Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (8 page)

“To use your magic against the dragon, you must have your hands free,” Raistlin said. “Let go of me, and I’ll let go of you.”

Fistandantilus swore and his grip on Raistlin tightened. Raistlin’s
shoulder and arm muscles burned, and his hands trembled with the strain. He could see, in the mists of the dragon orb, the dragon, Viper, swooping down on the wizard.

Fistandantilus shouted words of magic. They came out as so much meaningless drivel. With one hand caught in Raistlin’s grip and the other clutching his heart, Fistandantilus could not use the gestures needed to unleash the power of his spell. He could not trace the runes in the air, could not cast balls of flame or send spiked lightning jabbing from his fingers.

The dragon opened his fanged mouth and extended his talons.

Raistlin was almost finished. Yet he would not let go. If the strain killed him, death would only tighten his grip, not break it.

Fistandantilus set him free. Raistlin sank onto the table, gasping for breath. Though his hands were weak and shaking, he managed to keep his hold on the dragon orb.

“Let go of me!” Fistandantilus raved. “Release me! That was our bargain.”

“I do not have hold of you,” said Raistlin.

He heard a shriek of rage and saw a rush of green; the dragon was returning to the dragon orb. Raistlin stared inside the orb, into the swirling mists.

He saw the face of an old man, a ravaged face, gnawed by time. Fleshless hands beat against the crystal walls of his prison. His yammering mouth shrieked threats.

Raistlin waited tensely to hear the voice in his head. The mouth gibbered and gabbled, and Raistlin smiled.

He heard nothing. All was silence.

He ran his hand over the smooth, cold surface of the dragon orb, and it began to shrink in size. When it was no larger than a marble, he picked it up and dropped it into the pouch. He dismantled the crude stand and slid the pieces into a pocket of his black robes.

He paused a moment before he left the tavern to look around at the empty tables and chairs. He could see the wizards sitting there, drinking elven wine and dwarven ale.

“One day I will come here,” Raistlin told them. “I will sit with you and drink with you. We will toast the magic. One day, when I am the Master of Past and Present, I will travel through time. I will come
back. And when I come back, I will succeed where he failed.”

Raistlin drew the cowl of his black robes over his head and left the Wizard’s Hat.

5th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

Raistlin woke that morning after a sound night’s sleep, a sleep uninterrupted by coughing fits. He drew in a deep breath of the morning air and felt it fill his lungs. He breathed freely. His heart beat strong and vibrantly. He was hungry and ate the bread soaked in milk, which was the monks’ breakfast, with relish.

He was well. He was whole. Tears of joy stung his eyes. He brushed them away and packed up his few belongings, his spell components, his spellbooks, and the Staff of Magius. He was ready to depart, but first he had an errand to run. He needed to repay his debt to Astinus, who had given him, albeit inadvertently, the key: self-knowledge. And he owed a debt to the Aesthetics, who had cared for him, fed him, and clothed him.

Raistlin sought out Bertrem, who was generally to be found hovering near Astinus’s chamber, guarding his privacy or ready to dash forth at his command.

Bertrem’s eyes widened at the sight of Raistlin’s black robes. The Aesthetic swallowed several times. His hands fluttered nervously, but he blocked the way to Astinus’s chamber.

“I don’t care what you do to me. You will not harm the master!” said Bertrem bravely.

“I came only to take my leave of Astinus,” Raistlin said.

Bertrem cast a fearful glance at the door. “The master is not to be disturbed.”

“I think he will want to see me,” said Raistlin quietly, and he advanced a step.

Bertrem stumbled back a step and bumped up against the door. “I am quite certain he would not—”

The door flew open, causing Bertrem to fall inside, nearly trampling Astinus. Bertrem ducked out of the way and flattened himself against the wall, trying in vain to become one with the marble.

“What is this banging and shouting outside my door?”
Astinus demanded in acerbic tones. “I cannot work with all this commotion!”

“I am leaving Palanthus, sir,” Raistlin said. “I wanted to thank you—”

“I have nothing to say to you, Raistlin Majere,” said Astinus, preparing to shut the door. “Bertrem, since you are a failure at providing me with the peace and quiet I desire, you will escort this gentleman out.”

Bertrem’s face flushed with shame. He sidled out the door and, greatly daring, plucked at Raistlin’s black sleeve. “This way—”

“Wait, sir!” Raistlin said, and he thrust his staff into the doorway to prevent Astinus from closing the door. “I ask you the question you asked me the day I arrived: What do you see when you look at me?”

“I see Raistlin Majere,” Astinus replied, glowering.

“You do not see your ‘old friend’?” Raistlin said.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Astinus said, and again he tried to shut the door.

Bertrem tugged harder at Raistlin’s black sleeve. “You must not disturb the master—”

Raistlin ignored him and spoke to Astinus. “When I lay dying, you said to me, ‘So this ends your journey, my old friend.’ Your old friend, Fistandantilus, the wizard who crafted the Sphere of Time for you. Look into my eyes, sir. Look into the hourglass pupils that are my constant torment. Do you see your ‘old friend’?”

“I do not,” said Astinus after a moment. Then he added with a shrug, “So you won.”

“I won,” said Raistlin proudly. “I came to pay my debt—”

Astinus made a gesture as though brushing away gnats. “You owe me nothing.”

“I always pay my debts,” Raistlin said sharply. He reached into a pocket of the black velvet robes and drew out a scroll wrapped in black ribbon. “I thought perhaps you would like this. It is an account of the battle between us. For your records.”

He held out the scroll. Astinus hesitated a moment; then he took the scroll. Raistlin removed the staff, and Astinus slammed shut the door.

“I know the way out,” Raistlin told Bertrem.

“The master said I was to escort you,” said Bertrem, and he not only walked with Raistlin to the door, but accompanied him down the marble stairs and out into the street.

“I washed the gray robes and left them folded on the bed,” Raistlin said. “Thank you for the use of them.”

“Of course,” said Bertrem, babbling with relief at finally being rid of his strange visitor. “Any time.”

He flushed, suddenly, and stammered, “That is … I don’t mean ‘any time.’”

Raistlin smiled at the Aesthetic’s discomfiture. He reached into his pouch and clasped his hand around the dragon orb and made ready to cast his spell. It would be the first powerful spell he had cast without hearing that whispering voice in his head. He had bragged that the power was his. He would finally know whether or not he had spoken the truth.

Gripping the Staff of Magius in one hand and the dragon orb in the other, Raistlin spoke the words of magic.

“Berjalan cepat dalam berlua tanah.”

A portal opened in the midst of space and time. He looked through it and saw the black, twisted spires of a temple. Raistlin had never been to Neraka, but he had spent time in the Great Library reading descriptions of the city. He recognized the Temple of Takhisis.

Raistlin entered the portal.

He looked out of it to see poor Bertrem, his eyes bulging, frantically pawing the empty air with his hands. “Sir! Where have you gone? Sir?”

Unable to find his vanished guest, Bertrem gulped and turned and fled up the stairs to the library, running as fast as his sandaled feet would carry him.

The portal closed behind Raistlin and opened on his new life.

olanthe’s formal title was “Wizardess to the Emperor.” She was known informally as Ariakas’s Witch or by other names even less flattering, though those were spoken only behind her back. No one dared say them to her face, for the “witch” was powerful.

The guards at the Red Gate saluted as she approached them. The Temple of Takhisis had six gates. The main gate was in the front. That gate, the Queen’s Gate, was manned by eight dark pilgrims whose duty was to escort visitors through the temple. Five other gates were placed at various points around the temple’s perimeter. Each of those gates opened into the camp of one of the five dragonarmies, which were fighting the Dark Queen’s war of conquest.

Iolanthe avoided the main gate, for although she was the Emperor’s mistress and under his protection, she was a wielder of magic, a worshiper of the gods of magic, and though one of those gods was the Dark Queen’s son, the dark pilgrims viewed any wizard with deep suspicion and mistrust.

The dark pilgrims would have allowed her to enter the temple (not
even the Nightlord, who was the head of the Holy Order of Takhisis, dared incur the wrath of the Emperor), but the clerics would have made her visit as unpleasant as possible, insulting her, demanding to know her business, and finally insisting upon sending one of the loathsome pilgrims as an escort.

By contrast, the draconians of the Red Dragonarmy, who were charged with guarding the Red Gate, fell over their clawed feet to be accommodating to the beautiful wizardess. A languishing glance from her lavender eyes, which glittered like amethysts beneath her long, black eyelashes; a gentle brush of her slender fingers on the sivak’s scaly arm; a charming smile from carnelian lips; and the sivak commander was only too happy to permit Iolanthe to enter the temple.

“You are here late, Mistress Iolanthe,” said the sivak. “It is well after Dark Watch. Not a good time to walk the halls of the temple alone. Would you like me to accompany you?”

“Thank you, Commander. I would appreciate the company,” Iolanthe replied, and she fell into step beside him. He was new and she tried to recall his name. “Commander Slith, isn’t it?”

“Yes, madam,” said the sivak with a grin and a gallant flick of his wings.

Iolanthe found the Temple of Takhisis to be an unnerving place even during the daylight hours. Not that much daylight ever managed to beat its way inside, but at least the knowledge that the sun was shining somewhere made her feel better. Iolanthe had sometimes been forced to walk the halls of the temple after dark, and she had not liked it. The dark pilgrims, those clerics who were dedicated to the worship of the Dark Queen, performed their unhallowed rites in the hours of darkness. Iolanthe’s own hands were far from clean, but at least she washed the blood of victims from her fingers; she did not drink it.

Iolanthe had another reason for wanting an armed escort. The Nightlord hated her, and he would have rejoiced to see her buried in sand up to her neck with buzzards pecking out her eyes and ants devouring her flesh. She was safe, at least for the moment. Ariakas held his strong hand over her.

At least for the moment.