Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (30 page)

Talent shook his head. “Iolanthe is a threat to you, and yet you want to protect her. I thought your type would be more likely to laugh as you watched her go up in flames. I don’t understand you, Majere.”

“I imagine there is a great deal in this world you do not understand,” said Raistlin caustically. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to explain it to you. Suffice it to say I owe both Iolanthe and Snaggle a debt. And I always pay my debts.”

He picked up his staff with the glowing light and started to leave.

“Hey!” said Talent. “Where are you going?”

“I am taking the back way out,” said Raistlin. “Your friend Lute would not be pleased to see me again.”

“You’re probably right. I heard about the broken door,” said Talent, falling into step beside Raistlin. “But you’ll get lost. I’ll have to show you.”

“Do not bother. I remember the route from when I was here the last time.”

“You remember it? But you couldn’t. You were—” Talent stopped. He stared at the mage. “You only pretended to be drugged. But how did you know the drink was spiked—?”

“I have an excellent sense of smell,” said Raistlin.

The two walked together. The only sounds were the gentle thump of the staff on the dirt floor, the slight swishing of the black robes, and the thudding of Talent’s boots. Talent walked with his head down, his hands behind his back, lost in thought. Raistlin cast keen glances around him, noting the many tunnels branching off from the one they were using. He pictured a map of the city in his head and used it to try to calculate where each might lead.

“This system is quite extensive,” Raistlin remarked. “I would guess, for example, that this tunnel”—he pointed with his staff—“leads to the Dark Queen’s temple. And this.” He pointed out another tunnel. “This one leads to the Broken Shield.”

“And this,” said Talent grimly, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, “leads to the death of people who do too much damn guessing.”

Raistlin smiled and inclined his head.

“Something I’m wondering,” said Talent abruptly. “You don’t trust Iolanthe, a fellow wizard. The gods know I don’t trust you. Yet you trust me. You must since you told me all this. Why is that?”

“You remind me of someone,” said Raistlin after a moment’s pause. “Like you, he was a Solamnic.
Est Sularus uth Mithas
. He lived that motto. His honor
was
his life.”

“Mine isn’t,” said Talent.

“Which is why you are still alive and Sturm is not. And why I trust you.”

Talent escorted the mage out of the tunnels. Once they were on street level, Talent kept an eye on Raistlin, watching until the black robes had merged with the crowds in the street. Even after Raistlin had gone, Talent remained standing in the alleyway, going over the wizard’s words in his mind.

It seemed too incredible to be believed. Takhisis trying to destroy the gods of magic! Well, so what? Who would miss a few wizards anyway? The world would be a better place without wizards, or so most people believed. Most people, including Talent Orren.

Take that young man, Talent thought. He makes my flesh crawl. Only pretending to be drugged! Maelstrom will have to be more careful next time. Only there may not be a next time. Not if what Majere says is true. Do I trust him? This might all be a trap.

Talent left the alley and made his way to Lute’s shop. There he found that his friend, for the first time in memory, had actually summoned up the energy to walk from the counter to the front of the shop. Lute stood glaring at the wreckage of his front door, poking at the fragments with his cane and swearing. Mari sat on the stoop, her chin in her hands, listening to Lute’s colorful language with evident enjoyment.

“Mari,” said Talent, kneeling down beside the kender to look her in the eye. “What do you think of that wizard, Majere?”

“He’s my friend,” said Mari promptly. “We had a long talk, him and me. We’re going to change the darkness.”

Talent regarded her in silence a moment. Then he stood up. “We have a problem.”

“Damn right we do!” Lute said angrily. “Look what that rutting bugger did to my door!”

“A bigger problem than that,” said Talent Orren. “Come back inside, both of you. We have to talk.”

ambskin,” said Raistlin. “The finest. And a quill pen.”

“What type?” asked Snaggle, taking down a box. He placed it on the counter and opened it. “I have some lovely swan feathers, sir. Just come in. Black swans as well as white.”

Raistlin studied the quills, then picked one up. He eyed the tip carefully, for it had to be perfect, and ran his fingers over the soft feather. His mind went back to that day in Master Theobald’s class, the day that had changed his life. No, that was not right. That day his life had not been changed. His life had been affirmed. “I will take the crow quill,” said Raistlin.

Snaggle pursed his lips. “Crow? Are you certain, sir? You can afford better. Those potions of yours are marvels. I can’t keep them in stock. I was planning on ordering more.”

He shoved the swan feather temptingly forward. “I have peacock, as well. Iolanthe uses only peacock feathers for her work.”

“I am not surprised,” said Raistlin. “Thank you, but this is the one I want.”

He placed the lowly crow feather on the counter. He selected the strip of lambskin with great care. For that item, he did choose the best.

Snaggle added up the purchases and found that they equaled what he owed Raistlin for the potions. He gave Raistlin an order for more, an order that would never be filled. Raistlin would, he hoped, be able to save the old man, but he would not be able to save the shop, which would be burned to the ground. Raistlin looked at the neatly labeled boxes stacked on the shelves, boxes containing spell components and artifacts, scrolls and potions. He thought of Iolanthe’s apartment above the shop, of her spellbooks and scrolls, clothes and jewels, and other valuables. All lost in the flames.

Pausing on his way out, Raistlin glanced back at Snaggle, who was seated on his stool, calmly drinking tarbean tea, unaware of the fury rolling toward him.

“How do you celebrate the Night of the Eye, sir?” Raistlin asked.

Snaggle shrugged. “Same as any other night for me. I drink my tea, lock up the shop, and go to my bed.”

Raistlin had a momentary vision of flames engulfing the shop, engulfing the old man’s bed. Secreting his precious purchases in the long, flowing sleeve of his robes, he returned to the street, heading to his next destination, the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka.

Raistlin cast a spell of holding on the door, as powerful as he could make it. He did not think anyone was likely to come calling, but he could not take a chance on being disturbed. He walked up the stairs slowly. Time was slipping away. He could see the grain of sand lodged in the narrow part of the hourglass. Every moment that passed, the grain slipped a little closer to oblivion.

Raistlin was tired. He had been on the move since before dawn, unable to rest until he had spoken to Talent and made certain all was well there. He had taken care of the less important matters first. Arriving at the moment of decision, his steps slowed. Even by warning Talent, Raistlin had not yet committed himself to the battle against Takhisis. He could always back out, do what he was supposed to do, what he had assured Kitiara he would do.

Raistlin continued his climb.

He sat on the high stool in the shabby, little kitchen that still smelled of boiled cabbage. Unwrapping the package, he gently withdrew the lambskin and placed it on the table in front of him. He smoothed it with his hands as he had as a child. He lifted the crow quill pen and dipped it in the ink. He saw his hand, and it was the hand of the child. He heard a voice, and it was the voice of his master, Theobald, hated and despised.

You will write down on this lambskin the words, ‘I, Magus’ If you have the gift, something will happen. If not, nothing
.

The adult Raistlin wrote the words in sharply angled, bold, large letters.

I, Magus
.

Nothing happened. Nothing had happened that first time either.

Raistlin turned inward, to the very core of his being, and he vowed, I will do this. Nothing in my life matters except this. No moment exists except this moment. I am born in this moment, and if I fail, I will die in this moment
.

He remembered his prayer, the words forever seared on his heart.

Gods of magic, help me! I will dedicate my life to you. I will serve you always. I will bring glory to your names. Help me, please help me!

The prayer he prayed as an adult was different.

“Gods of magic,” he said, “I promised I would dedicate my life to you. I promised to serve you always. This day, I keep my promise.”

He stared down at the words he had written, at the simple words of a child’s test, and he thought of the sacrifices he had made, the pain he had endured, and the pain he would continue to endure until the end of his life. He thought of the blessings he had been given and how that made the pain worthwhile. He thought of how the magic, the pain, the blessings might be swept away, leaving him like the child he had been: weak and sickly, alone and afraid.

He thought of Antimodes, his mentor, a mage of practical mind, a businessman; Par-Salian, wise and far seeing but perhaps not wise and far-seeing enough; Justarius, whose leg had been crippled in the Test, who wanted only to be left in peace to raise a family. He thought of Ladonna, who had believed the Dark Queen’s promise and been betrayed and burned with fury.

They would all die this night unless he stopped Takhisis.

Raistlin raised his voice and looked to the heavens. “I know I have disappointed all of you. I know that you do not approve of what I am. I know that I have broken your laws. That does not mean I do not revere you or that I lack respect. This night I prove it. By coming to you, I risk my life.”

“Not much of a risk,” said Nuitari. “Without the magic, you have no life.”

The god stood over Raistlin. His face was round as a moon, and his eyes were dark and empty, which made the anger in them all the more terrible. He was dressed in black robes, and he held in his hand a scourge of black tentacles.