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                   DRAGONLANCE LEGENDS
                        Volume 1

VERSION 1.1 (Feb 16 00). If you find and correct errors in
the text, please update the version number by 0.1 and
redistribute.

 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.

                              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!"

                                                  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  were   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
  land, 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 like
  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...."


                                              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?"

  "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.