Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (10 page)

And though she wondered immediately why that pouch was singled out for special treatment, she did not give the matter much thought. She was far more interested in the hand than the pouch. The skin of it glistened with a golden sheen, as though the mage had been dipped in the precious metal. The odd color was the result of some magical spell, no doubt, but what and why?

She shifted her gaze from the mage’s hand to his face. He had removed his black cowl, leaving his face exposed, and Iolanthe searched for a resemblance to his sister. She did not find it in his features. His face was handsome, or would have been if it had not been thin and drawn and pale with exhaustion. The skin of his face was the same golden hue as that of his hands.

His eyes were astonishing. They were large and intense, the black pupils the shape of hourglasses. He turned to look at her with his strange eyes, and Iolanthe saw no admiration in them, no desire, as she saw in the eyes of almost every other man who looked at her. Then she knew the reason.

The eyes were cursed; it was known as the “curse of Realanna,” for the fabled sorceress who had developed the spell. Every living being Raistlin looked upon would appear to age and wither and die. He saw her as she would look years in the future, perhaps an ugly, toothless, old hag.

Iolanthe shivered.

The resemblance to his sister appeared to be more in spirit than in body. Iolanthe saw Kitiara’s ruthless ambition in her brother’s firm, strong jaw; her fierce determination in the young man’s fixed expression; and her pride and self-confidence in his thrust-back shoulders. By contrast, there were qualities Kitiara lacked. Iolanthe saw sensitivity in the long, slender fingers of Raistlin’s hands and a shadowed look in his eyes. He had suffered in life. He had known pain, both physical and spiritual, and he had overcome both by the sheer force of his indomitable will.

She also noticed, as a point of interest, that there was no mark on him. He had not been beaten. His golden skin had not been flayed and fed to the dogs. His bones had not been broken on the rack, nor had the Adjudicator gouged out those interesting eyes. Somehow Raistlin had managed to thwart the Nightlord. Iolanthe found that fascinating.

She looked back at the Nightlord and saw that he was, in fact, annoyed and frustrated.

“I have never seen this person before,” Iolanthe reiterated. “I do not know who he is or where he came from.”

That was a lie. Kitiara had told Iolanthe all about her “baby”
brother and their childhood in Solace. Raistlin had a twin brother, she recalled, a big, hulking, simple-minded fellow named Caringman or something odd like that. Supposedly the two were never apart. Iolanthe wondered what had become of Raistlin’s twin.

The Nightlord regarded her grimly. “I fail to believe you, madam.”

“I fail to understand any of this, your lordship,” said Iolanthe in exasperation. “If you are so worried that this young mage is a spy, why did you permit him to enter the temple?”

“We didn’t,” said the Nightlord coldly.

“Well, then, the draconian guards at one of the gates must have cleared him—”

“They didn’t,” said the Nightlord.

Iolanthe’s lashes fluttered in confusion. “Then how—?”

The Nightlord leaped upon the word.
“How!
That is the question I want answered!
How
did this mage come to be here? He did not enter by the front gate. The dark pilgrims would not have permitted it.”

Iolanthe knew that to be true. They never allowed her to pass without harassment, and she carried the Emperor’s authorization.

“He did not enter by any of the five dragonarmy gates. I have questioned the draconian commanders, and they all swear to me by the five heads of Takhisis that they did not allow him to pass. What is more”—the Nightlord gestured at the young man—”he himself admits that he did not come through any of the entrances. He appeared out of nowhere. And he will not say how he managed to evade all our warding spells.”

Iolanthe shrugged. “Far be it from me to give you advice, but I have heard that your lordship has methods of persuading people to tell you whatever you want to know.”

The Nightlord’s eyes narrowed. “I tried. Some force protects him. When the Adjudicator attempted to ‘question’ him, Majere attempted to cast a Circle of Protection spell—the efforts of an amateur. I was able to dismantle it, of course. The Adjudicator then tried to seize hold of him. But he could not.”

Iolanthe was puzzled. “I beg your pardon, lord, but what do you mean ‘he could not’? What did this young man do to stop him?”

“Nothing!” said the Nightlord. “He did nothing. I tried to dispel whatever magic he was using, but there was nothing to dispel. Yet
whenever the Adjudicator drew near him, the executioner’s hands shook as with a palsy. One of the guards then tried to throw a rope around Majere. The rope slithered to the floor. We attempted to seize his staff, but it nearly burned the hand off the cleric who tried to take it.”

Raistlin spoke up. His voice was well modulated, with a soft, husky quality about it. “I told your lordship I am under the protection of no magical spell. It is Queen Takhisis who watches over me.”

Iolanthe regarded Raistlin with admiration. She had already resolved to do what she could to rescue Kitiara’s brother from the Nightlord’s clutches. The Blue Lady would be grateful, for she had expressed a fondness for her half-brothers, and Iolanthe was working hard to gain the trust and regard of the powerful Highlord. Iolanthe was starting to like the young man for himself, however.

She had to play it carefully, though, feel her way in the darkness.

“And so, lord, why did you summon me in the middle of the night? You have yet to tell me.”

“I brought you here so that you can prove your loyalty to her Dark Majesty by removing his staff,” said the Nightlord. “I am certain it is the staff that protects him. Once he is no longer protected by any magical force, the Adjudicator will deal with him. He will pay for his refusal to answer our questions, of that I can assure you.”

Iolanthe had never before been asked to “prove her loyalty,” and she wondered uneasily what to do. She did not want to hand Raistlin over to the Adjudicator, who was skilled in the art of torment. He hacked off limbs. He stripped skin off living victims. He bound iron bands studded with spikes around their heads and slowly tightened the screws. He thrust burning pokers into various orifices of the body. He would always stop just short of death, using spells to bring the prisoner back to life to endure more torment.

Iolanthe decided to play for time. “Did you ask him
why
he came, lord?”

“We know the answer to that, mistress,” the Nightlord replied, fixing her with a withering gaze. “As do you.”

Danger tugged at the hem of Iolanthe’s skirt and laid clammy fingers on the back of her neck. Ariakas was away from Neraka.
He had traveled to his headquarters in Sanction, a long distance from. And with rumors swirling that the Emperor was starting to let victory slip through his fingers, the Nightlord might be growing more bold. He had long felt that he should be the one to wear the Crown of Power. Perhaps Takhisis was starting to agree with him.

Iolanthe needed to find out what sort of monster was lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on her.

“I do
not
know what you mean,” she said coldly before turning to the young wizard. “Why did you come to the Temple of Takhisis?”

“I have told his lordship repeatedly. I came to pay my tribute to Her Dark Majesty,” said Raistlin.

He is telling the truth! Iolanthe realized in amazement. She could hear the respect in his voice when he named the Queen of Darkness, respect that was not perfunctory, not feigned, slavish, or groveling. It was respect that came from the heart, not from the threat of a beating. What marvelous irony! Raistlin Majere was probably the only person left in Neraka who still felt such respect for Queen Takhisis. And for that her loyal servants were going to put him to death.

As if to put an exclamation point to her thoughts, the Nightlord snorted. “He is lying. He is a spy.”

“A spy?” Iolanthe repeated, startled. “For whom?”

“The Conclave of Wizards.” The Nightlord spoke the last word with a hiss and a sneer.

Iolanthe stiffened. “I assure you, lord, that the Order of Black Robes is dedicated to the service of Queen Takhisis.”

The Nightlord smiled. He rarely smiled and, when he did, his smile boded ill for someone. The Adjudicator smiled too.

“Apparently you have not been informed. It seems that the head of your order, a wizard named Ladonna, has betrayed us by assisting the enemies of our glorious Queen. In this, she was helped by your god, Nuitari. Ladonna was caught and executed, of course. Nuitari has begged forgiveness for his error in judgment and has returned to the side of his goddess mother. All is well, but it was an inconvenience.”

Iolanthe felt danger’s hands clutch her by the throat. She had firsthand knowledge that the Nightlord was lying, but she had to feign ignorance.

“I did not know any of this,” she said, striving to appear calm. “I can assure you of my loyalty, Nightlord. If the Conclave has broken with the Dark Queen, then I will break with the Conclave.”

The Nightlord snorted. He obviously did not believe her. Then why summon her? He was fishing for information, which meant he did not know all that he claimed to know.

Iolanthe launched into a voluble account of her dedication to Takhisis. All the while, as she was talking, she was thinking. I would have heard if Ladonna had been caught and executed. The entire Conclave—Black, Red, and White—would be in an uproar. The wizard’s credo, born of long years of persecution, was: “Touch one and you touch all.”

So what does this mean for me? Does the Nightlord suspect that I was involved in Ladonna’s escape? Undoubtedly he does, if for no other reason than he believes spies and conspirators are lurking around every corner. He’d arrest his own shadow for following him if he could.

She was mulling that over and trying to decide how to get herself out of the tangle when the young wizard took matters into his own hands.

“As proof of my loyalty to Takhisis, I will hand over my staff,” Raistlin said quietly. “The staff is an artifact I value as I value my life, but I will give it to you of my own free will. And I will tell your lordship how I came here. I entered through the corridors of magic. In my defense, I did not know that entering the temple was a crime. I am newly arrived in Neraka. I came to serve Queen Takhisis, to work to confound her enemies. May Her Dark Majesty strike me dead on the spot if I am lying.”

Dark clerics, such as the Nightlord, repeatedly assured their followers that their Queen had the power to strike down traitors. Raistlin had proclaimed his loyalty to the Queen, and he’d done so by invoking her name. No lightning bolt streaked down from the sky. Raistlin did not go up in flames. His flesh did not melt from his bones. The young wizard stood calmly in the midst of the court, alive and well and unharmed. With a faint smile, Iolanthe waited for the Nightlord’s reaction.

He glared at Raistlin in frustration. The Nightlord might well suspect that Raistlin was making a mockery of the proceedings, but
he could not call into question his Queen’s judgment, especially in front of witnesses. Takhisis had deemed that Raistlin should live. The Nightlord could not, therefore, execute him, but he could make his life miserable.

“You have our Queen to thank for saving you,” the Nightlord said bitingly. “You can remain in the city of Neraka, but you are henceforth forbidden from entering the temple.”

Raistlin bowed in acquiescence.

“Your staff will be confiscated,” the Nightlord continued, “and held in storage until such time as you leave the city. You will, here and now, reveal the contents of your pouches.”

The Nightlord might be perverted, sadistic, and insane, but he wasn’t stupid. He had noticed, as had Iolanthe, the young mage’s hand hovering protectively near the pouch he wore on his belt.

Raistlin looked uncertain. Iolanthe drew near to him and said softly, “Don’t be a fool. Do as he says.”

Raistlin cast her a glance, then placed his staff on the floor. Iolanthe wondered that he wasn’t more concerned over its loss, for certainly he must know that any valuable object the Nightlord put “in storage” was gone for good.

“You will remain as a witness, madam,” said the Nightlord, frowning at Iolanthe.

She sighed and joined Raistlin, who was opening first one pouch then another, emptying out the contents on the desk. There was the usual variety of spell components: cobweb, bat guano, rose petals, the skin of a black snake, black oil, coffin nails, cowry shells, and so forth. The Nightlord regarded those items with distaste and was careful not to touch any of them.

All the pouches except one lay on the Nightlord’s desk. Iolanthe could see one pouch still attached to Raistlin’s belt, though he had deftly maneuvered that pouch around to the side and covered it with the flowing sleeve of his black robe.

“Those are all my spell components, lord,” said Raistlin, adding humbly, “I would appreciate it if you would return them to me, lord. I am not a wealthy man, and they cost me dearly.”

“These items are contraband,” said the Nightlord, “and will be destroyed.”

He summoned one of the dark pilgrims, who reluctantly and gingerly picked up the various components, deposited them in a sack, and took them away. At his command, another dark pilgrim dropped a blanket over the staff, picked it up, and carried it from the room.

Raistlin made no argument, though; judging by the faint, sardonic smile that touched the young wizard’s lips, he knew the Nightlord was being arbitrary to punish him. Rose petals were not going to bring about the downfall of Her Dark Majesty. Every item in his pouches could be purchased at any mageware shop in the city.

“I abide by your decision, lord,” Raistlin said, bowing. “Am I free to go?”

“If your lordship pleases, I will conduct him to the proper exit,” said Iolanthe.

She rested her fingers on the young man’s arm and was surprised to feel an unnatural warmth radiating through the black folds of his robe. He seemed to burn with fever, yet he showed no symptoms of illness, only a very natural fatigue. Iolanthe was more and more intrigued by Kitiara’s brother. The two of them were bowing and starting to edge away when the Nightlord spoke.