Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (36 page)

He felt nothing for a moment, and his heart stopped in fear; then the familiar, soothing, exciting, searing warmth burned in his blood and fire flared in his hands. He watched the flames leap from his palms, and he was weak with relief. The gods were free.

Raistlin hurled the Hourglass of Stars against the stone wall. The crystal shattered into a myriad of sharp shards. Spilled sand glittered in the light like tiny stars.

Raistlin picked up the dragon orb from among the marbles and held it fast. The door was opening, pushed by the death knight’s hand. He had just strength enough left to speak the words of magic …

… Barely.

aistlin emerged from the corridors of magic into his bedroom in the Broken Shield. He was exhausted, and he was looking forward to his bed, to falling into exhausted sleep.

He found, to his astonishment, that his bed was occupied.

“Welcome home,” said Iolanthe.

She was seated on the bed. As she lifted her head, he saw her face was battered and bruised. Both eyes were blackened, one almost completely swollen shut. Her lip was split. Her fine clothes were torn. Purple bruises covered her neck.

“Thank you for saving my life this night, my dear,” she said, mumbling through her bloody lips. “Too bad I can’t return the favor.”

She cast a sidelong glance at the man who was standing at the window, gazing out at the three moons, which had just come together to form one unblinking eye. Emperor Ariakas did not bother to turn around. He merely glanced over his broad shoulder. His face was dark, expressionless.

Raistlin felt nothing. He was going to die in the next few moments, and he was too worn, too drained to care. He supposed he should try to defend himself, cast some sort of deadly spell. The words of magic fluttered in his brain and flew off before he could catch them.

“If you’re going to kill me, do so now,” he said wearily. “At least that way I will get some rest.”

Iolanthe tried to smile, but it hurt. She winced and pressed her fingers to her lip.

“My lord wants the dragon orb,” she said.

Raistlin tore the pouch from his belt and tossed it onto the floor. The pouch opened. Marbles and the dragon orb rolled out onto the floor and lay there, gleaming in the moonlight. The three moons were starting to separate, drifting apart, yet never far apart.

The moonlight—silver and red—shone on the orb and, as if basking in the magic, the orb seemed to grow and expand. Its own colored lights swirled in response.

Ariakas gazed at the orb, entranced. He left the window and squatted down on his haunches to peer at it. The hands in the orb reached out to him. Ariakas’s fingers twitched. He must be longing to touch it, to see if he could control it. He actually started to reach for it. With a dark smile, he drew back.

“Nice try, Majere,” said Ariakas, standing up. “I’m not as stupid as King Lorac—”

“Oh, yes, you are, my dear,” said Iolanthe.

A blast of frigid air, chill as the frozen wastes of Icewall, struck Ariakas from behind. The magical cold turned his flesh blue and stole his breath. His hair and beard and armor were rimed with hoarfrost. His limbs shuddered. His blood congealed. A look of fury and astonishment froze on his face. Unable to move, he crashed to the floor with a thud like a block of ice.

“Never turn your back on a wizard,” Iolanthe advised him. “Especially one you just beat up.”

Raistlin watched, stupid with fatigue, as Iolanthe walked to Ariakas’s side. She knelt down, put her hand to his neck, and began to swear.

“Damn it to the Abyss and back! The bastard is still alive! I
thought I had killed him for certain. Takhisis must love him.”

Iolanthe thrust a small crystal cone into her bosom and reached out her hand to Raistlin. “I know you’re tired. I’ll transport you. Hurry! We have to get out of here before his guards come to see what has happened to him.”

Raistlin stared at her. He was too tired to think. He had to cajole his brain into working. He shook his head and, ignoring her outstretched hand, he picked up the glowing dragon orb. It shrank at his touch, and his hand closed over it tightly.

“You go,” he said.

“You can’t stay in Neraka! Ariakas isn’t dead. He will send the Black Ghost after you—”

“He tried that tonight, didn’t he?” said Raistlin, looking at Iolanthe intently.

A blush suffused her face. She was beautiful and alluring. Small wonder those unsuspecting Black Robes had opened their doors to her sultry whispers in the dead of night.

“How did you know?” she asked.

“I count stairs, remember. How long have you been working for Hidden Light?”

“Ever since—” Iolanthe stopped then shook her head. “It’s a winter’s tale, meant to be told around the fire. We don’t have time for it now. My friends and I are leaving Neraka. Come with us.”

Raistlin was gazing into the dragon orb, watching the colors. Black and green, red and white and blue twined and writhed and twisted.

“I have to change the darkness,” he said.

She stared at him, not understanding. Then she squeezed his hand and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Thank you, Raistlin Majere. You saved the people who are most dear to me.”

She flung her magical clay on the wall. The portal opened, expanded, and Iolanthe stepped into it.

“Go with the gods,” she called to him.

The portal shut behind her.

“I plan to,” said Raistlin.

He held the glowing dragon orb in his hands and looked out the window to the three moons.

“You owe me,” he told them.

The hands in the dragon orb reached out to him, caught him up, and carried him away.

aistlin woke to find himself lying on hard rock, cold and polished, so it seemed he was resting on the surface of a glittering, black ice-bound lake. He was surrounded by a circle of twenty-one pillars of stone, shapeless and roughhewn. The pillars stood separate and apart, yet so close together that Raistlin could not see what lay beyond them.

He had no idea how long he had been asleep. He recalled periods of drowsy semiconsciousness, thinking that he should wake, that the sands in his hourglass were falling fast, the world was turning beneath him, events were happening, and he was not there to shape them. He tried several times to grasp hold of the rim of consciousness and pull himself out of sleep’s deep well, only to find he lacked the strength.

Once he was awake, he was loath to move, as one is reluctant to rise from bed on a gray morning when raindrops pelt gently on the window pane. The air was still and pure, and it carried to him the scent of spring. But the scent was faint, the season far away, distant, as though there, in
that vale, the passing of years did not matter.

Raistlin looked up into the sky and judged by the position of the stars that the time was early morning, though what the date might be, he had no idea. The sky was black as death above. Faint light, glimmering in the east, promised a rosy dawn. The stars shone bright, none brighter than the red star, the forging fire of Reorx. The constellations of the other gods were visible, all of them at once, which was not possible.

The previous autumn, Raistlin had looked into the sky and seen that two constellations were missing: that of Paladine and that of Takhisis. How long past that seemed! Autumn’s leaves had gone up in flame and smoke. Winter had honored the dead with snow, white and pure. The snow was melting and new life, born of death and sacrifice, was stubbornly fighting to push its way through the frozen ground.

“Godshome,” said Raistlin to himself softly.

He had slept on the hard rock without even a blanket, yet he was not stiff or sore. He rose to his feet and shook out his robes and checked to make certain that the Staff of Magius was at his side. He could see the constellations reflected in the shining, black surface.

Stars above and stars below, much like an hourglass.

The pillars that surrounded him were much like prison bars. He saw no way to pass between them.

For some, faith is a prison, he reflected. For others, faith brings freedom.

Raistlin walked steadily toward the pillars and found himself on the other side without knowing how he came to be there. “Interesting,” he murmured.

He was thirsty and hungry. He rarely ate much at the best of times, and he had undergone such tension and inner turmoil the previous day that he had forgotten to eat at all. As if thinking made it so, he found a stream of clear water, running down from the mountains. Raistlin drank his fill and, dipping a handkerchief in the water, he laved his face and body. The water had restorative powers, it seemed, for he felt strong and revived. And though there was nothing to eat, he was no longer hungry.

Raistlin had read something of Godshome, though not much, for not much had been written. The Aesthetic who had traveled to Neraka
had tried to find Godshome, which was very near that dread city, but he had been unsuccessful. Godshome was the most holy site in the world. Who had created it and why were not known. The Aesthetic had offered various theories. Some said that when the gods had finished creating the world, they came together in this place to rejoice. Another theory held that Godshome was man made, a holy shrine to the gods erected by some lost and forgotten civilization. What
was
known was that only those chosen by the gods were permitted to enter.

Raistlin felt a sense of urgency, the gods breathing down his neck.

Everything happens for a reason. I need to make sure the reason is mine.

Raistlin settled himself on the rocky floor near the stream and drew the dragon orb from the pouch. He placed the dragon orb on the surface before him and, chanting the words, reached out to the hands that reached out to him. He had no idea if his plan would work, for he was still discovering the orb’s capabilities. From what he had read, the wizards who created the orb had used it to look into the future. If the orb’s eyes could see into the future, why not the present? It seemed a much easier task.

“I am looking for someone,” he told the orb. “I want to know what this person is doing and hear what he is saying and see what he is seeing at this very moment. Is that possible, Viper?”

It is. Think of this person only. Concentrate on this person to the exclusion of all else. Speak the name three times
.

“Caramon,” said Raistlin, and he brought his twin to mind. Or rather, he no longer attempted to drive him away.

“Caramon,” Raistlin said again, and he stared into the orb that was swirling with color.

“Caramon!” Raistlin said a third time, sharply, as when they were young and he was trying to waken him. Caramon had always been fond of sleeping in.

The orb’s colors dissipated like morning mists. Raistlin saw pouring rain, the wet face of a rock wall. Standing around in a sodden group were his friends: Tanis Half-Elven; Tika Waylan; Tasslehoff Burrfoot; Flint Fireforge; and his twin brother, Caramon. With them was an old man in mouse-colored robes and a disreputable hat.

“Fizban,” Raistlin said softly. “Of course.”

Tanis and Caramon wore the black armor and the insignia of dragonarmy officers. Tanis had put on a helm that was too big for him, not so much for protection as to conceal the pointed ears that would have revealed his elven blood. Caramon was not wearing a helm. He had probably not been able to find one big enough. His breastplate was a tight fit; the straps that held it on were stretched to their limit over his broad chest.

As Raistlin watched, Tanis—his face distorted with anger—looked swiftly around at the small group. His gaze focused on Caramon.

“Where’s Berem?” he asked in urgent tones.

Raistlin’s ears pricked at the name.

His brother’s face went red. “I—I dunno, Tanis. I—I thought he was next to me.”

Tanis was furious. “He’s our only way into Neraka, and he’s the only reason they’re keeping Laurana alive. If they catch him—”

“Don’t worry, lad.” That was Flint, always Tanis’s comforting father. “We’ll find him.”