay far
below  the  Temple. But,  on entering,  her eager  steps faltered.
Hesitantly,  she  glanced  around, her  pulse beating  achingly in
her throat.
She  had  been  blind  to  the  horrors  of the  stricken Temple.
Even now, she  glanced at  the blood  on her  dress and  could not
remember how it got there. But  here, in  this room,  things stood
out  with vivid  clarity, though  the laboratory  was lit  only by
light  streaming  from  a  crystal atop  a magical  staff. Staring
around,  overawed  by a  sense of  evil, she  could not  make her-
self walk beyond the door.
Suddenly,  she  heard  a  sound  and  felt  a  touch on  her arm.
Whirling  in  alarm,  she saw  dark, living,  shapeless creatures,
trapped  and  held  in  cages.  Smelling  her  warm   blood,  they
stirred in the staff's light, and it was the touch of one of their
grasping  hands  she  had  felt.  Shuddering, Crysania  backed out
of their way and bumped into something solid.
It  was  an  open  casket  containing  the  body  of  what  might
have  once  been  a  young man.  But the  skin was  stretched like

parchment  across  his  bones,  his  mouth was  open in  a ghastly,
silent  scream.  The  ground  lurched  beneath  her  feet,  and the
body  in  the  casket  bounced  up  wildly,  staring  at  her  from
empty eye sockets.
Crysania  gasped,  no  sound  came  from  her  throat,  her  body
was  chilled  by  cold  sweat.  Clutching   her  head   in  shaking
hands, she squeezed her eyes shut to blot  out the  horrible sight.
The world started to slip away, then she heard a soft voice.
"Come,  my  dear,"  said  the voice  that had  been in  her mind.
"Come.  You  are  safe with  me, now.  The creatures  of Fistandan-
tilus's evil cannot harm you while I am here."
Crysania felt life return to her  body. Raistlin's  voice brought
comfort.  The  sickness  passed,  the  ground  quit   shaking,  the
dust settled. The world lapsed into deathly silence.
Thankfully,   Crysania   opened  her   eyes.  She   saw  Raistlin
standing   some   distance   from  her,   watching  her   from  the
shadows of his hooded  head, his  eyes glittering  in the  light of
his  staff.  But,  even  as Crysania  looked at  him, she  caught a
glimpse  of  the  writhing,  caged shapes.  Shuddering, she  kept -
her gaze on Raistlin's pale face.
"Fistandantilus?"  she asked  through dry  lips. "He  built this?"
"Yes, this laboratory is his," Raistlin replied coolly. "It is one
he  created  years  and  years  ago.  Unbeknownst  to  any  of  the
clerics,  he  used  his great  magic to  burrow beneath  the Temple
like a worm, eating  away solid  rock, forming  it into  stairs and
secret doors,  casting his  spells upon  them so  that few  knew of
their existence."
Crysania  saw  a  thin-lipped  sardonic  smile  cross  Raistlin's
face as he turned to the light.
'He  showed  it  to  few,  over  the  years.  Only  a  handful of
apprentices  were  ever  allowed  to  share  the  secret." Raistlin
shrugged. "And none of  these lived  to tell  about it."  His voice
softened.  "But  then  Fistandantilus  made  a  mistake.  He showed
it  to  one  young  apprentice.  A frail,  brilliant, sharp-tongued
young   man,   who   observed   and   memorized   every   turn  and
twist  of the  hidden corridors,  who studied  every word  of every
spell  that  revealed  secret  doorways,  reciting  them  over  and
over,  committing  them  to  memory, before  he slept,  night after
night.  And  thus,  we  stand  here,  you  and  I,  safe -  for the
moment - from the anger of the gods."
Making  a  motion  with  his  hand, he  gestured for  Crysania to
come  to  the back  part of  the room  where he  stood at  a large,

ornately  carved,  wooden  desk.  On   it  rested   a  silverbound
spellbook  he  had  been reading.  A circle  of silver  powder was
spread  around  the  desk. "That's  right. Keep  your eyes  on me.
The darkness is not so terrifying then, is it?"
Crysania  could  not  answer.  She  realized  that,  once again,
she had allowed him, in  her weakness,  to read  more in  her eyes
than she had  intended him  to see.  Flushing, she  looked quickly
away.
"I-I was only startled, that's all," she said. But she could not
repress a shudder as she glanced back  at the  casket. "What  is -
or was - that?" she whispered in horror.
"One of  the Fistandantilus's  apprentices, no  doubt," Raistlin
answered.  "The  mage  sucked the  life force  from him  to extend
his own life. It was something he did... frequently."
Raistlin  coughed,  his  eyes  grew   shadowed  and   dark  with
some  terrible  memory,  and  Crysania  saw  a  spasm of  fear and
pain pass over his usually  impassive face.  But before  she could
ask  more, there  was the  sound of  a crash  in the  doorway. The
black-robed  mage  quickly  regained  his  composure.   He  looked
up, his gaze going past Crysania.
"Ah, enter, my brother. I was just thinking  of the  Test, which
naturally brought you to mind."
Caramon!  Faint  with  relief,  Crysania  turned to  welcome the
big man  with his  solid, reassuring  presence, his  jovial, good-
natured face. But her words of  greeting died  on her  lips, swal-
lowed up  by the  darkness that  only seemed  to grow  deeper with
the warrior's arrival.
"Speaking   of  tests,   I  am   pleased  you   survived  yours,
brother,"  Raistlin  said,  his  sardonic  smile  returned.  "This
lady"  -  he  glanced at  Crysania -  "will have  need of  a body-
guard where we go. I can't tell  you how  much it  means to  me to
have someone along I know and trust."
Crysania  shrank  from the  terrible sarcasm,  and she  saw Car-
amon flinch  as though  Raistlin's words  had been  tiny, poisoned
barbs, shooting in his flesh.  The mage  seemed neither  to notice
nor  care,  however.  He  was  reading  his  spellbook,  murmuring
soft  words  and  tracing  symbols  in the  air with  his delicate
hands.
"Yes,  I  survived  your test,"  Caramon said  quietly. Entering
the room, he came  into the  light of  the staff.  Crysania caught
her breath in fear.
"Raistlin!"  she  cried, backing  away from  Caramon as  the big

man  came  slowly  forward,   the  bloody   sword  in   his  hand.
"Raistlin,  look!"  Crysania  said,  stumbling  into the  desk near
where  the  mage  was  standing,  unknowingly  stepping   into  the
circle of silver powder. Grains of it  clung to  the bottom  of her
robe, shimmering in the staff's light.
Irritated at the interruption, the mage glanced up.
"I  survived  your  test," Caramon  repeated, "as  you survived
the  Test  in  the Tower.  There, they  shattered your  body. Here,
you shattered my heart. In its place  is nothing  now, just  a cold
emptiness as black  as your  robes. And,  like this  swordblade, it
is  stained  with  blood.  A poor  wretch of  a minotaur  died upon
this  blade. A  friend gave  his life  for me,  another died  in my
arms.  You've  sent  the  kender  to  his  death, haven't  you? And
how  many  more  have  died  to further  your evil  designs?" Cara-
mon's  voice  dropped  to  a  lethal  whisper.  "This  ends  it, my
brother. No  more will  die because  of you.  Except one  - myself.
It's fitting, isn't it, Raist?  We came  into this  world together;
together, we'll leave it."
He took another step forward. Raistlin seemed about to
speak, but Caramon interrupted.
"You cannot use  your magic  to stop  me, not  this time.  I know
about this spell you plan to cast. I know it will take all  of your
power,  all of  your concentration.  If you  use even  the smallest
bit of magic against me, you will  not have  the strength  to leave
this place, and my end will be  accomplished all  the same.  If you
do not die at my hands, you will die at the hands of the gods."
Raistlin  gazed  at  his  brother  without comment,  then, shrug-
ging, he turned back to read  in his  book. It  was only  when Car-
amon  took  one  more   step  forward,   and  Raistlin   heard  the
man's  golden  armor clank,  that the  mage sighed  in exasperation
and glanced up at his twin.  His eyes,  glittering from  the depths
of his hood, seemed the only points of light in the room.
"You  are  wrong, my  brother," Raistlin  said softly.  "There is
one  other who  will die."  His mirrorlike  gaze went  to Crysania,
who  stood  alone,  her  white  robes  shimmering in  the darkness,
between the two brothers.
Caramon's eyes were soft  with pity  as he,  too, looked  at Cry-
sania, but  the resolution  on his  face did  not waver.  "The gods
will take her to them," he said gently. "She is a true cleric. None
of the true clerics died in the Cataclysm.  That is  why Par-Salian
sent  her back."  Holding out  his hand,  he pointed.  "Look, there
stands one, waiting."

Crysania  had  no  need  to  turn and  look, she  felt Loralon's
presence.
"Go to him, Revered Daughter," Caramon told her. "Your
place is in the light, not here in the darkness."
Raistlin  said  nothing,  he made  no motion  of any  kind, just
stood  quietly  at  the desk,  his slender  hand resting  upon the
spellbook.
Crysania  did  not  move.  Caramon's  words   beat  in   her  mind
like  the  wings  of  the  evil  creatures  who fluttered  about the
Tower  of  High  Sorcery.  She  heard  the words,  yet they  held no
meaning for her. All she could  see was  herself, holding  the shin-
ing  light  in her  hand, leading  the people.  The Key...  the Por-
tal....  She  saw  Raistlin  holding the  Key in  his hand,  she saw
him  beckoning  to  her.  Once more,  she felt  the touch  of Raist-
lin's lips, burning, upon her forehead.
A light flickered and died. Loralon was gone.
"I  cannot,"  Crysania  tried to  say, but  no voice  came. None
was  needed.  Caramon  understood.  He  hesitated, looking  at her
for one, long moment, then he sighed.
"So be it," Caramon  said coolly,  as he,  too, advanced  into the
silver  circle. "Another  death will  not matter  much to  either of
us now, will it, my brother?"
Crysania  stared,  fascinated,  at  the  bloodstained  sword shin-
ing in the staff's light. Vividly, she pictured it piercing her body
and,  looking  up  into  Caramon's  eyes, she  saw that  he pictured
the  same  thing,  and  that  even  this  would  not deter  him. She
was  nothing  to  him,  not  even  a  living,  breathing  human. She
was  merely  an  obstacle  in his  path, keeping  him from  his true
objective - his brother.
What  terrible  hatred,  Cyrsania  thought,  and  then,  looking
deep  into  the eyes  that were  so near  her own  now, she  had a
sudden flash of insight - what terrible love!
Caramon  lunged  at  her  with  an  outstretched   hand,  thinking
to  catch  her and  hurl her  aside. Acting  out of  panic, Crysania
dodged  his  grasp,   stumbling  back   up  against   Raistlin,  who
made  no  move  to  touch  her.   Caramon's  hand   gripped  nothing
but a sleeve of her robe, ripping and tearing it. In a fury, he cast
the  white  cloth  to  the  ground,  and   now  Crysania   knew  she
must die. Still, she kept her body between him and his brother.
Caramon's sword flashed.
In  desperation,  Crysania  clutched  the  medallion  of  Paladine
she wore around her throat.

"Halt!"  She  cried the  word of  command even  as she  shut her
eyes in fear. Her body cringed,  waiting for  the terrible  pain as
the steel tore through her flesh. Then, she heard  a moan  and the
clatter of a sword falling to the stone. Relief surged through her
body, making her weak and faint. Sobbing,  she felt  herself fall-
ing.
But  slender  hands  caught  and held  her; thin,  muscular arms
gathered her near, a  soft voice  spoke her  name in  triumph. She
was  enveloped  in  warm  blackness,   drowning  in   warm  black-
ness,  sinking  down and  down. And  in her  ear, she  heard whis-
pered the words of the strange language of magic.
Like  spiders  or caressing  hands, the  words crawled  over her
body. The chanting  of the  words grew  louder and  louder, Raist-
lin's voice stronger and stronger. Silver light flared,  then van-
ished. The grip of  Raistlin's arms  around Crysania  tightened in
ecstasy,  and she  was spinning  around and  around, caught  up in
that ecstasy, whirling away with him into the blackness.
She  put  her  arms about  him and  laid her  head on  his chest
and let herself sink into the darkness. As she fell, the  words of
magic mingled with the  singing of  her blood  and the  singing of
the stones in the Temple....
And  through  it  all,  one  discordant note  - a  harsh, heart-
broken moan.

Tasslehoff  Burrfoot  heard  the stones  singing, and  he smiled
dreamily.  He  was  a  mouse,   he  remembered,   scampering  for-
ward through the silver powder while the stones sang....
Tas  woke  up  suddenly.  He was  lying on  a cold  stone floor,
covered  with  dust  and  debris.  The  ground  beneath   him  was
begining  to  shiver  and  shake  once  more.  Tas knew,  from the
strange and unfamiliar feeling of fear building  up inside  of him
that  this time  the gods  meant business.  This time,  the earth-
quake would not end.
"Crysania!  Caramon!"  Tas  shouted,  but  he  heard   only  the
echo  of his  shrill voice  come back,  bouncing hollowly  off the
shivering walls.
Staggering to his feet, ignoring the pain in  his head,  Tas saw
that  the  torch  still  shone above  that darkened  room Crysania
had entered, that  part of  the building  seemingly the  only part
untouched  by  the  convulsive  heaving  of  the   ground.  Magic,
Tas  thought  vaguely,  making  his  way  inside  and  recognizing
wizardly things. He looked for signs of life, but all he  saw were

the horrible caged creatures, hurling themselves upon their cell
doors, knowing  the end  of their  tortured existence  was near,
yet unwilling to give up life, no matter how painful.
Tas  stared  around  wildly. Where  had everyone  gone? "Cara-
mon?" he said in a small voice. But there was no answer,  only a
distant rumbling as  the shaking  of the  ground grew  worse and
worse. Then, in the dim light of the torch outside, Tas caught a
glimpse of metal shining on  the floor  near a  desk. Staggering
across the floor, Tas managed to reach it.
His hand closed about the golden hilt of a  gladiator's sword.
Leaning back against the desk for support, he stared at the sil-
ver blade, stained black  with blood.  Then he  lifted something
else that had been lying on the floor beneath the sword - a rem-
nant of  white cloth.  He saw  golden embroidery  portraying the
symbol of Paladine shine dully  in the  torchlight. There  was a
circle  of  powder  on the  floor, powder  that once  might have
been silver but was now burned black.
"They've gone," Tas said softly to the caged,  gibbering crea-
tures. "They've gone.... I'm all alone."
A sudden heaving of the ground  sent the  kender to  the floor
on  his  hands  and  knees.  There  was  a snapping  and rending
sound, so loud it nearly deafened him, causing Tas to  raise his
head. As he stared up at the ceiling in awe, it split wide open.
The rock cracked. The foundation of the Temple parted.
And then the Temple itself shattered. The walls  flew asunder.
The marble  separated. Floor  after floor  burst open,  like the
petals of a rose spreading in the morning's  light, a  rose that
would die by nightfall. The kender's gaze followed  the dreadful
progress until, finally,  he saw  the very  tower of  the Temple
itself split wide, falling to the ground with  a crash  that was
more devastating than the earthquake.
Unable to  move, protected  by the  powerful dark  spells cast
by an evil mage long dead, Tas stood in  the laboratory  of Fis-
tandantilus, looking up into the heavens.
And he saw the sky begin to rain fire.