Test of the Twins

The Knight of the Black Rose

Lord Soth sat upon the crumbling, fire-blackened throne in the blasted, desolate ruins of Dargaard Keep. His orange eyes flamed in their unseen sockets, the only visible sign of the cursed life that burned within the charred armor of a Knight of Solamnia. Soth sat alone.

The death knight had dismissed his attendants—former knights, like himself, who had remained loyal to him in life and so were cursed to remain loyal to him in death. He had also sent away the banshees, the elven women who had played a role in his downfall and who were now doomed to spend their lives in his service. For hundreds of years, ever since that terrible night of his death, Lord Soth had commanded these unfortunate women to relive that doom with him. Every night, as he sat upon his ruined throne, he forced them to serenade him with a song that related the story of his disgrace and their own.

That song brought bitter pain to Soth, but he welcomed the pain. It was ten times better than the nothingness that pervaded his unholy life-in-death at all other times. But tonight he did not listen to the song. He listened, instead, to his story as it whispered like the bitter night wind through the eaves of the crumbling keep.

“Once, long ago, I was a Lord Knight of Solamnia. I was everything then—handsome, charming, brave, married to a woman of fortune, if not of beauty. My knights were devoted to me. Yes, men envied me—Lord Soth of Dargaard Keep.

“The spring before the Cataclysm, I left Dargaard Keep and rode to Palanthas with my retinue. A Knights’ Council was being held, my presence was required. I cared little for the Council meeting—it would drag on with endless arguments over insignificant rules. But there would be drinking, good fellowship, tales of battle and adventure. That was why I went.

“We rode slowly, taking our time, our days filled with song and jesting. At night we’d stay in inns when we could, sleep beneath the stars when we could not. The weather was fine, it was a mild spring. The sunshine was warm upon us, the evening breeze cooled us. I was thirty-two years old that spring. Everything was going well with my life. I do not recall ever being happier.

“And then, one night—curse the silver moon that shone upon it—we were camped in the wilderness. A cry cut through the darkness, rousing us from our slumbers. It was a woman’s cry, then we heard many women’s voices, mingled with the harsh shouts of ogres.

“Grabbing our weapons, we rushed to battle. It was an easy victory; only a roving band of robbers. Most fled at our approach, but the leader, either more daring or more drunken than the rest, refused to be deprived of his spoils. Personally, I didn’t blame him. He’d captured a lovely young elfmaiden. Her beauty in the moonlight was radiant, her fear only enhanced her fragile loveliness. Alone, I challenged him. We fought, and I was the victor. And it was my reward—ah, what bitter-sweet reward—to carry the fainting elfmaid in my arms back to her companions.

“I can still see her fine, golden hair shining in the moonlight. I can see her eyes when she wakened, looking into mine, and I can see even now—as I saw then—her love for me dawn in them. And she saw—in my eyes—the admiration I could not hide. Thoughts of my wife, of my honor, of my castle—everything fled as I gazed upon her beautiful face.

“She thanked me; how shyly she spoke. I returned her to the elven women—a group of clerics they were, traveling to Palanthas and thence to Istar on a pilgrimage. She was just an acolyte. It was on this journey that she was to be made a Revered Daughter of Paladine. I left her and the women, returning with my men to my camp. I tried to sleep, but I could still feel that lithe, young body in my arms. Never had I been so consumed with passion for a woman.

“When I did sleep, my dreams were sweet torture. When I awoke, the thought that we must part was like a knife in my heart. Rising early, I returned to the elven camp. Making up a tale of roving bands of goblins between here and Palanthas, I easily convinced the elven women that they needed my protection. My men were not averse to such pleasant companions, and so we traveled with them. But this did not ease my pain. Rather, it intensified it. Day after day I watched her, riding near me—but not near enough. Night after night I slept alone—my thoughts in turmoil.

“I wanted her, wanted her more than anything I had ever wanted in this world. And yet, I was a Knight, sworn by the strictest vows to uphold the Code and the Measure, sworn by holy vows to remain true to my wife, sworn by the vows of a commander to lead my men to honor. Long I fought with myself and, at last, I believed I had conquered. Tomorrow, I will leave, I said, feeling peace steal over me.

“I truly intended to leave, and I would have. But, curse the fates, I went upon a hunting expedition in the woods and there, far from camp, I met her. She had been sent to gather herbs.

“She was alone. I was alone. Our companions were far away. The love that I had seen in her eyes shone there still. She had loosened her hair, it fell to her feet in a golden cloud. My honor, my resolve, were destroyed in an instant, burned up by the flame of desire that swept over me. She was easy to seduce, poor thing. One kiss, then another. Then drawing her down beside me on the new grass, my hands caressing, my mouth stopping her protests, and... after I had made her mine... kissing away her tears.

“That night, she came to me again, in my tent. I was lost in bliss. I promised her marriage, of course. What else could I do? At first, I didn’t mean it. How could I? I had a wife, a wealthy wife. I needed her money. My expenses were high. But then one night, when I held the elf maid in my arms, I knew I could never give her up. I made arrangements to have my wife permanently removed...

“We continued our journey. By this time, the elven women had begun to suspect. How not? It was hard for us to hide our secret smiles during the day, difficult to avoid every opportunity to be together.

“We were, of necessity, separated when we reached Palanthas. The elven women went to stay in one of the fine houses that the Kingpriest used when he visited the city. My men and I went to our lodgings. I was confident, however, that she would find a way to come to me since I could not go to her. The first night passed, I was not much worried. But then a second and a third, and no word.

“Finally, a knock on my door. But it was not her. It was the head of the Knights of Solamnia, accompanied by the heads of each of the three Orders of Knights. I knew then, when I saw them, what must have happened. She had discovered the truth and betrayed me.

“As it was, it was not she who betrayed me, but the elven women. My lover had fallen ill and, when they came to treat her, they discovered that she was carrying my child. She had told no one, not even me. They told her I was married and, worse still, word arrived in Palanthas at the same time that my wife had ‘mysteriously’ disappeared.

“I was arrested. Dragged through the streets of Palanthas in public humiliation, I was the object of the vulgars’ crude jokes and vile names. They enjoyed nothing more than seeing a Knight fall to their level. I swore that, someday, I would have my revenge upon them and their fine city. But that seemed hopeless. My trial was swift. I was sentenced to die a traitor to the Knighthood. Stripped of my lands and my title, I would be executed by having my throat slit with my own sword. I accepted my death. I even looked forward to it, thinking still that she had cast me off.

“But, the night before I was to die, my loyal men freed me from my prison. She was with them. She told me everything, she told me she carried my child.

“The elven women had forgiven her, she said, and, though she could never now become a Revered Daughter of Paladine, she might still live among her people—though her disgrace would follow her to the end of her days. But she could not bear the thought of leaving without telling me good-bye. She loved me, that much was plain. But I could tell that the tales she had heard worried her.

“I made up some lie about my wife that she believed. She would have believed dark was light if I’d told her. Her mind at ease, she agreed to run away with me. I know now that this was why she had come in the first place. My men accompanying us, we fled back to Dargaard Keep.

“It was a difficult journey, pursued constantly by the other Knights, but we arrived, finally, and entrenched ourselves within the castle. It was an easy position to defend—perched as it was high upon sheer cliffs. We had large stores of provisions and we could easily hold out during the winter that was fast approaching.

“I should have been pleased with myself, with life, with my new bride—what a mockery that marriage ceremony was! But I was tormented by guilt and, what was worse, the loss of my honor. I realized that I had escaped one prison only to find myself in another—another of my own choosing. I had escaped death only to live a dark and wretched life. I grew moody, morose. I was always quick to anger, quick to strike, and now it was worse. The servants fled, after I’d beaten several. My men took to avoiding me. And then, one night, I struck her—her, the only person in this world who could give me even a shred of comfort.

“Looking into her tear-filled eyes, I saw the monster I had become. Taking her in my arms, I begged forgiveness. Her lovely hair fell around me. I could feel my child kicking in her womb. Kneeling there, together, we prayed to Paladine. I would do anything, I told the god, to restore my honor. I asked only that my son or daughter never grow up to know my shame.

“And Paladine answered. He told me of the Kingpriest, and what arrogant demands the foolish man planned to make of the gods. He told me that the world itself would feel the anger of the gods unless—as Huma had done before me—one man was willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of the innocent.

“Paladine’s light shone around me. My tormented soul was filled with peace. What small sacrifice it seemed to me to give my life so that my child should be raised in honor and the world could be saved. I rode to Istar, fully intent upon stopping the Kingpriest, knowing that Paladine was with me.

“But another rode beside me, too, on that journey—the Queen of Darkness. So does she wage constant war for the souls she delights in holding in thrall. What did she use to defeat me? Those very same elven women—clerics of the god whose mission I rode upon.

“These women had long since forgotten the name of Paladine. Like the Kingpriest, they were wrapped in their own righteousness and could see nothing through their veils of goodness. Filled with my own self-righteousness, I let them know what I intended. Their fear was great. They did not believe the gods would punish the world. They saw a day when only the good (meaning the elves) would live upon Krynn.

“They had to stop me. And they were successful.

“The Queen is wise. She knows the dark regions of a mans heart. I would have ridden down an army, if it had stood in my way. But the soft words of those elven women worked in my blood like poison. How clever it was for the elfmaid to have been rid of me so easily, they said. Now she had my castle, my wealth, all to herself, without the inconvenience of a human husband. Was I even certain the baby was mine? She had been seen in the company of one of my young followers. Where did she go when she left my tent in the night?

“They never once lied. They never once said anything against her directly. But their questions ate at my soul, gnawing at me. I remembered words, incidents, looks. I was certain I’d been betrayed. I would catch them together! I would kill him! I would make her suffer!

“I turned my back upon Istar.

“Arriving home, I battered down the doors of my castle. My wife, alarmed, came to meet me, holding her infant son in her arms. There was a look of despair upon her face—I took it for an admission of guilt. I cursed her, I cursed her child. And, at that moment, the fiery mountain struck Ansalon.

“The stars fell from the sky. The ground shook and split asunder. A chandelier, lit with a hundred candles, fell from the ceiling. In an instant my wife was engulfed with flame. She knew she was dying, but she held out her babe to me to rescue from the fire that was consuming her. I hesitated, then, jealous rage still filling my heart, I turned away.

“With her dying breath, she called down the wrath of the gods upon me. ‘You will die this night in fire,’ she cried, ‘even as your son and I die. But you will live eternally in darkness. You will live one life for every life that your folly has brought to an end this night!’ She perished.

“The flames spread. My castle was soon ablaze. Nothing we tried would put out that strange fire. It burned even rock. My men tried to flee. But, as I watched, they, too, burst into flame. There was no one, no one left alive except myself upon that mountain. I stood in the great hall, alone, surrounded on all sides by fire that did not yet touch me. But, as I stood there, I saw it closing in upon me, coming closer... closer... .

“I died slowly, in unbearable agony. When death finally came, it brought no relief. For I closed my eyes only to open them again, looking into a world of emptiness and bleak despair and eternal torment. Night after night, for endless years, I have sat upon this throne and listened to those elven women sing my story.

“But that ended, it ended with you, Kitiara... .

“When the Dark Queen called upon me to aid her in the war, I told her I would serve the first Dragon Highlord who had courage enough to spend the night in Dargaard Keep. There was only one—you, my beauty. You, Kitiara. I admired you for that, I admired you for your courage, your skill, your ruthless determination. In you, I see myself. I see what I might have become.

“I helped you murder the other Highlords when we fled Neraka in the turmoil following the Queen’s defeat, I helped you reach Sanction, and there I helped you establish your power once again upon this continent. I helped you when you tried to thwart your brother, Raistlin’s, plans for challenging the Queen of Darkness. No, I wasn’t surprised he outwitted you. Of all the living I have ever met, he is the only one I fear.

“I have even been amused by your love affairs, my Kitiara. We dead cannot feel lust. That is a passion of the blood and no blood flows in these icy limbs. I watched you twist that weakling, Tanis Half-Elven, inside out, and I enjoyed it every bit as much as you did.

“But now, Kitiara, what have you become? The mistress has become the slave. And for what—an elf! Oh, I have seen your eyes burn when you speak his name. I’ve seen your hands tremble when you hold his letters. You think of him when you should be planning war. Even your generals can no longer claim your attention.

“No, we dead cannot feel lust. But we can feel hatred, we can feel envy, we can feel jealousy and possession.

“I could kill Dalamar—the dark elf apprentice is good, but he is no match for me. His master? Raistlin? Ah, now that would be a different story.

“My Queen in your dark Abyss—beware Raistlin! In him, you face your greatest challenge, and you must—in the end—face it alone. I cannot help you on that plane, Dark Majesty, but perhaps I can aid you on this one.

“Yes, Dalamar, I could kill you. But I have known what it is to die, and death is a shabby, paltry thing. Its pain is agony, but soon over. What greater pain to linger on and on in the world of the living, smelling their warm blood, seeing their soft flesh, and knowing that it can never, never be yours again. But you will come to know, all too well, dark elf...

“As for you, Kitiara, know this—I would endure this pain, I would live out another century of tortured existence rather than see you again in the arms of a living man!”

The death knight brooded and plotted, his mind twisting and turning like the thorny branches of the black roses that overran his castle. The skeletal warriors paced the ruined battlements, each hovering near the place where he had met his death. The elven women wrung their fleshless hands and moaned in bitter sorrow at their fate.

Soth heard nothing, was aware of nothing. He sat upon his blackened throne, staring unseeing at a dark, charred splotch upon the stone floor—a splotch that he had sought for years with all the power of his magic to obliterate—and still it remained, a splotch in the shape of a woman... And then, at last, the unseen lips smiled, and the flame of the orange eyes burned bright in their endless night.

“You, Kitiara—you will be mine—forever...

1

The carriage rumbled to a stop. The horses snorted and shook themselves, jingling the harness, thudding their hooves against the smooth paving stones, as if eager to get this journey over with and return to their comfortable stables.

A head poked in the carriage window.

“Good morning, sir. Welcome to Palanthas. Please state your name and business.” This delivered in a bright, official voice by a bright, official young man who must have just come on duty. Peering into the carriage, the guard blinked his eyes, trying to adjust them to the cool shadows of the coach’s interior. The late spring sun shone as brightly as the young mans face, probably because it, too, had just recently come on duty.

“My name is Tanis Half-Elven,” said the man inside the carriage, “and I am here by invitation to see Revered Son Elistan. I’ve got a letter here. If you’ll wait half a moment, I’ll—”

“Lord Tanis!” The face outlined by the carriage window turned as crimson as the ridiculously frogged and epauletted uniform he wore. “I beg your pardon, sir. I—I didn’t recognize... that is, I couldn’t see or I’m sure I would have recognized—”

“Damn it, man,” Tanis responded irritably, “don’t apologize for doing your job. Here’s the letter—”

“I won’t, sir. That is, I will, sir. Apologize, that is. Dreadfully sorry, sir. The letter? That really won’t be necessary, sir.”

Stammering, the guard saluted, cracked his head smartly on the top of the carriage window, caught the lacy sleeve of his cuff on the door, saluted again, and finally staggered back to his post looking as if he had just emerged from a fight with hobgoblins.

Grinning to himself, but a rueful grin at that, Tanis leaned back as the carriage continued on its way through the gates of the Old City Wall. The guard was his idea. It had taken a great deal of argument and persuasion on Tanis’s part to convince Lord Amothus of Palanthas that the city gates should actually not only be shut but guarded as well.

“But people might not feel welcome. They might be offended,” Amothus had protested faintly. “And, after all, the war is over.”

Tanis sighed again. When would they learn? Never, he supposed gloomily, staring out the window into the city that, more than any other on the continent of Ansalon, epitomized the complacency into which the world had fallen since the end of the War of the Lance two years ago. Two years ago this spring, in fact.

That brought still another sigh from Tanis. Damn! He had forgotten! War End’s Day! When was that? Two weeks? Three? He would have to put on that silly costume—the ceremonial armor of a Knight of Solamnia, the elven regalia, the dwarven trappings. There’d be dinners of rich food that kept him awake half the night, speeches that put him to sleep after dinner, a nd Laurana... . Tanis gasped. Laurana! She’d remembered! Of course! How could he have been so thick-headed? They’d just returned home to Solanthus a few weeks ago after attending Solostaran’s funeral in Qualinesti—and after he’d made an unsuccessful trip back to Solace in search of Lady Crysania when a letter arrived for Laurana in flowing elven script:

“Your Presence Urgently Required in Silvanesti!”

“I’ll be back in four weeks, my dear,” she’d said, kissing him tenderly. Yet there had been laughter in her eyes, those lovely eyes!

She’d left him! Left him behind to attend those blasted ceremonies! And she would be back in the elven homeland which, though still struggling to escape the horrors inflicted upon it by Lorac’s nightmare, was infinitely preferable to an evening with Lord Amothus... .

It suddenly occurred to Tanis what he had been thinking. A mental memory of Silvanesti came to mind—with its hideously tortured trees weeping blood, the twisted, tormented faces of long dead elven warriors staring out from the shadows. A mental image of one of Lord Amothus’s dinner parties rose in comparison Tanis began to laugh. He’d take the undead warriors any day!

As for Laurana, well, he couldn’t blame her. These ceremonies were hard enough on him—but Laurana was the Palanthians’ darling, their Golden General, the one who had saved their beautiful city from the ravages of the war. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for her, except leave her some time to herself. The last War’s End Day celebration, Tanis had carried his wife home in his arms, more exhausted than she had been after three straight days of battle. He envisioned her in Silvanesti, working to replant the flowers, working to soothe the dreams of the tortured trees and slowly nurse them back to life, visiting with Alhana Starbreeze, now her sister-in-law, who would be back in Silvanesti as well—but without her new husband, Porthios. Theirs was, so far, a chill, loveless marriage and Tanis wondered, briefly, if Alhana might not be seeking the haven of Silvanesti for the same reason. War’s End Day must be difficult for Alhana, too. His thoughts went to Sturm Brightblade—the knight Alhana had loved, who was lying dead in the High Clerist’s Tower and, from there, Tanis’s memories wandered to other friends... and enemies.

As if conjured up by those memories, a dark shadow swept over the carriage. Tanis looked out the window. Down a long, empty, deserted street, he caught a glimpse of a patch of blackness—Shoikan Grove, the guardian forest of Raistlin’s Tower of High Sorcery.

Even from this distance, Tanis could feel the chill that flowed from those trees, a chill that froze the heart and the soul. His gaze went to the Tower, rising up above the beautiful buildings of Palanthas like a black iron spike driven through the city’s white breast.

His thoughts went to the letter that had brought him to Palanthas. Glancing down at it, he read the words over:

Tanis Half-Elven,

We must meet with you immediately. Gravest emergency. The Temple of Paladine, Afterwatch Rising 12, Fourthday, Year 356.

That was all. No signature. He knew only that Fourthday was today and, having received the missive only two days ago, he had been forced to travel day and night to reach Palanthas on time. The note’s language was elven, the handwriting was elven, also. Not unusual. Elistan had many elven clerics, but why hadn’t he signed it? If, indeed, it came from Elistan. Yet, who else could so casually issue such an invitation to the Temple of Paladine?

Shrugging to himself—remembering that he had asked himself these same questions more than once and had never come to a satisfactory conclusion—Tanis tucked the letter back inside his pouch. His gaze went, unwillingly, to the Tower of High Sorcery.

“I’ll wager it has something to do with you, old friend,” he murmured to himself, frowning and thinking, once again, of the strange disappearance of the cleric, Lady Crysania.

The carriage rolled to a halt “pin., jolting Tanis from his dark thoughts. He looked out the window, catching a glimpse of the Temple, but forcing himself to sit patiently in his seat until the footman came to open the door for him. He smiled to himself. He could almost see Laurana, sitting across from him, glaring at him, daring him to make a move for the door handle. It had taken her many months to break Tanis of his old impetuous habit of flinging open the door, knocking the footman to one side, and proceeding on his way without a thought for the driver, the carriage, the horses, anything.

It had now become a private joke between them. Tanis loved watching Laurana’s eyes narrow in mock alarm as his hand strayed teasingly near the door handle. But that only reminded him how much he missed her. Where was that damn footman anyway? By the gods, he was alone, he’d do it his way for a change The door flew open. The footman fumbled with the step that folded down from the floor. “Oh, forget that,” Tanis snapped impatiently, hopping to the ground. Ignoring the footman’s faint look of outraged sensibility, Tanis drew in a deep breath, glad to have escaped—finally—from the stuffy confines of the carriage.

He gazed around, letting the wonderful feeling of peace and well-being that radiated from the Temple of Paladine seep into his soul. No forest guarded this holy place. Vast, open lawns of green grass as soft and smooth as velvet invited the traveler to walk upon it, sit upon it, rest upon it. Gardens of bright-colored flowers delighted the eye, their perfume filling the air with sweetness. Here and there, groves of carefully pruned shade trees offered a haven from glaring sunlight. Fountains poured forth pure cool water. White robed clerics walked in the gardens, their heads bent together in solemn discussion.

Rising from the frame of the gardens and the shady groves and the carpet of grass, the Temple of Paladine glowed softly in the morning sunlight. Made of white marble, it was a plain, unadorned structure that added to the impression of peace and tranquillity that prevailed all around it. There were gates, but no guards. All were invited to enter, and many did so. It was a haven for the sorrowful, the weary, the unhappy. As Tanis started to make his way across the well-kept lawn, he saw many people sitting or lying upon the grass, a look of peace upon faces that, from the marks of care and weariness, had not often known such comfort.

Tanis had taken only a few steps when he remembered with another sigh—the carriage. Stopping, he turned. “Wait for me,” he was about to say when a figure emerged from the shadows of a grove of aspens that stood at the very edge of the Temple property.

“Tanis Half-Elven?” inquired the figure.

As the figure walked into the light, Tanis started. It was dressed in black robes. Numerous pouches and other spellcasting devices hung from its belt, runes of silver were embroidered upon the sleeves and the hood of its black cloak. Raistlin! Tanis thought instantly, having had the archmage in his mind only moments before.

But no. Tanis breathed easier. This magic-user was taller than Raistlin by at least a head and shoulders. His body was straight and well-formed, even muscular, his step youthful and vigorous. Besides, now that Tanis was paying attention, he realized that the voice was firm and deep—not like Raistlin’s soft, unsettling whisper. And, if it were not too odd, Tanis would have sworn he had heard the man speak with an elven accent.

“I am Tanis Half-Elven,” he said, somewhat belatedly. Though he could not see the figure’s face, hidden as it was by the shadows of its black hood, he had the impression the man smiled. “I thought I recognized you. You have often been described to me. You may dismiss your carriage. It will not be needed. You will be spending many days, possibly even weeks, here in Palanthas.”

The man was speaking elven! Silvanesti Elven! Tanis was, for a moment, so startled that he could only stare. The driver of the carriage cleared his throat at that moment. It had been a long, hard journey and there were fine inns in Palanthas with ale that was legendary all over Ansalon... But Tanis wasn’t going to dismiss his equipage on the word of a black-robed mage. He opened his mouth to question him further when the magic-user withdrew his hands from the sleeves of his robes, where he’d kept them folded, and made a swift, negating motion with one, even as he made a motion of invitation with the other.

“Please,” he said in elven again, “won’t you walk with me? For I am bound for the same place you go. Elistan expects us.”

Us! Tanis’s mind fumbled about in confusion. Since when did Elistan invite black-robed magic-users to the Temple of Paladine? And since when did black-robed magic-users voluntarily set foot upon these sacred grounds!

Well, the only way to find out, obviously, was to accompany this strange person and save his questions until they were alone. Somewhat confusedly, therefore, Tanis gave his instructions to the coachman. The black-robed figure stood in silence beside him, watching the carriage depart. Then Tanis turned to him.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” the half-elf said in halting Silvanesti, a language that was purer elven than the Qualinesti he’d been raised to speak.

The figure bowed, then cast aside his hood so that the morning light fell upon his face. “I am Dalamar,” he said, returning his hands to the sleeves of his robe. Few there were upon Krynn who would shake hands with a black-robed mage.

“A dark elf!” Tanis said in astonishment, speaking before he thought. He flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly. “It’s just that I’ve never met—”

“One of my kind?” Dalamar finished smoothly, a faint smile upon his cold, handsome, expressionless elven features. “No, I don’t suppose you would have. We who are ‘cast from the light,’ as they say, do not often venture onto the sunlit planes of existence.” His smile grew warmer, suddenly, and Tanis saw a wistful look in the dark elf’s eyes as their gaze went to the grove of aspens where he had been standing. “Sometimes, though, even we grow homesick.”

Tanis’s gaze, too, went to the aspens—of all trees most beloved of the elves. He smiled, too, feeling much more at ease. Tanis had walked his own dark roads, and had come very near tumbling into several yawning chasms. He could understand.

“The hour for my appointment draws near,” he said. “And, from what you said, I gather that you are somehow involved in this. Perhaps we should continue—”

“Certainly.” Dalamar seemed to recollect himself. He followed Tanis onto the green lawn without hesitation. Tanis, turning, was considerably startled, therefore, to see a swift spasm of pain contort the elf’s delicate features and to see him flinch, visibly.

“What is it?” Tanis stopped. “Are you unwell? Can I help—”

Dalamar forced his pain-filled features into a twisted smile. “No, Half-Elven,” he said. “There is nothing you can do to help. Nor am I unwell. Much worse would you look, if you stepped into the Shoikan Grove that guards my dwelling place.”

Tanis nodded in understanding, then, almost unwillingly, glanced into the distance at the dark, grim Tower that loomed over Palanthas. As he looked at it, a strange impression came over him. He looked back at the plain white Temple, then over again at the Tower. Seeing them together, it was as if he were seeing each for the first time. Both looked more complete, finished, whole, than they had when viewed separately and apart. This was only a fleeting impression and one he did not even think about until later. Now, he could only think of one thing—

“Then you live there? With Rai—With him?” Try as he might, Tanis knew he could not speak the archmage’s name without bitter anger, and so he avoided it altogether.

“He is my Shalafi,” answered Dalamar in a pain-tightened voice.

“So you are his apprentice,” Tanis responded, recognizing the elven word for Master. He frowned. “Then what are you doing here? Did he send you?” If so, thought the half-elf, I will leave this place, if I have to walk back to Solanthus.

“No,” Dalamar replied, his face draining of all color. “But it is of him we will speak.” The dark elf cast his hood over his head. When he spoke, it was obviously with intense effort. “And now, I must beg of you to move swiftly. I have a charm, given me by Elistan, that will help me through this trial. But it is not one I care to prolong.”

Elistan giving charms to black-robed magic-users? Raistlin’s s apprentice? Absolutely mystified, Tanis agreeably quickened his steps.

“Tanis, my friend!”

Elistan, cleric of Paladine and head of the church on the continent of Ansalon, reached out his hand to the half-elf. Tanis clasped the man’s hand warmly, trying not to notice how wasted and feeble was the cleric’s once strong, firm grip. Tanis also fought to control his face, endeavoring to keep the feelings of shock and pity from registering on his features as he stared down at the frail, almost skeletal, figure resting in a bed, propped up by pillows.

“Elistan—” Tanis began warmly.

One of the white-robed clerics hovering near their leader glanced up at the half-elf and frowned.

“That is, R-revered Son”—Tanis stumbled over the formal title—“you are looking well.”

“And you, Tanis Half-Elven, have degenerated into a liar,” Elistan remarked, smiling at the pained expression Tanis tried desperately to keep off his face.

Elistan patted Tanis’s sun-browned hand with his thin, white fingers. “And don’t fool with that ‘Revered Son’ nonsense. Yes, I know it’s only proper and correct, Garad, but this man knew me when I was a slave in the mines of Pax Tharkas. Now, go along, all of you,” he said to the hovering clerics. “Bring what we have to make our guests comfortable.”

His gaze went to the dark elf who had collapsed into a chair near the fire that burned in Elistan’s private chambers. “Dalamar,” Elistan said gently, “this journey cannot have been an easy one for you. I am indebted to you that you have made it. But, here in my quarters you can, I believe, find ease. What will you take?”

“Wine,” the dark elf managed to reply through lips that were stiff and ashen. Tanis saw the elf’s hands tremble on the arm of the chair.

“Bring wine and food for our guests.” Elistan told the clerics who were filing out of the room, many casting glances of disapproval at the black-robed mage. “Escort Astinus here at once, upon his arrival, then see that we are not disturbed.”

“Astinus?” Tanis gaped. “Astinus, the Chronicler?”

“Yes, Half-Elven,” Elistan smiled once again. “Dying lends one special significance. ‘They stand in line to see me, who once would not have glanced my way.’ Isn’t that how the old mans poem went? There now, Half-Elven. The air is cleared. Yes, I know I am dying. I have known for a long time. My months dwindle to weeks. Come, Tanis. You have seen men die before. What was it you told me the Forestmaster said to you in Darken Wood—‘we do not mourn the loss of those who die fulfilling their destinies.’ My life has been fulfilled, Tanis—much more than I could ever have imagined.” Elistan glanced out the window, out to the spacious lawns, the flowering gardens, and—far in the distance—the dark Tower of High Sorcery.

“It was given me to bring hope back to the world, Half-Elven,” Elistan said softly. “Hope and healing. What man can say more? I leave knowing that the church has been firmly established once again. There are clerics among all the races now. Yes, even kender.” Elistan, smiling, ran a hand through his white hair. “Ah,” he sighed, “what a trying time that was for our faith, Tanis! We are still unable to determine exactly what all is missing. But they are a good-hearted, good-souled people. Whenever I started to lose patience, I thought of Fizban—Paladine, as he revealed himself to us—and the special love he bore your little friend, Tasslehoff.”

Tanis’s face darkened at the mention of the kender’s name, and it seemed to him that Dalamar looked up, briefly, from where he had been staring into the dancing flames. But Elistan did not notice.

“My only regret is that I leave no one truly capable of taking over after me,” Elistan shook his head. “Garad is a good man. Too good. I see the makings of another Kingpriest in him. But he doesn’t understand yet that the balance must be maintained, that we are all needed to make up this world. Is that not so, Dalamar?”

To Tanis’s surprise, the dark elf nodded his head. He had cast his hood aside and had been able to drink some of the red wine the clerics brought to him. Color had returned to his face, and his hands trembled no longer. “You are wise, Elistan,” the mage said softly. “I wish others were as enlightened.”

“Perhaps it is not wisdom so much as the ability to see things from all sides, not just one,” Elistan turned to Tanis. “You, Tanis, my friend. Did you not notice and appreciate the view as you came?” He gestured feebly to the window, through which the Tower of High Sorcery was plainly visible.

“I’m not certain I know what you mean.” Tanis hedged, uncomfortable as always about sharing his feelings.

“Yes, you do, Half-Elven,” Elistan said with a return of his old crispness. “You looked at the Tower and you looked at the Temple and you thought how right it was they should be so near. Oh, there were many who argued long against this site for the Temple. Garad and, of course, Lady Crysania—”

At the mention of that name, Dalamar choked, coughed, and set the wine glass down hurriedly. Tanis stood up, unconsciously beginning to pace the room—as was his custom—when, realizing that this might disturb the dying man, he sat back down again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Has there been word of her?” he asked in a low voice.

“I am sorry, Tanis,” Elistan said gently, “I did not mean to distress you. Truly, you must stop blaming yourself. What she did, she chose to do of her own free will. Nor would I have had it otherwise. You could not have stopped her, nor saved her from her fate—whatever that may be. No, there has been no word of her.”

“Yes, there has,” Dalamar said in a cold, emotionless voice that drew the immediate attention of both men in the room. “That is one reason I called you together.”

“You called!” Tanis repeated, standing up again. “I thought Elistan asked us here. Is your Shalafi behind this? Is he responsible for this woman’s disappearance?” He advanced a step, his face beneath his reddish beard flushed. Dalamar rose to his feet, his eyes glittering dangerously, his hand stealing almost imperceptibly to one of the pouches he wore upon his belt. “Because, by the gods, if he has harmed her, I’ll twist his golden neck—”

“Astinus of Palanthas,” announced a cleric from the doorway.

The historian stood within the doorway. His ageless face bore no expression as his gray-eyed gaze swept the room, taking in everything, everyone with a minute attention to the detail that his pen would soon record. It went from the flushed and angry face of Tanis, to the proud, defiant face of the elf, to the weary, patient face of the dying cleric.

“Let me guess,” Astinus remarked, imperturbably entering and taking a seat. Setting a huge book down upon a table, he opened it to a blank page, drew a quill pen from a wooden case he carried with him, carefully examined the tip, then looked up. “Ink, friend,” he said to a startled cleric, who after a nod from Elistan—left the room hurriedly. Then the historian continued his original sentence.

“Let me guess. You were discussing Raistlin Majere.”

“It is true,” Dalamar said. “I called you here.”

The dark elf had resumed his seat by the fire. Tanis, still scowling, went back to his place near Elistan. The cleric, Garad, returning with Astinus’s ink, asked if they wanted anything else. The reply being negative, he left, sternly adding, for the benefit of those in the room, that Elistan was unwell and should not be long disturbed.

“I called you here, together,” Dalamar repeated, his gaze upon the fire. Then he raised his eyes, looking directly at Tanis. “You come at some small inconvenience. But 1 come, knowing that I will suffer the torment all of my faith feel trodding upon this holy ground. But it is imperative that I speak to you, all of you, together. I knew Elistan could not come to me. I knew Tanis Half-Elven would not come to me. And so I had no choice but to—”

“Proceed,” Astinus said in his deep, cool voice. “The world passes as we sit here. You have called us here together. That is established. For what reason?”

Dalamar was silent for a moment, his gaze going back once again to the fire. When he spoke, he did not look up.

“Our worst fears are realized,” he said softly. “He has been successful.”

2

Come home... .

The voice lingered in his memory. Someone kneeling beside the pool of his mind, dropping words into the calm, clear surface. Ripples of consciousness disturbed him, woke him from his peaceful, restful sleep.

“Come home... . My son, come home.”

Opening his eyes, Raistlin looked into the face of his mother.

Smiling, she reached out her hand and stroked back the wispy, white hair that fell down across his forehead. “My poor son,” she murmured, her dark eyes soft with grief and pity and love. “What they did to you! I watched. I’ve watched for so long now. And I’ve wept. Yes, my son, even the dead weep. It is the only comfort we have. But all that is over now. You are with me. Here you can rest... .”

Raistlin struggled to sit up. Looking down at himself, he saw—to his horror—that he was covered with blood. Yet he felt no pain, there seemed to be no wound. He found it hard to take a breath, and he gasped for air.

“Here, let me help you,” his mother said. She began to loosen the silken cord he wore around his waist, the cord from which hung his pouches, his precious spell components. Reflexively, Raistlin thrust her hand aside. His breath came easier. He looked around.

“What happened? Where am I?” He was vastly confused. Memories of his childhood came to him. Memories of two childhoods came to him! His... and someone else’s! He looked at his mother, and she was someone he knew and she was a stranger.

“What happened?” he repeated irritably, beating back the surging memories that threatened to overthrow his grasp on sanity.

“You have died, my son,” his mother said gently. “And now you are here with me.”

“Died!” Raistlin repeated, aghast.

Frantically he sorted through the memories. He recalled being near death... How was it that he had failed? He put his hand to his forehead and felt... flesh, bone, warmth... And then he remembered...

The Portal!

“No,” he cried angrily, glaring at his mother. “That’s impossible.”

“You lost control of the magic, my son,” his mother said, reaching out her hand to touch Raistlin again. He drew away from her. With the slight, sad smile—a smile he remembered so well—she let her hand drop back in her lap. “The field shifted, the forces tore you apart. There was a terrible explosion, it leveled the Plains of Dergoth. The magical fortress of Zhaman collapsed.” His mother’s voice shook. “The sight of your suffering was almost more than I could bear.”

“I remember,” Raistlin whispered, putting his hands to his head. “I remember the pain... but...”

He remembered something else, too—brilliant bursts of multicolored lights, he remembered a feeling of exultation and ecstasy welling up in his soul, he remembered the dragon’s heads that guarded the Portal screaming in fury, he remembered wrapping his arms around Crysania.

Standing up, Raistlin looked around. He was on flat, level ground—a desert of some sort. In the distance he could see mountains. They looked familiar—of course! Thorbardin! The dwarven kingdom. He turned. There were the ruins of the fortress, looking like a skull devouring the land in its eternally grinning mouth. So, he was on the Plains of Dergoth. He recognized the landscape.

But, even as he recognized it, it seemed strange to him. Everything was tinged with red, as though he were seeing all objects through blood-dimmed eyes. And, though objects looked the same as he remembered them, they were strange to him as well.

Skullcap he had seen during the War of the Lance. He didn’t remember it grinning in that obscene way. The mountains, too, were sharp and clearly defined against the sky. The sky! Raistlin drew in a breath. It was empty! Swiftly he looked in all directions. No, there was no sun, yet it was not night. There were no moons, no stars; and it was such a strange color—a kind of muted pink, the reflection of a sunset.

He looked down at the woman kneeling on the ground before him.

Raistlin smiled, his thin lips pressed together grimly. “No,” he said, and this time his voice was firm and confident.

“No, I did not die! I succeeded.” He gestured. “This is proof of my success. I recognize this place. The kender described it to me. He said it was all places he had ever been. This is where I entered the Portal, and now I stand in the Abyss.”

Leaning down, Raistlin grabbed the woman by the arm, dragging her to her feet. “Fiend, apparition! Where is Crysania? Tell me, whoever or whatever you are! Tell me, or by the gods I’ll—”

“Raistlin! Stop, you’re hurting me!”

Raistlin started, staring. It was Crysania who spoke, Crysania whose arm he held! Shaken, he loosed his grip but, within instants, he was master of himself again. She tried to pull free, but he held her firmly, drawing her near.

“Crysania?” he questioned, studying her intently.

She looked up at him, puzzled. “Yes,” she faltered. “What’s wrong, Raistlin? You’ve been talking so strangely.”

The archmage tightened his grip. Crysania cried out. Yes, the pain in her eyes was real, so was the fear.

Smiling, sighing, Raistlin put his arms around her, pressing her close against his body. She was flesh, warmth, perfume, beating heart...

“Oh, Raistlin!” She nestled close to him. “I was so frightened. This terrible place. I was all alone.”

His hand tangled in her black hair. The softness and fragrance of her body intoxicated him, filling him with desire. She moved against him, tilting her head back. Her lips were soft, eager. She trembled in his arms. Raistlin looked down at her—and stared into eyes of flame.

So, you have come home at last, my mage!

Sultry laughter burned his mind, even as the lithe body in his arms writhed and twisted... he clasped one neck of a five-headed dragon... acid dripped from the gaping jaws above him... fire roared around him... sulfurous fumes choked him. The head snaked down...

Desperately, furiously, Raistlin called upon his magic. Yet, even as he formed the words of the defensive spell chant in his mind, he felt a twinge of doubt. Perhaps the magic won’t work! I am weak, the journey through the Portal has drained my strength. Fear, sharp and slender as the blade of a dagger, pierced his soul. The words to the chant slipped from his mind. Panic flooded his body. The Queen! She is doing this! Ast takar ist... No! That isn’t right! He heard laughter, victorious laughter... .

Bright white light blinded him. He was falling, falling, falling endlessly, spiraling down from darkness into day.

Opening his eyes, Raistlin looked into Crysania’s face.

Her face, but it was not the face he remembered. It was aging, dying, even as he watched. In her hand, she held the platinum medallion of Paladine. Its pure white radiance shone brightly in the eerie pinkish light around them.

Raistlin closed his eyes to blot out the sight of the cleric’s aging face, summoning back memories of how it looked in the past—delicate, beautiful, alive with love and passion. Her voice came to him, cool, firm.

“I very nearly lost you.”

Reaching up, but without opening his eyes, he grabbed hold of the cleric’s arms, clinging to her desperately. “What do I look like? Tell me! I’ve changed, haven’t I?”

“You are as you were when I first met you in the Great Library,” Crysania said, her voice still firm, too firm—tight, tense.

Yes, thought Raistlin, I am as I was. Which means I have returned to the present. He felt the old frailty, the old weakness, the burning pain in his chest, and with it the choking huskiness of the cough, as though cobwebs were being spun in his lungs. He had but to look, he knew, and he would see the gold-tinged skin, the white hair, the hourglass eyes...

Shoving Crysania away, he rolled over onto his stomach, clenching his fists in fury, sobbing in anger and fear.

“Raistlin!” True terror was in Crysania’s voice now. “What is it? Raistlin, where are we? What’s wrong?”

“I succeeded,” he snarled. Opening his eyes, he saw her face, withering in his sight. “I succeeded. We are in the Abyss.”

Her eyes opened wide, her lips parted. Fear mingled with joy.

Raistlin smiled bitterly. “And my magic is gone.”

Startled, Crysania stared at him. “I don’t understand—”

Twisting in agony, Raistlin screamed at her. “My magic is gone! I am weak, helpless, here—in her realm!” Suddenly, recollecting that she might be listening, watching, enjoying, Raistlin froze. His scream died in the blood-tinged froth upon his lips. He looked about, warily.

“But, no, you haven’t defeated me!” he whispered. His hand closed over the Staff of Magius, lying at his side. Leaning upon it heavily, he struggled to his feet. Crysania gently put her strong arm around him, helping him stand.

“No,” he murmured, staring into the vastness of the empty Plains, into the pink, empty sky, “I know where you are! I sense it! You are in Godshome. I know the lay of the land. I know how to move about, the kender gave me the key in his feverish ramblings. The land below mirrors the land above. I will seek you out, though the journey be long and treacherous.

“Yes!”—he looked all around him—“I feel you probing my mind, reading my thoughts, anticipating all I say and do. You think it will be easy to defeat me! But I sense your confusion, too. There is one with me whose mind you cannot touch! She defends and protects me, do you not, Crysania?”

“Yes, Raistlin,” Crysania replied softly, supporting the archmage.

Raistlin took a step, another, and another. He leaned upon Crysania, he leaned upon his staff. And still, each step was an effort, each breath he drew burned. When he looked about this world, all he saw was emptiness.

Inside him, all was emptiness. His magic was gone.

Raistlin stumbled. Crysania caught him and held onto him, clasping him close, tears running down her cheeks.

He could hear laughter... .

Maybe I should give up now! he thought in bitter despair. I am tired, so very tired. And without my magic, what am I?

Nothing. Nothing but a weak, wretched child...

3

For long moments after Dalamar’s pronouncement, there was silence in the room. Then the silence was broken by the scratching of a pen as Astinus recorded the dark elf’s words in his great book.

“May Paladine have mercy,” Elistan murmured. “Is she with him?”

“Of course,” Dalamar snapped irritably, revealing a nervousness that all the skills of his Art could not hide. “How else do you think he succeeded? The Portal is locked to all except the combined forces of a Black-Robed wizard of such powers as his and a White-Robed cleric of such faith as hers.”

Tanis glanced from one to the other, confused. “Look,” he said angrily, “I don’t understand. What’s going on? Who are you talking about? Raistlin? What’s he done? Does it have something to do with Crysania? And what about Caramon? He’s Vanished, too. Along with Tas! I—”

“Get a grip on the impatient human half of your nature, Half-Elven,” Astinus remarked, still writing in firm, black strokes. “And you, Dark Elf, begin at the beginning instead of in the middle.”

“Or the end, as the case may be,” Elistan remarked in a low voice.

Moistening his lips with the wine, Dalamar—his gaze still on the fire—related the strange tale that Tanis, up until now, had only known in part. Much the half-elf could have guessed, much astounded him, much filled him with horror.

“Lady Crysania was captivated by Raistlin. And, if the truth be told, he was attracted to her, I believe. Who can tell with him? Ice water is too hot to run in his veins. Who knows how long he has plotted this, dreamed of this? But, at last, he was ready. He planned a journey, back in time, to seek the one thing he lacked—the knowledge of the greatest wizard who has ever lived—Fistandantilus.

“He set a trap for Lady Crysania, planning to lure her back in time with him, as well as his twin brother—”

“Caramon?” asked Tanis in astonishment.

Dalamar ignored him. “But something unforeseen occurred. The Shalafi’s half-sister, Kitiara, a Dragon Highlord...”

Blood pounded in Tanis’s head, dimming his vision and obscuring his hearing. He felt that same blood pulse in his face. He had the feeling his skin might be burning to the touch, so hot was it. Kitiara!

She stood before him, dark eyes flashing,—dark hair curling about her face, her lips slightly parted in that charming, crooked smile, the light gleaming off her armor... .

She looked down on him from the back of her blue dragon, surrounded by her minions, lordly and powerful, strong and ruthless...

She lay in his arms, languishing, loving, laughing...

Tanis sensed, though he could not see, Elistan’s sympathetic but pitying gaze. He shrank from the stern, knowing look of Astinus. Wrapped up in his own guilt, his own shame, his own wretchedness, Tanis did not notice that Dalamar, too, was having trouble with his countenance which was pale, rather than flushed. He did not hear the dark elf’s voice quiver when he spoke the woman’s name.

After a struggle, Tanis regained control of himself and was able to continue listening. But he felt, once again, that old pain in his heart, the pain he had thought forever vanished. He was happy with Laurana. He loved her more deeply and tenderly than he had supposed it possible for a man to love a woman. He was at peace with himself. His life was rich, full. And now he was astonished to discover the darkness still inside of him, the darkness he thought he had banished forever.

“At Kitiara’s command, the death knight, Lord Soth, cast a spell upon Lady Crysania, a spell that should have killed her. But Paladine interceded. He took her soul to dwell with him, leaving the shell of her body behind. I thought the Shalafi was defeated. But, no. He turned this betrayal of his sister’s into an advantage. His twin brother, Caramon, and the kender, Tasslehoff, took Lady Crysania to the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, hoping that the mages would be able to cure her. They could not, of course, as Raistlin well knew. They could only send her back in time to the one period in the history of Krynn when there lived a Kingpriest powerful enough to call upon Paladine to restore the woman’s soul to her body. And this, of course, was exactly what Raistlin wanted.”

Dalamar’s fist clenched. “I told the mages so! Fools! I told them they were playing right into his hands.”

“You told them?” Tanis felt master of himself enough now to ask this question. “You betrayed him, your Shalafi?” He snorted in disbelief.

“It is a dangerous game I play, Half-Elven.” Dalamar looked at him now, his eyes alight from within, like the burning embers of the fire. “I am a spy, sent by the Conclave of Mages to watch Raistlin’s every move. Yes, you may well look astonished. They fear him—all of the Orders fear him, the White, the Red, the Black. Most especially the Black, for we know what our fate will be should he rise to power.”

As Tanis stared, the dark elf lifted his hand and slowly parted the front closure of his black robes, laying bare his breast. Five oozing wounds marred the surface of the dark elf’s smooth skin. “The mark of his hand,” Dalamar said in an expressionless tone. “My reward for my treachery.”

Tanis could see Raistlin laying those thin, golden fingers upon the young dark elf’s chest, he could see Raistlin’s face—without feeling, without malice, without cruelty, without any touch of humanity whatsoever—and he could see those fingers burn through the flesh of his victim. Shaking his head, feeling sickened, Tanis sank back in his chair, his gaze on the floor.

“But they would not listen to me,” Dalamar continued. “They grasped at straws. As Raistlin had foreseen, their greatest hope lay in their greatest fear. They decided to send Lady Crysania back in time, ostensibly so that the Kingpriest could aid her. That is what they told Caramon, for they knew he would not go otherwise. But, in reality, they sent her back to die or to at least disappear as did all other clerics before the Cataclysm. And they hoped that Caramon, when he went back into time and learned the truth about his twin—learned that Raistlin was, in reality, Fistandantilus—that he would be forced to kill his brother.”

“Caramon?” Tanis laughed bitterly, then scowled again in anger. “How could they do such a thing? The man is sick! The only thing Caramon can kill now is a bottle of dwarf spirits! Raistlin’s already destroyed him. Why didn’t they—”

Catching Astinus’s irritated glance, Tanis subsided. His mind reeled in turmoil. None of this made sense! He looked over at Elistan. The cleric must have known much of this already. There was no look of shock or surprise on his face even when he heard that the mages had sent Crysania back to die. There was only an expression of deep sorrow.

Dalamar was continuing. “But the kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, disrupted Par-Salian’s spell and accidentally traveled back in time with Caramon. The introduction of a kender into the flow of time made it possible for time to be altered. What happened back there, in Istar, we can only surmise. What we do know is that Crysania did not die. Caramon did not kill his brother. And Raistlin was successful in obtaining the knowledge of Fistandantilus. Taking Crysania and Caramon with him, he moved forward in time to the one period when he would possess, in Crysania, the only true cleric in the land. He traveled to the one period in our history when the Queen of Darkness would be most vulnerable and unable to stop him.

“As Fistandantilus did before him, Raistlin fought the Dwarfgate War, and so obtained access to the Portal that stood, then, in the magical fortress of Zhaman. If history had repeated itself, Raistlin should have died at that Portal, for thus did Fistandantilus meet his doom.”

“We counted on this,” Elistan murmured, his hands plucking feebly at the bedclothes that covered him. “Par-Salian said that there was no way Raistlin could change history—”

“That wretched kender!” Dalamar snarled. “Par-Salian should have known, he should have realized the miserable creature would do exactly what he did—leap at a chance for some new adventure! He should have taken our advice and smothered the little bastard—”

“Tell me what’s happened to Tasslehoff and Caramon,” Tanis interrupted coldly. “I don’t care what’s become of Raistlin or—and I apologize, Elistan—Lady Crysania. She was blinded by her own goodness. I am sorry for her, but she refused to open her eyes and see the truth. I care about my friends. What has become of them?”

“We do not know,” Dalamar said. He shrugged. “But if I were you, I would not look to see them again in this life, Half-Elven... They would be of little use to the Shalafi.”

“Then you have told me all I need to hear,” Tanis said, rising, his voice taut with grief and fury. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll seek out Raistlin and I’ll—”

“Sit down, Half-Elven,” Dalamar said. He did not raise his voice, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes that made Tanis’s hand reach for the hilt of his sword, only to remember that—since he was visiting the Temple of Paladine—he had not worn it. More furious still, not trusting himself to speak, Tanis bowed to Elistan, then to Astinus, and started for the door.

“You will care what becomes of Raistlin, Tanis Half-Elven,” Dalamar’s smooth voice intercepted him, “because it affects you. It affects all of us. Do I speak truly, Revered Son?”

“He does, Tanis,” Elistan said. “I understand your feelings, but you must put them aside!”

Astinus said nothing, the scratching of his pen was the only indication that the man was in the room. Tanis clenched his fists, then, with a vicious oath that caused even Astinus to glance up, the half-elf turned to Dalamar. “Very well, then. What could Raistlin possibly do that would further hurt and injure and destroy those around him?”

“I said when I began that our worst fears were realized,” Dalamar replied, his slanted, elven eyes looking into the slightly slanted eyes of the half-elf.

“Yes,” snapped Tanis impatiently, still standing.

Dalamar paused dramatically. Astinus, looking up again, raised his gray eyebrows in mild annoyance.

“Raistlin has entered the Abyss. He and Lady Crysania will challenge the Queen of Darkness.”

Tanis stared at Dalamar in disbelief. Then he burst out laughing. “Well,” he said, shrugging, “it seems I have little to worry about. The mage has sealed his own doom.”

But Tanis’s laughter fell flat. Dalamar regarded him with cool, cynical amusement, as if he might have expected this absurd response from a half-human. Astinus snorted and kept writing. Elistan’s frail shoulders slumped. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against his pillows.

Tanis stared at all of them. “You cant consider this a serious threat!” he demanded. “By the gods, I have stood before the Queen of Darkness! I have felt her power and her majesty—and that was when she was only partially in this plane of existence.” The half-elf shuddered involuntarily. “I cant imagine what it would be like to meet her on her own... her own...”

“You are not alone, Tanis,” said Elistan wearily. “I, too, have conversed with the Dark Queen.” He opened his eyes, smiling wanly. “Does that surprise you? I have had my trials and temptations as have all men.”

“Once only has she come to me.” Dalamar’s face paled, and there was fear in his eyes. He licked his lips. “And that was to bring me these tidings.”

Astinus said nothing, but he had ceased to write. Rock itself was more expressive than the historians face.

Tanis shook his head in wonder. “You’ve met the Queen, Elistan? You acknowledge her power? Yet you still think that a frail and sickly wizard and an old-maid cleric can somehow do her harm?”

Elistan’s eyes flashed, his lips tightened, and Tanis knew he had gone too far. Flushing, he scratched his beard and started to apologize, then stubbornly snapped his mouth shut. “It just doesn’t make sense,” he mumbled, walking back and throwing himself down in his chair.

“Well, how in the Abyss do we stop him?” Realizing what he’d said, Tanis’s flush deepened. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I don’t mean to make this a joke. Everything I’m saying seems to be coming out wrong. But, damn it, I don’t understand! Are we supposed to stop Raistlin or cheer him on?”

“You cannot stop him.” Dalamar interposed coolly as Elistan seemed about to speak. “That we mages alone can do. Our plans for this have been underway for many weeks now, ever since we first learned of this threat. You see, Half-Elven, what you have said is—in part—correct. Raistlin knows, we all know, that he cannot defeat the Queen of Darkness on her own plane of existence. Therefore, it is his plan to draw her out, to bring her back through the Portal and into the world—”

Tanis felt as if he had been punched hard in the stomach. For a moment, he could not draw a breath. “That’s madness,” he managed to gasp finally, his hands curling over the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning white with the strain. “We barely defeated her at Neraka as it was! He’s going to bring her back into the world?”

“Unless he can be stopped,” Dalamar continued, “which is my duty, as I have said.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Tanis demanded, leaning forward. “Why have you brought us here? Are we to sit around and watch? I—”

“Patience, Tanis!” Elistan interrupted. “You are nervous and afraid. We all share these feelings.”

With the exception of that granite-hearted historian over there, Tanis thought bitterly.

“But nothing will be gained by rash acts or wild words.” Elistan looked over at the dark elf and his voice grew softer. “I believe that we have not yet heard the worst, is that true, Dalamar?”

“Yes, Revered Son,” Dalamar said, and Tanis was surprised to see a trace of emotion flicker in the elf’s slanted eyes. “I have received word that Dragon Highlord Kitiara” the elf choked slightly, cleared his throat, and continued speaking more firmly—“Kitiara is planning a full-scale assault on Palanthas.”

Tanis sank back in his chair. His first thought was one of bitter, cynical amusement—I told you so, Lord Amothus. I told you so, Porthios. I told you, all of you who want to crawl back into your nice, warm little nests and pretend the war never happened. His second thoughts were more sobering. Memories returned—the city of Tarsis in flames, the dragonarmies taking over Solace, the pain, the suffering... death.

Elistan was saying something, but Tanis couldn’t hear. He leaned back, closing his eyes, trying to think. He remembered Dalamar talking about Kitiara, but what was it he had said? It drifted on the fringes of his consciousness. He had been thinking about Kit. He hadn’t been paying attention. The words were vague...

“Wait!” Tanis sat up, suddenly remembering. “You said Kitiara was furious with Raistlin. You said she was just as frightened of the Queen reentering the world as we are. That was why she ordered Soth to kill Crysania. If that’s true, why is she attacking Palanthas? That doesn’t make sense! She grows in strength daily in Sanction. The evil dragons have congregated there and we have reports that the draconians who were scattered after the war have also been regrouping under her command. But Sanction is a long way from Palanthas. The lands of t he Knights of Solamnia lie in between. The good dragons will rise up and fight if the evil ones take to the skies again. Why? Why would she risk all she has gained? And for what—”

“You know Lord Kitiara I believe, Half-Elven?” Dalamar interrupted.

Tanis choked, coughed, and muttered something.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes, damn it, I know her!” Tanis snapped, caught Elistan’s glance, and sank back into his chair once again, feeling his skin burn.

“You are right,” Dalamar said smoothly, a glint of amusement in his light, elven eyes. “When Kitiara first heard about Raistlin’s s plan, she was frightened. Not for him, of course, but for fear that he would bring the wrath of the Dark Queen down upon her. But”—Dalamar shrugged—“this was when Kitiara believed Raistlin must lose. Now, it seems, she thinks he has a chance to win. And Kit will always try to be on the winning side. She plans to conquer Palanthas and be prepared to greet the wizard as he passes through the Portal. Kit will offer the might of her armies to her brother. If he is strong enough—and by this time, he should be—he can easily convert the evil creatures from their allegiance to the Dark Queen to serving his cause.”

“Kit?” It was Tanis’s turn to look amused. Dalamar sneered slightly.

“Oh, yes, Half-Elven. I know Kitiara every bit as well as you do.”

But the sarcastic tone in the dark elf’s voice faltered, twisting unconsciously to one of bitterness. His slender hands clenched. Tanis nodded in sudden understanding, feeling, oddly enough, a strange kind of sympathy for the young elf.

“So she has betrayed you, too,” Tanis murmured softly. “She pledged you her support. She said she would be there, stand beside you. When Raistlin returned, she would fight at your side.”

Dalamar rose to his feet, his black robes rustling around him. “I never trusted her,” he said coldly, but he turned his back upon them and stared intently into the flames, keeping his face averted. “I knew what treachery she was capable of committing, none better. This came as no surprise.”

But Tanis saw the hand that gripped the mantelpiece turn white.

“Who told you this?” Astinus asked abruptly. Tanis started. He had almost forgotten the historians presence. “Surely not the Dark Queen. She would not care about this.”

“No, no.” Dalamar appeared confused for a moment. His thoughts had obviously been far away. Sighing, he looked up at them once more. “Lord Soth, the death knight, told me.”

“Soth?” Tanis felt himself losing his grip on reality.

Frantically his brain scrambled for a handhold. Mages spying on mages. Clerics of light aligned with wizards of darkness. Dark trusting light, turning against darkness. Light turning to the dark...

“Soth has pledged allegiance to Kitiara!” Tanis said in confusion. “Why would he betray her?”

Turning from the fire, Dalamar looked into Tanis’s eyes. For the span of a heartbeat, there was a bond between the two, a bond forged by a shared understanding, a shared misery, a shared torment, a shared passion. And, suddenly, Tanis understood, and his soul shriveled in horror.

“He wants her dead,” Dalamar replied.

4

The young boy walked down the streets of Solace. He was not a comely boy, and he knew it—as he knew so much about himself that is not often given children to know. But then, he spent a great deal of time with himself, precisely because he was not comely and because he knew too much.

He was not walking alone today, however. His twin brother, Caramon, was with him. Raistlin scowled, scuffing through the dust of the village street, watching it rise in clouds about him. He may not have been walking alone, but in a way he was more alone with Caramon than without him. Everyone called out greetings to his likeable, handsome twin. No one said a word to him. Everyone yelled for Caramon to come join their games. No one invited Raistlin. Girls looked at Caramon out of the corners of their eyes in that special way girls had. Girls never even noticed Raistlin.

“Hey, Caramon, wanna play King of the Castle?” a voice yelled.

“You want to, Raist?” Caramon asked, his face lighting up eagerly. Strong and athletic, Caramon enjoyed the rough, strenuous game. But Raistlin knew that if he played he would soon start to feel weak and dizzy. He knew, too, that the other boys would argue about whose team had to take him.

“No. You go ahead, though.”

Caramon’s s face fell. Then, shrugging, he said, “Oh, that’s all right, Raist. I’d rather stay with you.”

Raistlin felt his throat tighten, his stomach clenched. “No, Caramon,” he repeated softly, “it’s all right. Go ahead and play.”

“You don’t look like you’re feeling good, Raist,” Caramon said. “It’s no big deal. Really. C’mon, show me that new magic trick you learned—the one with the coins—”

“Don’t treat me like this!” Raistlin heard himself screaming. “I don’t need you! I don’t want you around! Go ahead! Go play with those fools! You’re all a pack of fools together! I don’t need any of you!”

Caramon’s face crumbled. Raistlin had the feeling he’d just kicked a dog. The feeling only made him angrier. He turned away.

“Sure, Raist, if that’s what you want,” Caramon mumbled.

Glancing over his shoulder, Raistlin saw his twin run off after the others. With a sigh, trying to ignore the shouts of laughter and greeting, Raistlin sat down in a shady place and, drawing one of his spellbooks from his pack, began to study. Soon, the lure of the magic drew him away from the dirt and the laughter and the hurt eyes of his twin. It led him into an enchanted land where he commanded the elements, he controlled reality... .

The spellbook tumbled from his hands, landing in the dust at his feet. Raistlin looked up, startled. Two boys stood above him. One held a stick in his hand. He poked the book with it, then, lifting the stick, he poked Raistlin, hard, in the chest.

You are bugs, Raistlin told the boys silently. Insects. You mean nothing to me. Less than nothing. Ignoring the pain in his chest, ignoring the insect life standing before him, Raistlin reached out his hand for his book. The boy stepped on his fingers.

Frightened, but now more angry than afraid, Raistlin rose to his feet. His hands were his livelihood. With them, he manipulated the fragile spell components, with them he traced the delicate arcane symbols of his Art in the air.

“Leave me alone,” he said coldly, and such was the way he spoke and the look in his eye that, for an instant, the two boys were taken aback. But now a crowd had gathered. The other boys left their game, coming to watch the fun. Aware that others were watching, the boy with the stick refused to let this skinny, whining, sniveling bookworm have the better of him.

“What’re ya going to do?” the boy sneered. “Turn me into a frog?”

There was laughter. The words to a spell formed in Raistlin’s mind. It was not a spell he was supposed to have learned yet, it was an offensive spell, a hurting spell, a spell to use when true danger threatened. His Master would be furious. Raistlin smiled a thin-lipped smile. At the sight of that smile and the look in Raistlin’s eyes, one of the boys edged backward.

“Let’s go,” he muttered to his companion.

But the other boy stood his ground. Behind him, Raistlin could see his twin standing among the crowd, a look of anger on his face.

Raistlin began to speak the words—and then he froze. No! Something was wrong! He had forgotten! His magic wouldn’t work! Not here! The words came out as gibberish, they made no sense. Nothing happened! The boys laughed. The boy with the stick raised it and shoved it into Raistlin’s stomach, knocking him to the ground, driving the breath from his body.

He was on his hand and knees, gasping for air. Somebody kicked him. He felt the stick break over his back. Somebody else kicked him. He was rolling on the ground now, choking in the dust, his thin arms trying desperately to cover his head. Kicks and blows rained in on him.

“Caramon!” he cried. “Caramon, help me!”

But there was only a deep, stern voice in answer. “You don’t need me, remember.”

A rock struck him in the head, hurting him terribly. And he knew, although he couldn’t see, that it was Caramon who had thrown it. He was losing consciousness. Hands were dragging him along the dusty road, they were hauling him to a pit of vast darkness and cold, icy cold. They would hurl him down there and he would fall, endlessly, through the darkness and the cold and he would never, never hit the bottom, for there was no bottom...

Crysania stared around. Where was she? Where was Raistlin? He had been with her only moments before, leaning weakly on her arm. And then, suddenly, he had vanished and she had found herself alone, walking in a strange village.

Or was it strange? She seemed to recall having been here once, or at least someplace like this. Tall vallenwoods surrounded her. The houses of the town were built in the trees. There was an inn in a tree. She saw a signpost.

Solace.

How strange, she marveled, looking around. It was Solace, all right. She had been here recently, with Tanis Half-Elven, looking for Caramon. But this Solace was different. Everything seemed tinged with red and just a tiny bit distorted. She kept wanting to rub her eyes to clear them.

“Raistlin!” she called.

There was no answer. The people passing by acted as if they neither heard her nor saw her.

“Raistlin!” she cried, starting to panic. What had happened to him? Where had he gone? Had the Dark Queen...

She heard a commotion, children shouting and yelling and, above the noise, a thin, high-pitched scream for help.

Turning, Crysania saw a crowd of children gathered around a form huddled on the ground. She saw fists flailing and feet kicking, she saw a stick raised and then brought down, hard. Again, that high-pitched scream. Crysania glanced at the people around her, but they seemed unaware of anything unusual occurring.

Gathering her white robes in her hand, Crysania ran toward the children. She saw, as she drew nearer, that the figure in the center of the circle was a child! A young boy! They were killing him, she realized in sudden horror! Reaching the crowd, she grabbed hold of one of the children to pull him away. At the touch of her hand, the child whirled to face her. Crysania fell back, alarmed. The child’s face was white, cadaverous, skull-like. Its skin stretched taut over the bones, its lips were tinged with violet. It bared its teeth at her, and the teeth were black and rotting. The child lashed out at her with its hand. Long nails ripped her skin, sending a stinging, paralyzing pain through her. Gasping, she let go, and the child—with a grin of perverted pleasure on its face—turned back to torment the boy on the ground.

Staring at the bleeding marks upon her arm, dizzy and weak from the pain, Crysania heard the boy cry out again.

“Paladine, help me,” she prayed. “Give me strength.”

Resolutely, she grabbed hold of one of the demon children and hurled it aside, and then she grabbed another. Managing to reach the boy upon the ground, she shielded his bleeding, unconscious body with her own, trying desperately all the while to drive the children away. Again and again, she felt the long nails tear her skin, the poison course through her body. But soon she noticed that, once they touched her, the children drew back, in pain themselves. Finally, sullen expressions on their nightmarish faces, they withdrew, leaving her—bleeding and sick—alone with their victim.

Gently, she turned the bruised body of the young boy over. Smoothing back the brown hair, she looked at his face. Her hands began to shake. There was no mistaking that delicate facial structure, the fragile bones, the jutting chin.

“Raistlin!” she whispered, holding his small hand in her own.

The boy opened his eyes...

The man, dressed in black robes, sat up.

Crysania stared at him as he looked grimly around.

“What is happening?” she asked, shivering, feeling the effects of the poison spreading through her body.

Raistlin nodded to himself. “This is how she torments me,” he said softly. “This is how she fights me, striking at me where she knows I am weakest.” The golden, hourglass eyes turned to Crysania, the thin lips smiled. “You fought for me. You defeated her.” He drew her near, enfolding her in his black robes, holding her close. “There, rest a while. The pain will pass, and then we will travel on.”

Still shivering, Crysania laid her head on the archmage’s breast, hearing his breath wheeze and rattle in his lungs, smelling that sweet, faint fragrance of rose petals and death...

5

“And so this is what comes of his courageous words and promises,” said Kitiara in a low voice.

“Did you really expect otherwise?” asked Lord Soth. The words, accompanied with a shrug of the ancient armor, sounded nonchalant, almost rhetorical. But there was an edge to them that made Kitiara glance sharply at the death knight.

Seeing him staring at her, his orange eyes burning with a strange intensity, Kitiara flushed. Realization that she was revealing more emotion than she intended made her angry, her flush deepened. She turned from Soth abruptly.

Walking across the room, which was furnished with an odd mixture of armor, weaponry, perfumed silken sheets, and thick fur rugs, Kitiara clasped the folds of her filmy nightdress together across her breasts with a shaking hand. It was a gesture that accomplished little in the way of modesty, and Kitiara knew it, even as she wondered why she made it. Certainly she had never been concerned with modesty before, especially around a creature who had fallen into a heap of ash three hundred years ago. But she suddenly felt uncomfortable under the gaze of those blazing eyes, staring at her from a nonexistent face. She felt naked and exposed.

“No, of course not,” Kitiara replied coldly.

“He is, after all, a dark elf.” Soth went on in the same even, almost bored tones. “And he makes no secret of the fact that he fears your brother more than death itself. So is it any wonder that he chooses now to fight on Raistlin’s side rather than the side of a bunch of feeble old wizards who are quaking in their boots?”

“But he stood to gain so much!” Kitiara argued, trying her best to match her tone to Soth’s.

Shivering, she picked up a fur nightrobe that lay across the end of her bed and flung it around her shoulders. “They promised him the leadership of the Black Robes. He was certain to take Par-Salian’s s place after that as Head of the Conclave—undisputed master of magic on Krynn.”

And you would have known other rewards, as well, Dark Elf, Kitiara added silently, pouring herself a glass of red wine. Once that insane brother of mine is defeated, no one will be able to stop you. What of our plans? You ruling with the staff, I with the sword. We could have brought the Knights to their knees! Driven the elves from their homeland—your homeland! You would have gone back in triumph, my darling, and I would have been at your side!

The wine glass slipped from her hand. She tried to catch it—Her grasp was too hasty, her grip too strong. The fragile glass shattered in her hand, cutting into her flesh. Blood mingled with the wine that dripped onto the carpet.

Battle scars traced over Kitiara’s body like the hands of her lovers. She had borne her wounds without flinching, most without a murmur. But now her eyes flooded with tears. The pain seemed unbearable.

A wash bowl stood near. Kitiara plunged her hand into the cold water, biting her lip to keep from crying out. The water turned red instantly.

“Fetch one of the clerics!” she snarled at Lord Soth, who had remained standing, staring at her with his flickering eyes.

Walking to the door, the death knight called a servant who left immediately. Cursing beneath her breath, blinking back her tears, Kitiara grabbed a towel and wound it around her hand. By the time the cleric arrived, stumbling over his black robes in his haste, the towel was soaked through with blood, and Kitiara’s face was ashen beneath her tanned skin.

The medallion of the Five-Headed Dragon brushed against Kit’s hand as the cleric bent over it, muttering prayers to the Queen of Darkness. Soon the wounded flesh closed, the bleeding stopped.

“The cuts were not deep. There should be no lasting harm,” the cleric said soothingly.

“A good thing for you!” Kitiara snapped, still fighting the unreasonable faintness that assailed her. “That is my sword hand!”

“You will wield a blade with your accustomed ease and skill, I assure your lordship,” the cleric replied. “Will there be—”

“No! Get out!”

“My lord.” The cleric bowed—“Sir Knight”—and left the room.

Unwilling to meet the gaze of Soth’s flaming eyes, Kitiara kept her head turned away from the death knight, scowling at the vanishing, fluttering robes of the cleric.

“What fools! I detest keeping them around. Still, I suppose they come in handy now and then.”

Though it seemed perfectly healed, her hand still hurt. All in my mind, she told herself bitterly.

“Well, what do you propose I do about... about the dark elf?” Before Soth could answer, however, Kitiara was on her feet, yelling for the servant.

“Clean that mess up. And bring me another glass.” She struck the cowering man across the face.

“One of the golden goblets this time. You know I detest these fragile elf-made things! Get them out of my sight! Throw them away!”

“Throw them away!” The servant ventured a protest. “But they are valuable, Lord. They came from the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, a gift from—”

“I said get rid of them!” Grabbing them up, Kitiara flung them, one by one, against the wall of her room. The servant cringed, ducking as the glass flew over his head, smashing against the stone. When the last one left her fingers, she sat down into a chair in a corner and stared straight ahead, neither moving nor speaking.

The servant hastily swept up the broken glass, emptied the bloody water in the wash bowl, and departed. When he returned with the wine, Kitiara had still not moved. Neither had Lord Soth. The death knight remained standing in the center of the room, his eyes glowing in the gathering gloom of night.

“Shall I light the candles, Lord?” the servant asked softly, setting down the wine bottle and a golden goblet.

“Get out,” Kitiara said, through stiff lips.

The servant bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

Moving with unheard steps, the death knight walked across the room. Coming to stand next to the still unmoving, seemingly unseeing Kitiara, he laid his hand upon her shoulder. She flinched at the touch of the invisible fingers, their cold piercing her heart. But she did not withdraw.

“Well,” she said again, staring into the room whose only source of light now came from the flaming eyes of the death knight, “I asked you a question. What do we do to stop Dalamar and my brother in this madness? What do we do before the Dark Queen destroys us all?”

“You must attack Palanthas,” said Lord Soth.

“I believe it can be done!” Kitiara murmured, thoughtfully tapping the hilt of her dagger against her thigh.

“Truly ingenious, my lord,” said the commander of her forces with undisguised and unfeigned admiration in his voice.

The commander—a human near forty years of age—had scratched and clawed and murdered his way up through the ranks to attain his current position, General of the Dragonarmies. Stooped and ill-favored, disfigured by a scar that slashed across his face, the commander had never tasted the favors enjoyed in the past by so many of Kitiara’s other captains. But he was not without hope. Glancing over at her, he saw her face—unusually cold and stern these past few days brighten with pleasure at his praise. She even deigned to smile at him—that crooked smile she knew how to use so well. The commander’s heart beat faster.

“It is good to see you have not lost your touch,” said Lord Soth, his hollow voice echoing through the map room.

The commander shuddered. He should be used to the death knight by now. The Dark Queen knew, he’d fought enough battles with him and his troop of skeletal warriors. But the chill of the grave surrounded the knight as his black cloak shrouded his charred and blood-stained armor. How does she stand him? the commander wondered. They say he even haunts her bedchambers! The thought made the commander’s heartbeat rapidly return to normal. Perhaps, after all, the slave women weren’t so bad. At least when one was alone with them in the dark, one was alone in the dark!

“Of course, I have not lost my touch!” Kitiara returned with such fierce anger that the commander looked about uneasily, hurriedly manufacturing some excuse to leave. Fortunately, with the entire city of Sanction preparing for war, excuses were not hard to find.

“If you have no further need of me, my lord,” the commander said, bowing, “I must check on the work of the armory. There is much to be done, and not much time in which to do it.”

“Yes, go ahead,” Kitiara muttered absently, her eyes on the huge map that was inlaid in tile upon the floor beneath her feet. Turning, the commander started to leave, his broadsword clanking against his armor. At the door, however, his lord’s voice stopped him.

“Commander?”

He turned. “My lord?”

Kitiara started to say something, stopped, bit her lip, then continued, “I—I was wondering if you would join me for dinner this evening.” She shrugged. “But, it is late to be asking. I presume you have made plans.”

The commander hesitated, confused. His palms began to sweat. “As a matter of fact, lord, I do have a prior commitment, but that could easily be changed—”

“No,” Kitiara said, a look of relief crossing her face. “No, that wont be necessary. Some other night. You are dismissed.”

The commander, still puzzled, turned slowly and started once again to leave the room. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the orange, burning eyes of the death knight, staring straight through him.

Now he would have to come up with a dinner engagement, he thought as he hurried down the hall. Easy enough. And he would send for one of the slave girls tonight—his favorite...

“You should relax. Treat yourself to an evening of pleasure,” Lord Soth said as the commander’s footsteps faded away down the corridor of Kitiara’s military headquarters.

“There is much to be done, and little time to do it,” Kitiara replied, pretending to be totally absorbed in the map beneath her feet. She stood upon the place marked “Sanction,” looking into the far northwestern corner of the room where Palanthas nestled in the cleft of its protective mountains.

Following her gaze, Soth slowly paced the distance, coming to a halt at the only pass through the rugged mountains, a place marked “High Clerist’s Tower.”

“The Knights will try to stop you here, of course,” Soth said. “Where they stopped you during the last war.”

Kitiara grinned, shook out her curly hair, and walked toward Soth. The lithe swagger was back in her step. “Now, won’t that be a sight? All the pretty Knights, lined up in a row.” Suddenly, feeling better than she had in months, Kitiara began to laugh. “You know, the looks on their faces when they see what we have in store for them will be almost worth waging the entire campaign.”

Standing on the High Clerist’s Tower, she ground it beneath her heel, then took a few quick steps to stand next to Palanthas.

“At last,” she murmured, “the fine, fancy lady will feel the sword of war slit open her soft, ripe flesh.” Smiling, she turned back to face Lord Soth. “I think I will have the commander to dinner tonight after all. Send for him.” Soth bowed his acquiescence, the orange eyes flaming with amusement. “We have many military matters to discuss,” Kitiara laughed again, starting to unbuckle the straps of her armor. “Matters of unguarded flanks, breaching walls, thrust, and penetration... .”

“Now, calm down, Tanis,” said Lord Gunthar good-naturedly. “You are overwrought.”

Tanis Half-Elven muttered something.

“What was that?” Gunthar turned around, holding in his hand a mug of his finest ale (drawn from the barrel in the dark corner by the cellar stairs). He handed the ale to Tanis.

“I said you’re damn right I’m overwrought!” the half-elf snapped, which wasn’t what he had said at all, but was certainly more appropriate when talking to the head of the Knights of Solamnia than what he had actually spoken.

Lord Gunthar uth Wistan stroked his long mustaches—the ages-old symbol of the Knights and one that was currently much in fashion—hiding his smile. He had heard, of course, what Tanis originally said. Gunthar shook his head. Why hadn’t this matter been brought straight to the military? Now, as well as preparing for this minor flare-up of undoubtedly frustrated enemy forces, he had also to deal with black-robed wizards’ apprentices, white-robed clerics, nervous heroes, and a librarian!

Gunthar sighed and tugged at his mustaches gloomily. All he needed now was a kender... .

“Tanis, my friend, sit down. Warm yourself by the fire. You’ve had a long journey, and it’s cold for late spring. The sailors say something about prevailing winds or some such nonsense. I trust your trip was a good one? I don’t mind telling you, I prefer griffons to dragons—”

“Lord Gunthar,” Tanis said tensely, remaining standing, “I did not fly all the way to Sancrist to discuss the prevailing winds nor the merits of griffons over dragons! We are in danger! Not only Palanthas, but the world! If Raistlin succeeds—” Tanis’s fist clenched. Words failed him.

Filling his own mug from the pitcher that Wills, his old retainer, had brought up from the cellar, Gunthar walked over to stand beside the half-elf. Putting his hand on Tanis’s shoulder, he turned the man to face him.

“Sturm Brightblade spoke highly of you, Tanis. You and Laurana were the closest friends he had.”

Tanis bowed his head at these words. Even now, more than two years since Sturm’s death, he could not think of the loss of his friend without sorrow.

“I would have esteemed you on that recommendation alone, for I loved and respected Sturm like one of my own sons,” Lord Gunthar continued earnestly. “But I have come to admire and like you myself, Tanis. Your bravery in battle was unquestioned, your honor, your nobility worthy of a Knight.” Tanis shook his head irritably at this talk of honor and nobility, but Gunthar did not notice.

“Those honors accorded you at the end of the war you more than merited. Your work since the war’s end has been outstanding. You and Laurana have brought together nations that have been separated for centuries. Porthios has signed the treaty and, once the dwarves of Thorbardin have chosen a new king, they will sign as well.”

“Thank you, Lord Gunthar,” Tanis said, holding his mug of untouched ale in his hand and staring fixedly into the fire. “Thank you for your praise. I wish I felt I had earned it. Now, if you’ll tell me where this trail of sugar is leading—”

“I see you are far more human than you are elven,” Gunthar said, with a slight smile. “Very well, Tanis. I will skip the elven amenities and get right to the point. I think your past experiences have made you jumpy—you and Elistan both. Let’s be honest, my friend. You are not a warrior. You were never trained as such. You stumbled into this last war by accident. Now, come with me. I want to show you something. Come, come...”

Tanis set his full mug down upon the mantelpiece and allowed himself to be led by Gunthar’s strong hand. They walked across the room that was filled with the solid, plain, but comfortable furniture preferred by the Knights. This was Gunthar’s war room, shields and swords were mounted on the walls, along with the banners of the three Orders of Knights—the Rose, the Sword, and the Crown. Trophies of battles fought through the years gleamed from the cases where they were carefully preserved. In an honored place, spanning the entire length of the wall, was a dragonlance the first one Theros Ironfeld had forged. Ranged around it were various goblin swords, a wicked saw-toothed blade of a draconian, a huge, double—bladed ogre sword, and a broken sword that had belonged to the ill-fated Knight, Derek Crownguard.

It was an impressive array, testifying to a lifetime of honored service in the Knights. Gunthar walked past it without a glance, however, heading for a corner of the room where a large table stood. Rolled-up maps were stuffed neatly into small compartments beneath the table, each compartment carefully labeled. After studying them for a moment, Gunthar reached down, pulled out a map, and spread it out upon the table’s surface. He motioned Tanis nearer. The half-elf came closer, scratching his beard, and trying to look interested.

Gunthar rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was in his element now. “It’s a matter of logistics, Tanis. Pure and simple. Look, here are the Dragon Highlord’s armies, bottled up in Sanction. Now I admit the Highlord is strong, she has a vast number of draconians, goblins, and humans who would like nothing better than to see the war start up again. And I also admit that our spies have reported increased activity in Sanction. The Highlord is up to something. But attacking Palanthas! Name of the Abyss, Tanis, look at the amount of territory she’d have to cover! And most of it controlled by the Knights! And even if she had the manpower to fight her way through, look how long she’d have to extend her supply lines! It would take her entire army just to guard her lines. We could cut them easily, any number of places.”

Gunthar pulled on his mustaches again. “Tanis, if there was one Highlord in that army I came to respect, it was Kitiara. She is ruthless and ambitious, but she is also intelligent, and she is certainly not given to taking unnecessary risks. She has waited two years, building up her armies, fortifying herself in a place she knows we dare not attack. She has gained too much to throw it away on a wild scheme like this.”

“Suppose this isn’t her plan,” Tanis muttered.

“What other plan could she possibly have?” Gunthar asked patiently.

“I don’t know,” Tanis snapped. “You say you respect her, but do you respect her enough? Do you fear her enough? I know her, and I have a feeling that she has something in mind...” His voice trailed off, he scowled down at the map.

Gunthar kept quiet. He’d heard strange rumors about Tanis Half-Elven and this Kitiara. He didn’t believe them, of course, but felt it better not to pursue the subject of the depth of the half-elf’s knowledge of this woman further.

“You don’t believe this, do you?” Tanis asked abruptly. “Any of it?”

Shifting uncomfortably, Gunthar smoothed both his long, gray mustaches and, bending down, began to roll up the map, using extreme care. “Tanis, my son, you know I respect you—

“We’ve been through that.”

Gunthar ignored the interruption. “And you know that there is no one in this world I hold in deeper reverence than Elistan. But when you two bring me a tale told to you by one of the Black Robes—and a dark elf at that—a tale about this wizard, Raistlin, entering the Abyss and challenging the Queen of Darkness! Well, I’m sorry, Tanis. I am not a young man anymore by any means. I’ve seen many strange things in my life. But this sounds like a child’s bedtime story!”

“So they said of dragons,” Tanis murmured, his face flushing beneath his beard. He stood, head bowed, for a moment, then, scratching his beard, he looked at Gunthar intently. “My lord, I watched Raistlin grow up. I have traveled with him, seen him, fought both with him and against him. I know what this man is capable of!” Tanis grasped Gunthar’s arm with his hand. “If you will not accept my counsel, then accept Elistan’s! We need you, Lord Gunthar! We need you, we need the Knights. You must reinforce the High Clerist’s Tower. We have little time. Dalamar tells us that time has no meaning on the planes of the Dark Queen’s existence. Raistlin might fight her for months or even years there, but that would seem only days to us. Dalamar believes his master’s return is imminent. I believe him, and so does Elistan. Why do we believe him, Lord Gunthar? Because Dalamar is frightened. He is afraid—and so are we.

“Your spies say there is unusual activity in Sanction. Surely, that is evidence enough! Believe me, Lord Gunthar, Kitiara will come to her brother’s aid. She knows he will set her up as ruler of the world if he succeeds. And she is gambler enough to risk everything for that chance! Please, Lord Gunthar, if you won’t listen to me, at least come to Palanthas! Talk to Elistan!”

Lord Gunthar studied the man before him carefully. The leader of the Knights had risen to his position because he was, basically, a just and honest man. He was also a keen judge of character. He had liked and admired the half-elf since meeting him after the end of the war. But he had never been able to get close to him. There was something about Tanis, a reserved, withdrawn air that permitted few to cross the invisible barriers he set up.

Looking at him now, Gunthar felt suddenly closer than he had ever come before. He saw wisdom in the slightly slanted eyes, wisdom that had not come easily, wisdom that came through inner pain and suffering. He saw fear, the fear of one whose courage is so much a part of him that he readily admits he is afraid. He saw in him a leader of men. Not one who merely waves a sword and leads a charge in battle, but a leader who leads quietly, by drawing the best out of people, by helping them achieve things they never knew were in them.

And, at last, Gunthar understood something he had never been able to fathom. He knew now why Sturm Brightblade, whose lineage went back unsullied through generations, had chosen to follow this bastard half-elf, who—if rumors were true—was the product of a brutal rape. He knew now why Laurana, an elven princess and one of the strongest, most beautiful women he had ever known, had risked everything—even her life—for love of this man.

“Very well, Tanis.” Lord Gunthar’s stern face relaxed, the cool, polite tones of his voice grew warmer. “I will return to Palanthas with you. I will mobilize the Knights and set up our defenses at the High Clerist’s Tower. As I said, our spies did inform us that there is unusual activity going on in Sanction. It wont hurt the Knights to turn out. Been a long time since we’ve had field drill.”

Decision made, Lord Gunthar immediately proceeded to turn the household upside down, shouting for Wills, his retainer, shouting for his armor to be brought, his sword sharpened, his griffon readied. Soon servants were flying here and there, his lady-wife came in, looking resigned, and insisted that he pack his heavy, fur-lined cloak even though it was near Spring Dawning celebration.

Forgotten in the confusion, Tanis walked back to the fireplace, picked up his mug of ale, and sat down to enjoy it. But, after all, he did not taste it. Staring into the flames, he saw, once again, a charming, crooked smile, dark curly hair... .

6

How long she and Raistlin journeyed through the red-tinged, distorted land of the Abyss, Crysania had no idea. Time ceased to have any meaning or relevance. Sometimes it seemed they had been here only a few seconds, sometimes she knew she had been walking the strange, shifting terrain for weary years. She had healed herself of the poison, but she felt weak, drained. The scratches on her arms would not close. She wrapped fresh bandages about them each day. By night, they were soaked through with blood.

She was hungry, but it was not a hunger that required food to sustain life so much as a hunger to taste a strawberry, or a mouthful of warm, fresh-baked bread, or a sprig of mint. She did not feel thirst either, and yet she dreamed of clear running water and bubbling wine and the sharp, pungent aroma of tarbean tea. In this land, all the water was tinged reddish brown and smelled of blood.

Yet, they made progress. At least so Raistlin said. He seemed to gain in strength as Crysania grew weaker. Now it was he who helped her walk sometimes. It was he who pushed them onward without rest, passing through town after town, always nearing, he said, Godshome. The mirror image villages of this land below blurred together in Crysania’s mind—Que-shu, Xak Tsaroth. They crossed the Abyss’s New Sea—a dreadful journey. Looking into the water, Crysania saw the horror-filled faces of all who had died in the Cataclysm staring up at her.

They landed at a place Raistlin said was Sanction. Crysania felt her weakest here, for Raistlin told her it was the center of worship for the Dark Queen’s followers. Her Temples were built far below the mountains known as the Lords of Doom. Here, Raistlin said, during the War, they had performed the evil rites that turned the unhatched children of the good dragons into the foul and twisted draconians.

Nothing further happened to them for a long while—or perhaps it was only a second. No one looked twice at Raistlin in his black robes and no one looked at Crysania at all. She might well have been invisible. They passed through Sanction easily, Raistlin growing in strength and confidence. He told Crysania they were very close now. Godshome was located somewhere to the north in Khalkist Mountains.

How he could tell any direction at all in this weird and awful land was beyond Crysania—there was nothing to guide them, no sun, no moons, no stars. It was never really night and never truly day, just some sort of dreary, reddish in between. She was thinking of this, trudging wearily beside Raistlin, not watching where they were going since it all looked the same anyway, when, suddenly, the archmage came to a halt. Hearing his sharp intake of breath, feeling him stiffen, Crysania looked up in swift alarm.

A middle-aged man dressed in the white robes of a teacher was walking down the road toward them...

“Repeat the words after me, remembering to give them the proper inflection.” Slowly he said the words. Slowly the class repeated them. All except one.

“Raistlin!”

The class fell silent.

“Master?” Raistlin did not bother to conceal the sneer in his voice as he said the word.

“I didn’t see your lips moving.”

“Perhaps that is because they were not moving, Master,” Raistlin replied.

If someone else in the class of young magic-users had made such a remark, the pupils would have snickered. But they knew Raistlin felt the same scorn for them that he felt for the Master, and so they glowered at him and shifted uncomfortably.

“You know the spell, do you, apprentice?”

“Certainly I know the spell,” Raistlin snapped. “I knew it when I was six! When did you learn it? Last night?”

The Master glared, his face purpled with rage. “You have gone too far this time, apprentice! You have insulted me once too often!”

The classroom faded before Raistlin’s eyes, melting away. Only the Master remained and, as Raistlin watched, his old teacher’s white robes turned to black! His stupid, paunchy face twisted into a malevolent, crafty face of evil. A bloodstone pendant appeared, hanging around his neck.

“Fistandantilus!” Raistlin gasped.

“Again we meet, apprentice. But now, where is your magic?” The wizard laughed. Reaching up a withered hand, he began fingering the bloodstone pendant.

Panic swept over Raistlin. Where was his magic? Gone! His hands shook. The words of spells tumbled into his mind; only to slip away before he could grasp hold of them. A ball of flame appeared in Fistandantilus’s hands. Raistlin choked on his fear.

The Staff! he thought suddenly. The Staff of Magius. Surely its magic will not be affected! Raising the staff, holding it before him, he called upon it to protect him. But the staff began to twist and writhe in Raistlin’s hand. “No!” he cried in terror and anger. “Obey my command! Obey!” The staff coiled itself around his arm and it was no longer a staff at all, but a huge snake. Glistening fangs sank into his flesh.

Screaming, Raistlin dropped to his knees, trying desperately to free himself from the staff’s poisonous bite. But, battling one enemy, he had forgotten the other. Hearing the spidery words of magic being chanted, he looked up fearfully. Fistandantilus was gone, but in his place stood a drow—a dark elf. The dark elf Raistlin had fought in his final battle of the Test. And then the dark elf was Dalamar, hurling a fireball at him, and then the fireball became a sword, driven into his flesh by a beardless dwarf.

Flames burst around him, steel pierced his body, fangs dug into his skin. He was sinking, sinking into the blackness, when he was bathed in white light and wrapped in white robes and held close to a soft, warm breast...

And he smiled, for he knew by the flinching of the body shielding his and the low cries of anguish, that the weapons were striking her, not him.

7

“Lord Gunthar!” said Amothus, Lord of Palanthas, rising to his feet. “An unexpected pleasure. And you, too, Tanis Half-Elven. I assume you’re both here to plan the War’s End celebration. I’m so glad. Now we can get started on it early this year. I, that is, the committee and I believe—”

“Nonsense,” said Lord Gunthar crisply, walking about Amothus’s audience chamber and staring at it with a critical eye, already calculating—in his mind—what it would take to fortify it if necessary. “We’re here to discuss the defense of the city.”

Lord Amothus blinked at the Knight, who was peering out the windows and muttering to himself. Once he turned and snapped, “Too much glass,” which statement increased the lord’s confusion to such an extent that he could only stammer an apology and then stand helplessly in the center of the room.

“Are we under attack?” he ventured to ask hesitantly, after a few more moments of Gunthar’s reconnaissance.

Lord Gunthar cast Tanis a sharp look. With a sigh, Tanis politely reminded Lord Amothus of the warning the dark elf, Dalamar, had brought them—the probability that the Dragon Highlord, Kitiara, planned to try to enter Palanthas in order to aid her brother, Raistlin, Master of the Tower of High Sorcery, in his fight against the Queen of Darkness.

“Oh, yes!” Lord Amothus’s face cleared. He waved a delicate, deprecating hand, as though brushing away gnats. “But I don’t believe you need be concerned about Palanthas, Lord Gunthar. The High Clerist’s Tower—”

“—is being manned. I’m doubling the strength of our forces there. That’s where the major assault will come, of course. No other way into Palanthas except by sea to the north, and we rule the seas. No, it will come overland. Should matters go wrong, though, Amothus, I want Palanthas ready to defend herself. Now—”

Having mounted the horse of action, so to speak, Gunthar charged ahead. Completely riding over Lord Amothus’s murmured remonstration that perhaps he should discuss this with his generals, Gunthar galloped on, and soon left Amothus choking in the dust of troop disbursements, supply requisitions, armorment caches, and the like. Amothus gave himself for lost. Sitting down, he assumed an expression of polite interest, and immediately began to think about something else. It was all nonsense anyway. Palanthas had never been touched in battle. Armies had to get past the High Clerist’s Tower first and none—not even the great dragon armies of the last war—had been able to do that.

Tanis, watching all of this, and knowing well what Amothus was thinking, smiled grimly to himself and was just beginning to wonder how he, too, might escape the onslaught when there was a soft knock upon the great, ornately carved, gilt doors. With the look of one who hears the trumpets of the rescuing division, Amothus sprang to his feet, but before he could say a word, the doors opened and an elderly servant entered.

Charles had been in the service of the royal house of Palanthas for well over half a century. They could not get along without him, and he knew it. He knew everything from the exact count of the number of wine bottles in the cellar, to which elves should be seated next to which at dinner, to when the linen had been aired last. Though always dignified and deferential, there was a look upon his face which implied that when he died, he expected the royal house to crumble down about its master’s ears.

“I am sorry to disturb you, my lord,” Charles began.

“Quite all right!” Lord Amothus cried, beaming with pleasure. “Quite all right. Please—”

“But there is an urgent message for Tanis Half-Elven,” finished Charles imperturbably, with only the slightest hint of rebuke to his master for interrupting him.

“Oh,” Lord Amothus looked blank and extremely disappointed. “Tanis Half-Elven?”

“Yes, my lord,” Charles replied.

“Not for me?” Amothus ventured, seeing the rescuing division vanish over the horizon.

“No, my lord.”

Amothus sighed. “Very well. Thank you, Charles. Tanis, I suppose you had better—”

But Tanis was already halfway across the room.

“What is it? Not from Laurana—”

“This way, please, my lord,” Charles said, ushering Tanis out the door. At a glance from Charles, the half-elf remembered just in time to turn and bow to Lords Amothus and Gunthar. The knight smiled and waved his hand. Lord Amothus could not refrain from casting Tanis an envious glance, then sank back down to listen to a list of equipment necessary for the boiling of oil. Charles carefully and slowly shut the doors behind him.

“What is it?” Tanis asked, following the servant down the hall. “Didn’t the messenger say anything else?”

“Yes, my lord.” Charles’s face softened into an expression of gentle sorrow. “I was not to reveal this unless it became absolutely necessary to free you from your engagement. Revered Son, Elistan, is dying. He is not expected to live through the night.”

The Temple lawns were peaceful and serene in the fading light of day. The sun was setting, not with fiery splendor, but with a soft, pearlized radiance, filling the sky with a rainbow of gentle color like that of an inverted sea shell. Tanis, expecting to find crowds of people standing about, waiting for news, while white-robed clerics ran here and there in confusion, was startled to see that all was calm and orderly. People rested on the lawn as usual, white-robed clerics strolled beside the flower beds, talking together in low voices or, if alone, appearing lost in silent meditation. Perhaps the messenger was wrong or misinformed, Tanis thought. But then, as he hurried across the velvety green grass, he passed a young cleric. She looked up at him, and he saw her eyes were red and swollen with weeping. But she smiled at him, nonetheless, wiping away traces of her grief as she went on her way.

And then Tanis remembered that neither Lord Amothus, ruler of Palanthas, nor Lord Gunthar, head of the Knights of Solamnia, had been informed. The half-elf smiled sadly in sudden understanding. Elistan was dying as he had lived with quiet dignity.

A young acolyte met Tanis at the Temple door.

“Enter and welcome, Tanis Half-Elven,” the young man said softly. “You are expected. Come this way.”

Cool shadows washed over Tanis. Inside the Temple, the signs of grieving were clear. An elven harpist played sweet music, clerics stood together, arms around each other, sharing solace in their hour of trial. Tanis’s own eyes filled with tears.

“We are grateful that you returned in time,” the acolyte continued, leading Tanis deeper into the inner confines of the quiet Temple. “We feared you might not. We left word where we could, but only with those we knew we could count upon to keep the secret of our great sorrow. It is Elistan’s s wish that he be allowed to die quietly and peacefully.”

The half-elf nodded brusquely, glad his beard hid his tears. Not that he was ashamed of them. Elves revere life above all things, holding it to be the most sacred of the gifts from the gods. Elves do not hide their feelings, as do humans. But Tanis feared the sight of his grief might upset Elistan. He knew the good man’s one regret in dying lay in the knowledge that his death would bring such bitter sorrow to those left behind.

Tanis and his guide passed through an inner chamber where stood Garad and other Revered Sons and Daughters, heads bowed, speaking words of comfort to each other. Beyond them, a door was shut. Everyone’s glance strayed to that door, and Tanis had no doubt who lay beyond it. Looking up on hearing Tanis enter, Garad himself crossed the room to greet the half-elf.

“We are so glad you could come,” the older elf said cordially. He was Silvanesti, Tanis recognized, and must have been one of the first of the elven converts to the religion that they had, long ago, forgotten. “We feared you might not return in time.”

“This must have been sudden,” Tanis murmured, uncomfortably aware that his sword—which he had forgotten to take off—was clanking, sounding loud and harsh in such peaceful, sorrowful surroundings. He clapped his hand over it.

“Yes, he was taken gravely ill the night you left,” Garad sighed. “I do not know what was said in that room, but the shock was great. He has been in terrible pain. Nothing we could do would help him. Finally, Dalamar, the wizard’s apprentice”—Garad could not help but frown—“came to the Temple. He brought with him a potion that would, he said, ease pain. How he came to know of what was transpiring, I cannot guess. Strange things happen in that place.” He glanced out the window to where the Tower stood, a dark shadow, defiantly denying the sun’s bright light.

“You let him in?” Tanis asked, startled.

“I would have refused,” Garad said grimly. “But Elistan gave orders that he should be allowed entry. And, I must admit, his potion worked. The pain left our master, and he will be granted the right to die in peace.”

“And Dalamar?”

“He is within. He has neither moved nor spoken since he came, but sits silently in a corner. Yet, his presence seems to comfort Elistan, and so we permit him to stay.”

I’d like to see you try to make him leave, Tanis thought privately, but said nothing. The door opened. People looked up fearfully, but it was only the acolyte who had knocked softly and who was conferring with someone on the other side. Turning, he beckoned to Tanis.

The half-elf entered the small, plainly furnished room, trying to move softly, as did the clerics with their whispering robes and padded slippers. But his sword rattled, his boots clomped, the buckles of his leather armor jingled. He sounded, to his ears, like an army of dwarves. His face burning, he tried to remedy matters by walking on tiptoe. Elistan, turning his head feebly upon the pillow, looked over at the half-elf and began to laugh.

“One would think, my friend, that you were coming to rob me,” Elistan remarked, lifting a wasted hand and holding it out to Tanis.

The half-elf tried to smile. He heard the door shut softly behind him and he was aware of a shadowy figure darkening one corner of the room. But he ignored all this. Kneeling beside the bed of the man he had helped rescue from the mines of Pax Tharkas, the man whose gentle influence had played such an important role in his life and in Laurana’s, Tanis took the dying man’s hand and held it firmly.

“Would that I were able to fight this enemy for you, Elistan,” Tanis said, looking at the shrunken white hand clasped in his own strong, tanned one.

“Not an enemy, Tanis, not an enemy. An old friend is coming for me.” He withdrew his hand gently from Tanis’s grasp, then patted the half-elf’s arm. “No, you don’t understand. But you will, someday, I promise. And now, I did not call you here to burden you with saying good-bye. I have a commission to give to you, my friend.” He motioned. The young acolyte came forward, bearing a wooden box, and gave it into Elistan’s s hands. Then, he retired, returning to stand silently beside the door.

The dark figure in the corner did not move.

Lifting the lid of the box, Elistan removed a folded piece of pure white parchment. Taking Tanis’s hand, he placed the parchment in the half-elf’s palm, then closed his fingers over it.

“Give this to Crysania,” he said softly. “If she survives, she is to be the next head of the church.”

Seeing the dubious, disapproving expression come onto Tanis’s face, Elistan smiled. “My friend, you have walked in darkness—none know that better than I. We came near losing you, Tanis. But you endured the night and faced the daylight, strengthened by the knowledge that you had gained. This is what I hope for Crysania. She is strong in her faith, but, as you yourself noted, she lacks warmth, compassion, humanity. She had to see with her own eyes the lessons that the fall of the Kingpriest taught us. She had to be hurt, Tanis, and hurt deeply, before she would be able to react with compassion to the hurt of others. Above all, Tanis, she had to love.”

Elistan closed his eyes, his face, drawn with suffering, filled with grief. “I would have chosen differently for her, my friend, had I been able. I saw the road she walked. But, who questions the ways of the gods? Certainly not I. Although” opening his eyes, he looked up at Tanis, and the half-elf saw a glint of anger in them—“I might argue with them a bit.”

Tanis heard, behind him, the soft step of the acolyte. Elistan nodded. “Yes, I know. They fear that visitors tire me. They do, but I will find rest soon enough.” The cleric closed his eyes, smiling.

“Yes, I will rest. My old friend is coming to walk with me, to guide my feeble steps.”

Rising to his feet, Tanis cast a questioning glance at the acolyte, who shook his head.

“We do not know of whom he speaks,” the young cleric murmured. “He has talked of little else but this old friend. We thought, perhaps, it might be you—”

But Elistan’s s voice rose clearly from his bed. “Farewell, Tanis Half-Elven. Give my love to Laurana. Garad and the others”—he nodded toward the doorway—“know of my wishes in this matter of the succession. They know that I have entrusted this to you. They will help you all they can. Goodbye, Tanis. May Paladine’s blessing be with you.”

Tanis could say nothing. Reaching down, he pressed the cleric’s hand, nodded, struggled to speak, and at last gave up. Turning abruptly, he walked past the dark and silent figure in the corner and left the room, his vision blinded by tears.

Garad accompanied him to the front entrance of the Temple. “I know what Elistan has charged you with,” the cleric said, “and, believe me, I hope with all my heart his wishes come to pass. Lady Crysania is, I understand, on some sort of pilgrimage that could prove very dangerous?”

“Yes,” was all Tanis could trust himself to answer.

Garad sighed. “May Paladine be with her. W e are praying for her. She is a strong woman. The church needs such youth and such strength if it is to grow. If you need any help, Tanis, please know that you can call upon us.”

The half-elf could only mutter a polite reply. Bowing, Garad hurried back to be with his dying master. Tanis paused a moment near the doorway in an effort to regain control of himself before stepping outside. As he stood there, thinking over Elistan’s words, he became aware of an argument being carried on near the Temple door.

“I am sorry, sir, but I cannot permit you to go inside,” a young acolyte was saying firmly.

“But I tell you I’m here to see Elistan,” returned a querulous, crotchety voice.

Tanis closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. He knew that voice. Memories washed over him with an intensity so painful that, for a moment, he could neither move nor speak.

“Perhaps, if you gave me your name,” the acolyte said patiently, “I could ask him—”

“I am—The name is—” The voice hesitated, sounding a bit bewildered, then muttered. “I knew it yesterday...”

Tanis heard the sound of a wooden staff thumping irritably against the Temple steps. The voice raised shrilly. “I am a very important person, young man. And I’m not accustomed to being treated with such impertinence. Now get out of my way before you force me to do something I’ll regret. I mean, you’ll regret. Well, one of us will regret it.”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the acolyte repeated, his patience obviously wearing thin, “but without a name I cannot allow—”

There was the sound of a brief scuffle, then silence, then Tanis heard a truly ominous sound—the sound of pages being turned. Smiling through his tears, the half-elf walked to the door. Looking outside, he saw an old wizard standing on the Temple stairs. Dressed in mouse-colored robes, his misshapen wizard’s hat appearing ready to topple from his head at the slightest opportunity, the ancient wizard was a most disreputable sight. He had leaned the plain wooden staff he carried against the Temple wall and now, ignoring the flushed and indignant acolyte, the wizard was flipping through the pages of his spellbook, muttering “Fireball... Fireball. How does that dratted spell go?...”

Gently, Tanis placed his hand upon the acolyte’s shoulder. “He truly is an important person,” the half-elf said softly. “You can let him in. I’ll take full responsibility.”

“He is?” The acolyte looked dubious.

At the sound of Tanis’s voice, the wizard raised his head and glanced about. “Eh? Important person? Where?” Seeing Tanis, he started. “Oh, there! How do you do, sir?” He started to extend his hand, became entangled in his robes, and dropped his spellbook on his foot. Bending down to pick it up, he knocked over his staff, sending it down the steps with a clatter. In the confusion, his hat tumbled off. It took Tanis and the acolyte both to get the old man back together again.

“Ouch, my toe! Confound it! Lost my place. Stupid staff! Where’s my hat?”

Eventually, however, he was more or less intact. Stuffing the spellbook back in a pouch, he planted his hat firmly on his head. (Having attempted, at first, to do those two things in reverse order.) Unfortunately, the hat immediately slipped down, covering his eyes.

“Struck blind, by the gods!” the old wizard stated in awe, groping about with his hands. This matter was soon remedied. The young acolyte—with an even more dubious glance at Tanis—gently pushed the wizard’s hat to the back of his white-haired head. Glaring at the acolyte irritably, the old wizard turned to Tanis. “Important person? Yes, so you are... I think. Have we met before?”

“Indeed, yes,” Tanis replied. “But you are the important person I was referring to, Fizban.”

“I am?” The old wizard seemed staggered for a moment. Then, with a humpf, he glared again at the young cleric. “Well, of course. Told you so! Stand aside, stand aside,” he ordered the acolyte irritably.

Entering the Temple door, the old man turned to look at Tanis from beneath the brim of the battered hat. Pausing, he laid his hand on the half-elf’s arm. The befuddled look left the old wizard’s face. He stared at Tanis intently.

“You have never faced a darker hour, Half-Elven,” the old wizard said gravely. “There is hope, but love must triumph.” With that, he toddled off and, almost immediately, blundered into a closet. Two clerics came to his rescue, and guided him on.

“Who is he?” the young acolyte asked, staring, perplexed, after the old wizard.

“A friend of Elistan’s,” Tanis murmured. “A very old friend.”

As he left the Temple, Tanis heard a voice wail, “My hat!”

5

“Crysania...

There was no reply, only a low moaning sound.

“Shh. It’s all right. You have been hurt, but the enemy is gone. Drink this, it will ease the pain.”

Taking some herbs from a pouch, Raistlin mixed them in a mug of steaming water and, lifting Crysania from the bed of blood-soaked leaves upon which she lay, he held the mug to her lips. As she drank it, her face smoothed, her eyes opened.

“Yes,” she murmured, leaning against him. “That is better.”

“Now,” continued Raistlin smoothly, “you must pray to Paladine to heal you, Revered Daughter. We have to keep going.”

“I—I don’t know, Raistlin. I’m so weak and—and Paladine seems so far away!”

“Pray to Paladine?” said a stern voice. “You blaspheme, Black Robe!”

Frowning, annoyed, Raistlin glanced up. His eyes widened. “Sturm!” he gasped.

But the young knight did not hear him. He was staring at Crysania, watching in awe as the wounds upon her body closed, though they did not heal completely. “Witches!” cried the knight, drawing his sword. “Witches!”

“Witches!” Crysania raised her head. “No, Sir Knight. We are not witches. I am a cleric, a cleric of Paladine! Look at the medallion I wear!”

“You lie!” Sturm said fiercely. “There are no clerics! They vanished in the Cataclysm. And, if you were, what would you be doing in the company of this dark one of evil?”

“Sturm! It’s me, Raistlin!” The archmage rose to his feet. “Look at me! Don’t you recognize me?”

The young knight turned his sword upon the mage, its point at Raistlin’s throat. “I do not know by what sorcerous ways you have conjured up my name, Black Robe, but, speak it once more and it will go badly for you. We deal shortly with witches in Solace.”

“As you are a virtuous and holy knight, bound by vows of chivalry and obedience, I beg you for justice,” Crysania said, rising to her feet slowly, with Raistlin’s s help.

The young mans stern face smoothed. He bowed, and sheathed his sword, but not without a sideways glance at Raistlin. “You speak truly, madam. I am bound by such vows and I will grant you justice.”

Even as he spoke, the bed of leaves became a wooden floor; the trees-benches; the sky above—a ceiling; the road an aisle between the benches. We are in a Hall of Judgment, Raistlin saw, momentarily dizzied by the sudden change. His arm around Crysania still, he helped her to sit down at a small table that stood in the center of the room. Before them loomed a podium. Glancing behind them, Raistlin saw that the room was packed with people, all watching with interest and enjoyment.

He stared. He knew these people! There was Otik, the owner of the Inn of the Last Home, eating a plateful of spiced potatoes. There was Tika, her red curls bouncing, pointing at Crysania and saying something and laughing. And Kitiara! Lounging against the doorway, surrounded by admiring young men, her hand on the hilt of her sword, she looked over at Raistlin and winked.

Raistlin glanced about feverishly. His father, a poor woodcutter, sat in a corner, his shoulders bent, that perpetual look of worry and care on his face. Laurana sat apart, her cool elven beauty shining like a bright star in the darkest night.

Beside him, Crysania cried out, “Elistan!” Rising to her feet, she stretched out her hand, but the cleric only looked at her sadly and sternly and shook his head.

“Rise and do honor!” rang out a voice.

With much shuffling of feet and scraping of the benches, everyone in the Hall of Judgment stood up. A respectful silence descended upon the crowd as the judge entered. Dressed in the gray robes of Gilean, God of Neutrality, the judge took his place behind the podium and turned to face the accused.

“Tanis!” Raistlin cried, taking a step forward.

But the bearded half-elf only frowned at this unseemly conduct while a grumbling old dwarf—the bailiff—stumped over and prodded Raistlin in the side with the butt-end of his battle-axe. “Sit down, witch, and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

“Flint?” Raistlin grabbed the dwarf by the arm. “Don’t you know me?”

“And don’t touch the bailiff!” Flint roared, incensed, jerking his arm away. “Humpf,” he grumbled as he stalked back to take his place beside the judge. “No respect for my age or my station. You’d think I was a sack of meal to be handled by everyone—”

“That will do, Flint,” said Tanis, sternly eyeing Raistlin and Crysania. “Now, who brings the charges against these two?”

“I do,” said a knight in shining armor, rising to his feet.

“Very well, Sturm Brightblade,” Tanis said, “you will have a chance to present your charges. And who defends these two?”

Raistlin started to rise and reply, but he was interrupted.

“Me! Here, Tanis—uh, your honorship! Me, over here! Wait. I—I seem to be stuck...”

Laughter filled the Hall of Judgment, the crowd turning and staring at a kender, loaded down with books, struggling to get through the doorway. Grinning, Kitiara reached out, grabbed him by his topknot of hair, and yanked him through the door, tossing him unceremoniously onto the floor. Books scattered everywhere, and the crowd roared with laughter. Unfazed, the kender picked himself up, dusted himself off, and, tripping over the books, managed eventually to make it up to the front.

“I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” the kender said, holding out his small hand for Raistlin to shake. The archmage stared at Tas in amazement and did not move. With a shrug, Tas looked at his hand, sighed, and then, turning, started toward the judge. “Hi, my name’s Tasslehoff Burrfoot”

“Sit down!” roared the dwarf. “You don’t shake hands with the judge, you doorknob!”

“Well,” said Tas indignantly. “I think I might if I liked. I’m only being polite, after all, something you dwarves know nothing about. I—”

“Sit down and shut up!” shouted the dwarf, thudding the butt-end of the axe on the floor.

His topknot bouncing, the kender turned and meekly made his way over to sit beside Raistlin. But, before sitting, he faced the audience and mimicked the dwarf’s dour look so well that the crowd howled with glee, making the dwarf angrier than ever. But this time the judge intervened.

“Silence,” called Tanis sternly, and the crowd hushed.

Tas plopped himself down beside Raistlin. Feeling a soft touch brush against him, the mage glared down at the kender and held out his hand.

“Give that back!” he demanded.

“What back? Oh, this? Is that yours? You must have dropped it,” Tas said innocently, handing over one of Raistlin’s spell component pouches. “I found it on the floor—”

Snatching it from the kender, Raistlin attached it once more to the cord he wore around his waist.

“You might at least have said thank you,” Tas remarked in a shrill whisper, then subsided as he caught the stern gaze of the judge.

“What are the charges against these two?” Tanis asked.

Sturm Brightblade came to the front of the room. There was some scattered applause. The young knight with his high standards of honor and melancholy mien was apparently well-liked.

“I found these two in the wilderness, your honor. The Black Robed one spoke the name of Paladine”—there was angry mutterings from the crowd—“and, even as I watched, he brewed up some foul concoction and gave it to the woman to drink. She was badly hurt when I first saw them. Blood covered her robes, and her face was burned and scarred as if she had been in a fire. But when she drank that witch’s brew, she was healed!”

“No!” cried Crysania, rising unsteadily to her feet. “That is wrong. The potion Raistlin gave me simply eased the pain. It was my prayers that healed me! I am a cleric of Paladine”

“Pardon us, your honor,” yelled the kender, leaping to his feet. “My client didn’t mean to say she was a cleric of Paladine. Performing a pantomime. That’s what she meant to say. Yes, that’s it,”

Tas giggled. “Just having a little fun to lighten the journey. It’s a game they play all the time. Hah, hah.” Turning to Crysania, the kender frowned and said in a whisper that was audible to everyone in the room, “What are you doing? How can I possibly get you off if you go around telling the truth like that! I simply won’t put up with it!”

“Quiet!” roared the dwarf.

The kender whirled around. “And I’m getting a bit tired of you, too, Flint!” he shouted. “Quit pounding that axe on the floor or I’ll wrap it around your neck.”

The room dissolved into laughter, and even the judge grinned.

Crysania sank back down beside Raistlin, her face deathly pale. “What is this mockery?” she murmured fearfully.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to put an end to it.” Raistlin rose to his feet.

“Silence, all of you.” His soft, whispering voice brought immediate quiet to the room. “This lady is a holy cleric of Paladine! I am a wizard of the Black Robes, skilled in the arts of magic—”

“Oh, do something magic!” the kender cried, jumping to his feet again. “Whoosh me into a duck pond—”

“Sit down!” yelled the dwarf.

“Set the dwarf’s beard on fire!” Tasslehoff laughed.

There was a round of applause for this suggestion.

“Yes, show us some magic, wizard.” Tanis called out over the hilarity in the Hall.

Everyone hushed, and then the crowd began to murmur, “Yes, wizard, show us some magic. Do some magic, wizard!” Kitiara’s voice rang out above the others, strong and powerful. “Perform some magic, frail and sickly wretch, if you can!”

Raistlin’s tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Crysania was staring at him, hope and terror in her gaze. His hands trembled. He caught up the Staff of Magius, which stood at his side, but, remembering what it had done to him, he dared not use it.

Drawing himself up, he cast a look of scorn upon the people around him. “Hah! I do not need to prove myself to such as you—”

“I really think it might be a good idea,” Tas muttered, tugging at Raistlin’s robe.

“You see!” shouted Sturm. “The witch cannot! I demand judgment!”

“Judgment! Judgment!” chanted the crowd. “Burn the witches! Burn their bodies! Save their souls!”

“Well, wizard?” Tanis asked sternly. “Can you prove you are what you claim?”

Spell words slithered from his grasp. Crysania’s hands clutched at him. The noise deafened him.

He couldn’t think! He wanted to be alone, away from the laughing mouths and pleading, terror-filled eyes. “I—” He faltered, and bowed his head.

“Burn them.”

Rough hands caught hold of Raistlin. The courtyard disappeared before his eyes. He struggled, but it was useless. The man who held him was big and strong, with a face that might once have been jovial but was now serious and intent.

“Caramon! Brother!” Raistlin cried, twisting in the big man’s grasp to look into his twins face.

But Caramon ignored him. Gripping Raistlin firmly, he dragged the frail mage up a hill. Raistlin looked around. Before him, on the top of the hill, he saw two tall, wooden stakes that had been driven into the ground. At the foot of each stake, the townspeople—his friends, his neighbors were gleefully tossing great armloads of dry tinder onto a mound.

“Where’s Crysania?” he asked his brother, hoping she might have escaped and could now return to help him. Then Raistlin caught a glimpse of white robes. Elistan was binding her to a stake. She fought, trying to escape his grasp, but she was weakened from her suffering. At last, she gave up. Weeping in fear and despair, she slumped against the stake as they tied her hands behind it and bound her feet to the base.

Her dark hair fell over the smooth bare shoulders as she wept. Her wounds had opened, blood staining her robes red. Raistlin thought he heard her cry out to Paladine, but, if she did, the words could not be heard above the howling of the mob. Her faith was weakening even as she herself weakened.

Tanis advanced, a flaming torch in his hand. He turned to look at Raistlin.

“Witness her fate and see your own, witch!” the half-elf shouted.

“No!” Raistlin struggled, but Caramon held him fast.

Leaning down, Tanis thrust the blazing torch into the oil soaked, drying tinder. It caught. The fire spread quickly, soon engulfing Crysania’s white robes. Raistlin heard her anguished scream above the roar of the flame. She managed to raise her head, seeking for one final look at Raistlin. Seeing the pain and terror in her eyes, yet, seeing, too, love for him, Raistlin’s s heart burned with a fire hotter than any man could create.

“They want magic! I’ll give them magic!” And, before he thought, he shoved the startled Caramon away and, breaking free, raised his arms to the heavens. And, at that moment, the words of magic entered his soul, never to leave again.

Lightning streaked from his fingertips, striking the clouds in the red-tinged sky. The clouds answered with lightning, streaking down, striking the ground before the mage’s feet. Raistlin turned in fury upon the crowd—but the people had vanished, disappeared as though they had never existed.

“Ah, my Queen!” Laughter bubbled on his lips. Joy shot through his soul as the ecstasy of his magic burned in his blood. And, at last, he understood. He perceived his great folly and he saw his great chance.

He had been deceived—by himself! Tas had given him the clue at Zhaman, but he had not bothered to think it through. I thought of something in my mind, the kender said, and there it was! When I wanted to go somewhere, all 1 had to do was think about it, and either it came to me or I went to it, I’m not sure. It was all the cities I have ever been in and yet none. So the kender had told him.

I assumed the Abyss was a reflection of the world, Raistlin realized. And thus I journeyed through it. It isn’t, however. It is nothing more than a reflection of my mind! All I have been doing is traveling through my own mind!

The Queen is in Godshome because that is where I perceived her to be. And Godshome is as far away or as near as I choose! My magic did not work because I doubted it, not because she prevented it from working. I have come close to defeating myself! Ah, but now I know, my Queen! Now I know and now I can triumph! For Godshome is just a step away and it is only another step to the Portal...

“Raistlin!”

The voice was low, agonized, weary, spent. Raistlin turned his head. The crowd had vanished because it had never existed. It had been his creation. The village, the land, the continent, everything he had imagined was gone. He stood upon flat, undulating nothingness. Sky and ground were impossible to tell apart, both were the same eerie, burning pink. A faint horizon line was like a knife slit across the land.

But one object had not vanished—the wooden stake. Surrounded by charred wood, it stood outlined against the pink sky, thrusting up from the nothingness below. A figure lay below it. The figure might once have worn white robes, but these were now burnt black. The smell of burned flesh was strong.

Raistlin drew closer. Kneeling down upon the still-warm ashes, he turned the figure over.

“Crysania,” he murmured.

“Raistlin?” Her face was horribly burned, sightless eyes stared into the emptiness around her, she reached out a hand that was little more than a blackened claw. “Raistlin?” She moaned in agony. His hand closed over hers. “I can’t see!” she whimpered. “All is darkness! Is that you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Raistlin, I’ve failed—”

“No, Crysania, you have not,” he said, his voice cool and even. “I am unharmed. My magic is strong now, stronger than it has ever been before in any of the times I have lived. I will go forward, now, and defeat the Dark Queen.”

The cracked and blistered lips parted in a smile. The hand holding Raistlin’s tightened its feeble grasp. “Then my prayers have been granted.” She choked, a spasm of pain twisted her body. When she could draw breath, she whispered something. Raistlin bent close to hear. “I am dying, Raistlin. I am weakened past endurance. Soon, Paladine will take me to him. Stay with me, Raistlin. Stay with me while I die... .”

Raistlin gazed down at the remains of the wretched woman before him. Holding her hand, he had a sudden vision of her as he had seen her in the forest near Caergoth the one time he had come close to losing control and making her his own—her white skin, her silken hair, her shining eyes. He remembered the love in those eyes, he remembered holding her close in his arms, he remembered kissing the smooth skin...

One by one, Raistlin burned those memories in his mind, setting fire to them with his magic, watching them turn to ash and blow away in smoke.

Reaching out his other hand, he freed himself from her clinging grasp.

“Raistlin!” she cried, her hand clutching out at the empty air in terror.

“You have served my purpose, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said, his voice as smooth and cold as the silver blade of the dagger he wore at his wrist. “Time presses. Even now come those to the Portal at Palanthas who will try to stop me. I must challenge the Queen, fight my final battle with her minions. Then, when I have won, I must return to the Portal and enter it before anyone has a chance to stop me.”

“Raistlin, don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me alone in the darkness!”

Leaning upon the Staff of Magius, which now gleamed with a bright, radiant light, Raistlin rose to his feet. “Farewell, Revered Daughter,” he said in a soft, hissing whisper. “I need you no longer.”

Crysania heard the rustle of his black robes as he walked away. She heard the soft thud of the Staff of Magius. Through the choking, acrid smell of smoke and burned flesh, she caught the faintest scent of rose petals...

And then, there was only silence. She knew he was gone.

She was alone, her life dwindling through her veins as her illusions slowly dwindled from her mind.

“The next time you will see, Crysania, is when you are blinded by darkness... darkness unending.” So spoke Loralon, the elven cleric, at the fall of Istar. Crysania would have cried, but the fire had burned away her tears and their source.

“I see now,” she whispered into the darkness. “I see so clearly! I have deceived myself! I’ve been nothing to him—nothing but his game piece to move about the board of his great game as he chose. And even as he used me—so I used him!” She moaned. “I used him to further my pride, my ambition! My darkness only deepened his own! He is lost, and I have led him to his downfall. For if he does defeat the Dark Queen, it will be but to take her place!”

Staring up at the heavens she could not see, Crysania screamed in agony. “I have done this, Paladine! I have brought this harm upon myself, upon the world! But, oh, my god, what greater harm have I brought upon him?”

Lying there, in the eternal darkness, Crysania’s heart wept the tears her eyes could not. “I love you, Raistlin,” she murmured. “I could never tell you. I could never admit it to myself.” She tossed her head, gripped by a pain that seared her more deeply than the f lames. “What might have changed, if I had?”

The pain eased. She seemed to be slipping away, losing her grasp upon consciousness.

“Good,” she thought wearily, “I am dying. Let death come swiftly, then, and end my bitter torment.”

She drew a breath. “Paladine, forgive me,” she murmured.

Another breath. “Raistlin...”

Another, softer breath. “... forgive...”

9

Tanis stood out side the Temple, thinking about the old wizard’s words. Then he snorted. Love must triumph!

Brushing away his tears, Tanis shook his head bitterly. Fizban’s magic wasn’t going to work this time. Love didn’t even have a bit part in this play. Raistlin had long ago twisted and used his twin’s love to his own ends, finally crushing Caramon into a sodden mass of blubbery flesh and dwarf spirits. Marble had more capacity to love than did the marble maiden, Crysania. And, as for Kitiara... . Had she ever loved?

Tanis scowled. He hadn’t meant to think of her, not again. But an attempt to shove the memories of her back into the dark closet of his soul only made the light seem to shine upon them more brightly. He caught himself going back to the time they’d first met, in the wilderness near Solace. Discovering a young woman fighting for her life against goblins, Tanis had raced to the rescue—only to have the young woman turn upon him in anger, accusing him of spoiling her fun! Tanis was captivated. Up until then, his only love interest had been a delicate elven maiden, Laurana. But that had been a childish romance. He and Laurana had grown up together, her father having taken in the bastard half-elf out of charity when his mother died in childbirth. It was, in fact, partly because of Laurana’s girlish infatuation with Tanis—a love her father would never have approved—that the half-elf left his elven homeland and traveled into the world with old Flint, the dwarven metalsmith.

Certainly Tanis had never met a woman like Kitiara bold, courageous, lovely, sensual. She made no secret of the fact that she found the half-elf attractive on that first meeting. A playful battle between them ended in a night of passion beneath Kitiara’s fur blankets. After that, the two had often been together, traveling by themselves or in the company of their friends, Sturm Brightblade, and Kitiara’s half-brothers, Caramon and his frail twin, Raistlin.

Hearing himself sigh, Tanis shook his head angrily. No! Grasping the thoughts, he hurled them back into the darkness, shut and locked the door. Kitiara had never loved him. She had been amused by him, that was all. He had kept her entertained. When a chance came to gain what she truly wanted—power—she had left him without a second thought. But, even as he turned the key in the lock of his soul, Tanis heard, once again, Kitiara’s voice. He heard the words she had spoken the night of the downfall of the Queen of Darkness, the night Kitiara had helped him and Laurana escape.

“Farewell, Half-Elven. Remember, I do this for love of you!”

A dark figure, like the embodiment of his own shadow, appeared beside Tanis. The half-elf started in a sudden, unreasonable fear that he had, perhaps, conjured up an image from his own subconscious. But the figure spoke a word of greeting, and Tanis realized it was flesh and blood. He sighed in relief, then hoped the dark elf had not noticed how abstracted his thoughts had been. He was more than half afraid, in fact, that Dalamar might have guessed them. Clearing his throat gruffly, the half-elf glanced at the black-robed mage.

“Is Elistan dead?” said Dalamar coldly. “No, not yet. But I sensed the approach of one whose presence I would find most uncomfortable, and so, seeing that my services were no longer necessary, I left.”

Stopping on the lawn, Tanis turned to face the dark elf. Dalamar had not drawn up his black hood, and his features were plainly visible in the peaceful twilight. “Why did you do it?” Tanis demanded.

The dark elf stopped walking as well, looking at Tanis with a slight smile. “Do what?”

“Come here, to Elistan! Ease his pain.” Tanis waved a hand. “From what I saw last time, setting foot on this ground makes you suffer the torments of the damned.” His face became grim. “I cannot believe a pupil of Raistlin’s could care so much about anyone!”

“No,” Dalamar replied smoothly, “Raistlin’s pupil personally didn’t give a cracked iron piece what became of the cleric. But Raistlin’s s pupil is honorable. He was taught to pay his debts, taught to be beholden to no one. Does that accord with what you know of my Shalafi?”

“Yes,” Tanis admitted grudgingly, “but—”

“I was repaying a debt, nothing more,” Dalamar said. As he resumed his walk across the lawn, Tanis saw a look of pain upon his face. The dark elf obviously wanted to leave this place as quickly as possible. Tanis had some trouble keeping pace with him. “You see,” Dalamar continued, “Elistan came once to the Tower of High Sorcery to help my Shalafi.”

“Raistlin?” Tanis stopped again, stunned. Dalamar did not halt, however, and Tanis was forced to hurry after him.

“Yes,” the dark elf was saying, as if caring little whether Tanis heard him or not, “no one knows this, not even Raistlin. The Shalafi grew ill once about a year ago, terribly ill. I was alone, frightened. I know nothing of sickness. In desperation, I sent for Elistan. He came.”

“Did... did he... heal Raistlin?” Tanis asked in awe. “No.” Dalamar shook his head, his long black hair falling down around his shoulders. “Raistlin’s malady is beyond the healing arts, a sacrifice made for his magic. But Elistan was able to ease the Shalafi’s pain and give him rest. And so, I have done nothing more than discharge my debt.”

“Do you... care about Raistlin as much as this?” Tanis asked hesitantly.

“What is this talk of caring, half-elf?” Dalamar snapped impatiently. They were near the edge of the lawn. Evening’s shadows spread across it like soothing fingers, gently reaching out to close the eyes of the weary. “Like Raistlin, I care for one thing only—and that is the Art and the power that it gives. For that, I gave up my people, my homeland, my heritage. For that, I have been cast in darkness. Raistlin is the Shalafi, my teacher, my master. He is skilled in the Art, one of the most skilled who has ever lived. When I volunteered to the Conclave to spy upon him, I knew I might well sacrifice my life. But how little was that price to pay for the chance of studying with one so gifted! How could I afford to lose him? Even now, when I think of what I must do to him, when I think of the knowledge he has gained that will be lost when he dies, I almost—”

“Almost what?” Tanis said sharply, in sudden fear. “Almost let him through the Portal? Can you truly stop him, when he comes back, Dalamar? Will you stop him?”

They had reached the end of the Temple grounds. Soft darkness blanketed the land. The night was warm and filled with the smells of new life. Here and there among the aspen trees, a bird chirped sleepily. In the city, lighted candles were set in the windows to guide loved ones home. Solinari glimmered on the horizon, as though the gods had lit their own candle to brighten the night. Tanis’s eyes were drawn to the one patch of chill blackness in the warm, perfumed evening. The Tower of High Sorcery stood dark and forbidding. No candles flickered in its windows. He wondered, briefly, who or what waited within that blackness to welcome the young apprentice home.

“Let me tell you of the Portals, Half-Elven,” Dalamar replied. “I will tell you as my Shalafi told me.”

His gaze followed Tanis’s, going to the very topmost room in Tower. When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “There is a corner in that laboratory where stands a doorway, a doorway without a lock. Five dragon’s heads made of metal surround it. Look within it, you will see nothing—simply a void. The dragon’s heads are cold and still. That is the Portal. Another exists beside this one—it stands in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. The only other one, as far as we know, was in Istar and it was destroyed in the Cataclysm. The one in Palanthas was originally moved to the magical fortress in Zhaman to protect it when the mobs of the Kingpriest tried to take over the Tower here. It moved again when Fistandantilus destroyed Zhaman, returning to Palanthas. Created long ago by mages who desired faster communication with each other, it led them too far—it led them onto other planes.”

“The Abyss,” Tanis murmured.

“Yes. Too late the mages realized what a perilous gate they had devised. For if someone from this plane entered the Abyss and returned through the Portal, the Queen would have the entrance into the world she has long sought. Thus with the help of the holy clerics of Paladine, they insured so they thought—that none could ever use the Portals. Only one of the most profound evil, who had committed his very soul to darkness, could hope to gain the knowledge necessary to open that dread doorway. And only one of goodness and purity, with absolute trust in the one person upon this world who could never merit trust, could hold the doorway open.”

“Raistlin and Crysania.”

Dalamar smiled cynically. “In their infinite wisdom, those dried-up old mages and clerics never foresaw that love would overthrow their grand design. So, you see, Half-Elven, when Raistlin attempts to reenter the Portal from the Abyss, I must stop him. For the Queen will be right behind him.”

None of this explanation did much to ease Tanis’s doubts. Certainly the dark elf appeared cognizant of the grave danger. Certainly he appeared calm, confident... But can you stop him?” Tanis persisted, his gaze going—without meaning to—to the dark elf’s chest where he had seen those five holes burned into his smooth skin.

Noticing Tanis’s look, Dalamar’s hand went involuntarily to his chest. His eyes grew dark and haunted. “I know my own limitations, Half-Elven,” he said softly. Then, he smiled and shrugged. “I will be honest with you. If my Shalafi were in the full strength of his power when he tried to come Through the Portal, then, no, I could not stop him. No one could. But Raistlin will not be. He will already have expended much of his power in destroying the Queen’s minions and forcing her to face him alone. He will be weak and injured. His only hope to draw the Dark Queen out here onto his plane. Here he can regain strength, here she will be the weaker of the two. And thus, yes, because he will be injured, I can stop him. And, yes, I will stop him!”

Noticing Tanis still looked dubious, Dalamar’s smile twisted. “You see, Half-Elven,” he said coolly, “I have been offered enough to make it worth my while.” With that, he bowed, and—murmuring the words of a spell—vanished.

But as he left, Tanis heard Dalamar’s soft, elven voice speak through the night. “You have looked upon the sun for the last time, Half-Elven. Raistlin and the Dark Queen have met. Takhisis now gathers her minions. The battle begins. Tomorrow, there will be no dawn.”

10

And so, Raistlin, we meet again.

“My Queen.”

You bow before me, wizard?

“This one last time, I do you homage.”

And I bow to you, Raistlin.

“You do me too much honor, Majesty.”

On the contrary, I have watched your gameplay with the keenest pleasure. For every move of mine, you had a counter move. More than once, you risked all you had to win a single turn. You have proved yourself a skilled player, and our game has brought me much amusement. But now it comes to the end, my worthy opponent. You have one gamepiece left upon the board—yourself. Ranged against you is the full might of my dark legions. But, because I have found pleasure in you, Raistlin, I will grant you one favor.

Return to your cleric. She lies dying, alone, in such torment of mind and body as only I can inflict. Return to her. Kneel down beside her. Take her in your arms and hold her close. The mantle of death will fall upon you both. Gently it will cover you, and you will drift into the darkness and find eternal rest.

“My Queen...”

You shake your head.

“Takhisis, Great Queen, truly I thank you for this gracious offer. But I play this game—as you call it—to win. And I will play it to the end.”

And it will be a bitter end for you! I have given you the chance your skill and daring earned for you. You would spurn it?

“Your Majesty is too gracious. I am unworthy of such attention... .”

And now you mock me! Smile your twisted smile while you can, mage, for when you slip, when you fall, when you make that one, small mistake—I will lay my hands upon you. My nails will sink into your flesh, and you will beg for death. But it will not come. The days are eons long here, Raistlin Majere. And every day, I will come to see you in your prison—the prison of your mind. And, since you have provided me with amusement, you will continue to provide me with amusement.

You will be tortured in mind and in body. At the end of each day, you will die from the pain. At the beginning of each night, I will bring you back to life. You will not be able to sleep, but will lie awake in shivering anticipation of the day to come. In the morning, my face will be the first sight you see.

What? You grow pale, mage. Your frail body trembles, your hands shake. Your eyes grow wide with fear. Prostrate yourself before me! Beg my forgiveness!...

“My Queen...”

What, not yet on your knees?

“My Queen... it is your move.”

11

Blasted overcast! If it’s going to storm, I wish it would do it and be done with it,” muttered Lord Gunthar.

Prevailing winds, Tanis thought sarcastically, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He also kept Dalamar’s words to himself, knowing that Lord Gunthar would never believe them. The half-elf was nervous and on edge. He was finding it difficult to be patient with the seemingly complacent knight. Part of it was the strange-looking sky. That morning, as Dalamar had predicted, there came no dawn. Instead, purplish blue clouds, tinged with green and flickering with eerie, multicolored lightning, appeared, boiling and churning above them. There was no wind. No rain fell. The day grew hot and oppressive. Walking their rounds upon the battlements of the High Clerist’s Tower, the knights in their heavy plate-mail armor wiped sweat from their brows and muttered about spring storms.

Only two hours ago, Tanis had been in Palanthas, tossing and turning on the silk sheets of the bed in Lord Amothus’s guest room, pondering Dalamar’s cryptic final words. The half-elf had been up most of the night, thinking about them, and thinking, too, of Elistan.

Word had come to the palace near midnight that the cleric of Paladine had passed from this world into another, brighter realm of existence. He had died peacefully, his head cradled in the arms of a befuddled, kindly old wizard who had appeared mysteriously and left just as mysteriously.

Worrying about Dalamar’s warning, grieving for Elistan, and thinking he had seen too many die, Tanis had just dropped into an exhausted sleep when a messenger arrived for him.

The message was short and terse:

Splashing cold water into his face, rebuffing the attempts of one of Lord Amothus’s servants to help buckle him into his leather armor, Tanis dressed and stumbled out of the Palace, politely refusing Charles’s offer of breakfast. Outside waited a young bronze dragon, who introduced himself as Fireflash, his secret dragon name being Khirsah.

“I am acquainted with two friends of yours, Tanis Half-Elven,” the young dragon said as his strong wings carried them easily over the walls of the sleeping city. “I had the honor to fight in the Battle of the Vingaard Mountains, carrying the dwarf, Flint Fireforge, and the kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, into the fray.”

“Flint’s dead,” Tanis said heavily, rubbing his eyes. He’d seen too many die.

“So I heard,” the young dragon replied respectfully. “I was sorry to hear it. Yet, he led a rich, full life. Death to such a one comes as the final honor.”

Sure, Tanis thought tiredly. And what of Tasslehoff? Happy, good-natured, good-hearted kender, asking nothing more of life than adventure and a pouch full of wonders? If it was true—if Raistlin had killed him, as Dalamar had intimated—what honor was there in his death? And Caramon, poor drunken Caramon—did death at the hands of his twin come as the final honor or was it the final stab of the knife to end his misery?

Brooding, Tanis fell asleep upon the dragon’s back, awaking only when Khirsah landed in the courtyard of the High Clerist’s Tower. Looking around grimly, Tanis’s spirits did not rise. He had ridden with death only to arrive with death, for here Sturm was buried—another final honor. Thus, Tanis was in no good humor when he was ushered into the Lord Gunthar’s chambers, high in one of the tall spires of the High Clerist’s Tower. It commanded an excellent view of sky and land. Staring out the window, watching the clouds with a growing feeling of ominous foreboding, Tanis only gradually became aware that Lord Gunthar had entered and was talking to him.

“I beg your pardon, lord,” he said, turning around.

“Tarbean tea?” Lord Gunthar said, holding up a steaming mug of the bitter-tasting drink.

“Yes, thank you,” Tanis accepted it and gulped it down, welcoming the warmth spreading through his body, ignoring the fact that he had burned his tongue.

Coming over to stand next to Tanis and stare out the window at the storm, Lord Gunthar sipped his tea with a calm that made the half-elf want to rip off the knight’s mustaches.

Why did you send for me? Tanis fumed. But he knew that the knight would insist upon fulfilling the ages-old ritual of politeness before coming to the point.

“You heard about Elistan?” Tanis asked finally.

Gunthar nodded. “Yes, we heard early this morning. The knights will hold a ceremony in his honor here at the Tower... if we are permitted.”

Tanis choked upon his tea and hastily swallowed. Only one thing would prevent the knights from holding a ceremony in honor of a cleric of their god, Paladine—war. “Permitted? Have you had some word, then? News from Sanction? What do the spies—”

“Our spies have been murdered,” Lord Gunthar said evenly.

Tanis turned from the window. “What? How—”

“Their mutilated bodies were carried to the fortress of Solanthas by black dragons and were dropped into the courtyard last evening. Then came this strange storm—perfect cover for dragons and...” Lord Gunthar fell silent, staring out the window, frowning.

“Dragons and what?” Tanis demanded. A possibility was beginning to form in his mind. Hot tea sloshed over his shaking hand. Hastily, he set the cup down on the window ledge.

Gunthar tugged at his mustaches, his frown deepened. “Strange reports have come to us, first from Solanthas, then Vingaard.”

“What reports. Have they seen something? What?”

“They’ve seen nothing. It’s what they’ve heard. Strange sounds, coming from the clouds – or perhaps even from above the clouds.”

Tanis’s mind went back to Riverwind’s description of the Siege of Kalaman. “Dragons?” Gunthar shook his head. “Voices, laughter, doors opening and slamming, rumblings, creakings...”

“I knew it!” Tanis’s clenched fist smote the window ledge. “I knew Kitiara had a plan! Of course! This has to be it!” Gloomily, he stared out into the churning clouds. “A flying citadel!”

Beside him, Gunthar sighed heavily. “I told you I respected this Dragon Highlord, Tanis. Apparently, I did not respect her enough. In one fell swoop, she has solved her problems of troop movements and logistics. She has no need for supply lines, she carries her supplies with her. The High Clerist’s Tower was designed to defend against ground attack. I have no idea how long we can hold out against a flying citadel. At Kalaman, draconians jumped from the citadel, floating down upon their wings, carrying death into the streets. Black-robed magic-users hurled down balls of flame, and with her, of course, are the evil dragons.

“Not that I have any doubts the knights can hold the fortress against the citadel, of course,” Gunthar added sternly. “But it will be a much stiffer battle than I had at first anticipated. I’ve readjusted our strategy. Kalaman survived a citadel’s attack by waiting until most of its troops had been dropped, then good dragons carrying men-at-arms on their backs flew up and took control of the citadel. We’ll leave most of the Knights here in the fortress, of course, to fight the draconians who will drop down upon us. I have about a hundred standing by with bronze dragons ready to fly up and begin the assault on the flying citadel itself.”

It made sense, Tanis admitted to himself. That much of the battle of Kalaman Riverwind had told him. But Tanis also knew that Kalaman had been unable to hold the citadel. They had simply driven it back. Kitiara’s troops, giving up the battle of Kalaman, had been able to easily recapture their citadel and fly it back to Sanction where Kit had, apparently, once more put it to good use. He was about to point this out to Lord Gunthar when he was interrupted.

“We expect the citadel to attack us almost any moment,” Gunthar said, calmly staring out the window. “In fact—”

Tanis gripped Gunthar’s arm. “There!” He pointed.

Gunthar nodded. Turning to an orderly by the door, he said, “Sound the alarm!”

Trumpets pealed, drums beat. The knights took their places upon the battlements of the High Clerist’s Tower with orderly efficiency. “We’ve been on alert most of the night,” Gunthar added unnecessarily.

So disciplined were the knights that no one spoke or cried out when the flying fortress dropped down from the cover of the storm clouds and floated into view. The captains walked their rounds, issuing quiet commands. Trumpets blared their defiance. Occasionally Tanis heard the clinking of armor as, here and there, a knight shifted nervously in place. And then, high above, he heard the beating of dragon wings as several flights of bronze dragons—led by Khirsah—took to the skies from the Tower.

“I am thankful you persuaded me to fortify the High Clerist’s Tower, Tanis,” Gunthar said, still speaking with elaborate calm. “As it was, I was able to call upon only those knights I could muster at practically a moment’s notice. Still, there are well over two thousand here. We are well provisioned. Yes,” he repeated again, “we can hold the Tower even against a citadel, I have no doubt. Kitiara could not have more than a thousand troops in that thing... .”

Tanis wished sourly that Gunthar would quit emphasizing that. It was beginning to sound as if the knight were trying to convince himself. Staring at the citadel as it came nearer and nearer, some inner voice was shouting at him, pummeling him, screaming that something wasn’t right...

And yet he couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. The flying citadel was now plainly visible, having dropped down completely out of the clouds. The fortress absorbed his entire attention. He recalled the first time he had seen it at Kalaman, recalled the riveting shock of the sight, at once horrifying and awe-inspiring. As before, he could only stand and stare.

Working in the depths of the dark temples of the city of Sanction, under the supervision of Lord Ariakas—the commander of the dragonarmies whose evil genius had nearly led to the victory of his Dark Queen—black-robed magic users and dark clerics had managed to magically rip a castle from its foundations and send it up into the skies. The flying citadels had attacked several towns during the war, the last being Kalaman in the war’s final days. It had nearly defeated the walled city that had been well-fortified and expecting assault.

Drifting upon clouds of dark magic, illuminated by flashes of blinding multicolored lightning, the flying citadel came nearer and nearer. Tanis could see the lights in the windows of its three towers, he could hear the sounds that were ordinary when heard upon land but seemed sinister and appalling heard coming from the skies—sounds of voices calling orders, weapons clashing. He could continue to hear, so he thought, the chants of the black-robed magic-users preparing to cast their powerful spells. He could see the evil dragons flying about the citadel in lazy circles. As the flying citadel drew nearer still, he could see a crumbling courtyard on one side of the fortress, its broken walls lying in ruins from where it had been dragged out of its foundation. Tanis watched in helpless fascination, and still that inner voice spoke to him. Two thousand knights! Gathered at the last moment and so ill-prepared! Only a few flights of dragons. Certainly the High Clerist’s Tower might hold out, but the cost would be high. Still, they just needed to hold a few days. By that time, Raistlin would have been defeated. Kitiara would have no more need to try to attack Palanthas. By that time, too, more knights would have reached the High Clerist’s Tower, along with more good dragons. Perhaps they could defeat her here, finally, once and for all.

She had broken the uneasy truce that had existed between the Dragon Highlord and the free people of Ansalon. She had left the haven of Sanction, she had come out into the open. This was their opportunity. They could defeat her, capture her perhaps. Tanis’s throat constricted painfully. Would Kitiara let herself be taken alive? No. Of course not. His hand closed over the hilt of his sword. He’d be there when the knights tried to take the citadel. Perhaps he could persuade her to give herself up. He would see that she was treated justly, as an honorable enemy He could see her so clearly in his mind! Standing defiantly, surrounded by her enemies, prepared to sell her life dearly. And then she would look over, she would see him. Perhaps those glittering, hard dark eyes would soften, perhaps she would drop her sword and hold out her hands What was he thinking about! Tanis shook his head. He was daydreaming like a moon-struck youth. Still, he’d make certain he was with the knights...

Hearing a commotion down on the battlements below, Tanis looked hastily outside, although he really had no need. He knew what was happening—dragonfear. More destructive than arrows, the fear generated by the evil dragons, whose black wings and blue could now be seen against the clouds, struck the knights as they stood waiting upon the battlements. Older knights, veterans of the War of the Lance, held their ground, grimly clutching their weapons, fighting the terror that filled their hearts. But younger knights, who were facing their first dragons in battle, blenched and cowered, some shaming themselves by crying out or turning from the awesome sight before them.

Seeing some of these fear-stricken young knights on the battlements below him, Tanis gritted his teeth. He, too, felt the sickening fear sweep over him, felt his stomach clench and the bile rise to his mouth. Glancing over at Lord Gunthar, he saw the knight’s expression harden, and he knew he experienced the same thing.

Looking up, Tanis could see the bronze dragons who served the Knights of Solamnia flying in formation, waiting above the Tower. They would not attack until attacked—such were terms of the truce that had existed between the good dragons and the evil ones since the end of the war. But Tanis saw Khirsah, the leader, toss his head proudly, his sharp talons flaring in the reflected glare of the lightning. There was no doubt in the dragon’s mind at least, that battle would soon be joined.

Still, that inner voice nagged at Tanis. All too simple, all too easy. Kitiara was up to something...

The citadel flew closer and closer. It looked like the home of some foul colony of insects, Tanis thought grimly. Draconians literally covered the thing! Clinging to every available inch of space, their short, stubby wings extended, they hung from the walls and the foundation, they perched upon the battlements and dangled from the spires. Their leering, reptilian faces were visible in the windows and peered from doorways. Such awed silence reigned in the High Clerist’s Tower (except for the occasional harsh weeping of some knight, overcome by fear) that there could be heard from the citadel above the rustling of the creatures’ wings and, over that, faint sounds of chanting—the mingled voices of the wizards and clerics whose evil power kept the terrible device afloat.

Nearer and nearer it came, and the knights tensed. Quiet orders rang out, swords slid from scabbards, spears were set, archers nocked their arrows, buckets of water stood filled and ready to douse fires, divisions assembled within the courtyard to fight those draconians who would leap down and attack from the skies.

Above, Khirsah aligned his dragons in battle formation, breaking them into groups of twos and threes, hovering, poised to descend upon the enemy like bronze lightning.

“I am needed below,” Gunthar said. Picking up his helm, he put it on and strode out the door of his headquarters to take his place at the observation tower, his officers and aides accompanying him.

But Tanis did not leave, nor even answer Gunthar’s belated invitation to come with them. The voice inside him was growing louder, more insistent. Shutting his eyes, he turned from the window. Blocking out the debilitating dragonfear, blotting out the sight of that grim fortress of death, he fought to concentrate on the voice within.

And finally, he heard it.

“Name of the gods, no!” he whispered. “How stupid! How blind we’ve been! We’ve played right into her hands!”

Suddenly Kitiara’s plan was clear. She might have been standing there with him, explaining it to him in detail. His chest tight with fear, he opened his eyes and leaped toward the window. His fist slammed into the carved stone ledge, cutting him. He knocked the tea mug to the floor, where it shattered. But he noticed neither the blood that flowed from his injured hand nor the spilled tea. Staring up into the eerie, cloud-darkened sky, he watched the floating citadel come nearer and nearer, draw closer and closer.

It was within long-bow-shot range.

It was within spear range.

Looking up, nearly blinded by the lightning, Tanis could see the details on the armor of the draconians, he could see the grinning faces of the mercenary humans who fought in the ranks, he could see the shining scales of the dragons flying overhead.

And then, it was gone.

Not an arrow had flown, not a spell had been cast. Khirsah and the bronze dragons circled uneasily, eyeing their evil cousins with fury, yet constrained by their oaths not to attack those who had not attacked them first. The knights stood upon the battlements, craning their necks to watch the huge, awesome creation fly over them, skimming the topmost spire of the High Clerist’s Tower as it went, sending a few stones tumbling down to crash into the courtyard below. Swearing beneath his breath, Tanis ran for the door, slamming into Gunthar as the knight, a perplexed look upon his face, was coming inside.

“I cant understand,” Gunthar was saying to his aides. “Why didn’t she attack us? What is she doing?”

“She’s attacking the city directly, man!” Tanis gripped Gunthar by the arms, practically shaking him. “It’s what Dalamar said all along! Kitiara’s plan is to attack Palanthas! She’s not going to fool with us and now she doesn’t have to! She’s going over the High Clerist’s Tower!”

Gunthar’s eyes, barely visible beneath the slits of his helm, narrowed. “That’s insane,” he said coldly, tugging on his mustache. Finally, irritably, he yanked his helm off. “Name of the gods, Half-Elven, what kind of military strategy’s that? It leaves the rear of her army unguarded! Even if she takes Palanthas, she hasn’t got strength enough to hold it. She’ll be caught between the walls of the city and us. No! She has to finish us here, then attack the city! Otherwise we’ll destroy her easily. There’s no escape for her!”

Gunthar turned to his aides. “Perhaps this is a feint, to throw us off-guard. Better prepare for the citadel to strike from the opposite direction—”

“Listen to me!” Tanis raved. “This isn’t a feint. She’s going to Palanthas! And by the time you and the knights get to the city, her brother will have returned through the Portal! And she’ll be waiting for him, with the city under her control!”

“Nonsense!” Gunthar scowled. “She can’t take Palanthas that quickly. The good dragons will rise up to fight—Damn it, Tanis, even if the Palanthians aren’t such great soldiers, they can hold her off through sheer numbers alone!” He snorted. “The knights can march at once. We’ll be there within four days.”

“You’ve forgotten one thing,” Tanis snapped, firmly but politely shoving his way past the knight. Turning on his heel, he called out, “We’ve all forgotten one thing—the element that makes this battle even—Lord Soth!”

12

Propelled by his powerful hind legs, Khirsah leaped into the air and soared over the walls of the High Clerist’s Tower with graceful ease. The dragon’s strong wing strokes soon caused himself and his rider to overtake the slowly moving citadel. And yet, noted Tanis grimly, the fortress is moving rapidly enough to arrive in Palanthas by dawn tomorrow.

“Not too close,” he cautioned Khirsah.

A black dragon flew over, circling overhead in large, lazy spirals to keep an eye on them. Other blacks hovered in the distance and, now that he was on the same level as the citadel, Tanis could see the blue dragons as well, flying around the gray turrets of the floating castle. One particularly large blue dragon Tanis recognized as Kitiara’s own mount, Skie.

Where is Kit? Tanis wondered, trying unsuccessfully to peer into the windows, crowded with milling draconians, who were pointing at him and jeering. He had a sudden fear she might recognize him, if she were watching, and he pulled his cloak hood over his head. Then, smiling ruefully, he scratched his beard. At this distance, Kit would see nothing more than a lone rider on dragonback, probably a messenger for the knights.

He could picture clearly what would be occurring within the citadel.

“We could shoot him from the skies, Lord Kitiara,” one of her commanders would say. Kitiara’s remembered laughter rang in Tanis’s ears. “No, let him carry the news to Palanthas, tell them what to expect. Give them time to sweat.”

Time to sweat. Tanis wiped his face. Even in the chill air above the mountains, the shirt beneath his leather tunic and armor was damp and clammy. He shivered with the cold and pulled his cloak more closely about him. His muscles ached; he was accustomed to riding in carriages, not on dragons, and he briefly thought with longing of his warm carriage. Then he sneered at himself. Shaking his head to clear it (why should missing one night’s sleep affect him so?), he forced his mind from his discomfort to the impossible problem confronting him.

Khirsah was trying his best to ignore the black dragon still hovering near them. The bronze increased his speed, and eventually the black, who had been sent simply to keep an eye on them, turned back. The citadel was left far behind, drifting effortlessly above mountain peaks that would have stopped an army dead.

Tanis tried to make plans, but everything he thought of doing involved doing something more important first until he felt like one of those trained mice in a fair who runs round and round upon the little wheel, getting nowhere in a tremendous hurry. At least Lord Gunthar had actually bullied and badgered Amothus’s generals (an honorary title in Palanthas, granted for outstanding community service; not one general now serving had actually been in a battle) into mobilizing the local militia. Unfortunately, the mobilization had been regarded as merely an excuse for a holiday. Gunthar and his knights had stood around, laughing and nudging each other as they watched the civilian soldiers stumble through the drills. Following this, Lord Amothus had made a two-hour speech, the militia—proud of its heroics—had drunk itself into a stupor, and everyone had enjoyed himself immensely.

Picturing in his mind the chubby tavern owners, the perspiring merchants, the dapper tailors and the ham-fisted smithies tripping over their weapons and each other, following orders that were never given, not following those that were, Tanis could have wept from sheer frustration. This, he thought grimly, is what will face a death knight and his army of skeletal warriors at the gates of Palanthas tomorrow.

“Where’s Lord Amothus?” Tanis demanded, shoving his way inside the huge doors of the palace before they were open, nearly bowling over an astonished footman.

“A—asleep, sir,” the footman began, “it’s only midmorning—”

“Get him up. Who’s in charge of the Knights?”

The footman, eyes wide, stammered.

“Damn it!” Tanis snarled. “Who’s the highest ranking knight, dim-wit!”

“That would be Sir Markham, sir, Knight of the Rose,” said Charles in his calm, dignified voice, emerging from one of the antechambers. “Shall I send—”

“Yes!” shouted Tanis, then, seeing everyone in the great entry hall of the palace staring at him as if he were a madman, and remembering that panic would certainly not help the situation, the half-elf put his hand over his eyes, drew a calming breath, and made himself talk rationally.

“Yes,” he repeated in a quiet voice, “send for Sir Markham and for the mage, Dalamar, too.”

This last request seemed to confound even Charles. He considered it a moment, then, a pained expression on his face, he ventured to protest, “I am extremely sorry, my lord, but I have no way to way to send a message to—to the Tower of High Sorcery. No living being can set foot in that accursed grove of trees, not even kender!”

“Damn!” Tanis fumed. “I have to talk to him!” Ideas raced through his mind. “Surely you’ve got goblin prisoners? One of their kind could get through the Grove. Get one of the creatures, promise it freedom, money, half the kingdom, Amothus himself, anything! Just get it inside that blasted Grove—”

“That will be unnecessary, Half-Elven,” said a smooth voice. A black-robed figure materialized within the hallway of the palace, startling Tanis, traumatizing the footmen, and even causing Charles to raise his eyebrows.

“You are powerful,” Tanis remarked, drawing near the dark elf magic-user. Charles was issuing orders to various servants, sending one to awaken Lord Amothus and another to locate Sir Markham. “I need to talk to you privately. Come in here.”

Following Tanis, Dalamar smiled coolly. “I wish I could accept the compliment, Half-Elven, but it was simply through observation that I discerned your arrival, not any magical mind-reading. From the laboratory window, I saw the bronze dragon land in the palace courtyard. I saw you dismount and enter the palace. I have need to talk to you as much as you to me. Therefore, I am here.”

Tanis shut the door. “Quickly, before the others come. You know what is headed this way?”

“I knew last night. I sent word to you, but you had already left,” Dalamar’s smile twisted. “My spies fly on swift wings.”

“If they fly on wings at all,” Tanis muttered. With a sigh, he scratched his beard, then, raising his head, looked at Dalamar intently. The dark elf stood, hands folded in his black robes, calm and collected. The young elf certainly appeared to be someone who could be relied upon to perform with cool courage in a tight spot. Unfortunately, just who he would perform for was open to doubt. Tanis rubbed his forehead. How confusing this was! How much easier it had been back in the old days—he sounded like someone’s grandfather!—when good and evil had been clearly defined and everyone knew which side they were fighting for or against. Now, he was allied with evil fighting against evil. How was that possible? Evil turns in upon itself, so Elistan read from the Disks of Mishakal. Shaking his head angrily, Tanis realized he was wasting time. He had to trust this Dalamar—at least, he had to trust to his ambition.

“Is there any way to stop Lord Soth?”

Dalamar nodded slowly. “You are quick-thinking, Half-Elven. So you believe, too, that the death knight will attack Palanthas?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Tanis snapped. “That has to be Kit’s plan. It’s what equalizes the odds.” The dark elf shrugged. “To answer your question, no, there is nothing that can be done. Not now, at any rate.”

“You? Can you stop him?”

“I dare not leave my post beside the Portal. I came this time because I know Raistlin is still far from it. But every breath we draw brings him nearer. This will be my last chance to leave the Tower. That was why I came to talk to you—to warn you. There is little time.”

“He’s winning!” Tanis stared at Dalamar incredulously.

“You have always underestimated him,” Dalamar said with a sneer. “I told you, he is now strong, powerful, the greatest wizard who has ever lived. Of course, he is winning! But at what cost... at what great cost.”

Tanis frowned. He didn’t like the note of pride he heard in Dalamar’s voice when he talked about Raistlin. That certainly didn’t sound like an apprentice who was prepared to kill his Shalafi if need arose.

“But, to return to Lord Soth,” said Dalamar coldly, seeing more of Tanis’s thoughts on the half-elf’s face than Tanis had intended. “When I first realized that he would undoubtedly use this opportunity to take his own revenge upon a city and a people he has long hated—if one believes the old legends about his downfall—I contacted the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest—”

“Of course!” Tanis gasped in relief. “Par-Salian! The Conclave. They could—”

“There was no answer to my message,” Dalamar continued, ignoring the interruption. “Something strange is transpiring there. I do not know what. My messenger found the way barred and, for one of his—shall we say—light and airy nature, that is not easy.”

“But—”

“Oh”—Dalamar shrugged his black-robed shoulders—“I will continue to try. But we cannot count on them, and they are the only magic-users powerful enough to stop a death knight.”

“The clerics of Paladine—”

“—are new in their faith. In Huma’s day, it was said the truly powerful clerics could call down Paladine’s aid and use certain holy words against death knights, but—if so—there are none now on Krynn who have that power.”

Tanis pondered a moment.

“Kit’s destination will be the Tower of High Sorcery to meet and help her brother, right?”

“And try to stop me,” Dalamar said in a tight voice, his face paling.

“Can Kitiara get through the Shoikan Grove?”

Dalamar shrugged again, but his cool manner was, Tanis noticed, suddenly tense and forced.

“The Grove is under my control. It will keep out all creatures, living and dead.” Dalamar smiled again, but this time, without mirth. “Your goblin, by the way, wouldn’t have lasted five seconds.

However, Kitiara had a charm, given her by Raistlin. If she has it still, and the courage to use it, and if Lord Soth is with her, yes, she might get through. Once inside, however, she must face the Tower’s guardians, no less formidable than those in the Grove. Still, that is my concern—not yours—”

“Too much is your concern!” Tanis snapped. “Give me a charm! Let me inside the Tower! I can deal with her—”

“Oh, yes.” Dalamar returned, amused, “I know how well you dealt with her in the past. Listen, Half-Elven, you will have all you can handle trying to keep control of the city. Besides, you have forgotten one thing—Soth’s true purpose in this. He wants Kitiara dead. He wants her for himself. He told me as much. Of course, he must make it look good. If he can accomplish her death and avenge himself upon Palanthas, he will have succeeded in his objective. He couldn’t care less about Raistlin.”

Feeling suddenly chilled to the very soul, Tanis could not reply. He had, indeed, forgotten Soth’s objective. The half-elf shuddered. Kitiara had done much that was evil. Sturm had died upon the end of her spear, countless had died by her commands, countless more had suffered and still suffered. But did she deserve this? An endless life of cold and dark torment, bound forever in some type of unholy marriage to this creature of the Abyss?

A curtain of darkness shrouded Tanis’s vision. Dizzy, weak, he saw himself teetering on the brink of a yawning chasm and felt himself falling...

There was a dim sensation of being enfolded in soft black cloth, he felt strong hands supporting him, guiding him...

Then nothing.

The cool, smooth rim of a glass touched Tanis’s lips, brandy stung his tongue and warmed his throat. Groggily, he looked up to see Charles hovering over him.

“You have ridden far, without food or drink, so the dark elf tells me.” Behind Charles floated the pale anxious face of Lord Amothus. Wrapped in a white dressing robe, he looked very much like a distraught ghost.

“Yes,” Tanis muttered, pushing the glass away from him and trying to rise. Feeling the room sway beneath his feet, however, he decided he better remain seated. “You are right—I had better have something to eat.” He glanced around for the dark elf. “Where is Dalamar?”

Charles’s face grew stern. “Who knows, my lord? Fled back to his dark abode, I suppose. He said his business with you was concluded. I will, with your leave, my lord, have the cook prepare you breakfast.” Bowing, Charles withdrew, first standing aside to allow young Sir Markham to enter.

“Have you breakfasted, Sir Markham?” Lord Amothus asked hesitantly, not at all certain what was going on and decidedly flustered by the fact that a dark elf magic-user felt free to simply appear and disappear in his household. “No? Then we will have quite a threesome. How do you prefer your eggs?”

Perhaps we shouldn’t be discussing eggs right now, m’lord.” Sir Markham said, glancing at Tanis with a slight smile. The half-elf’s brows had knit together alarmingly and his disheveled and exhausted appearance showed that some dire news was at hand.

Amothus sighed, and Tanis saw that the lord had simply been trying to postpone the inevitable.

“I have returned this morning from the High Clerist’s Tower—” he began.

“Ah,” Sir Markham interrupted, seating himself negligently in a chair and helping himself to a glass of brandy. “I received a message from Lord Gunthar that he expected to engage the enemy this morning. How goes the battle?” Markham was a wealthy young nobleman, handsome, good-natured, carefree, and easy-going. He had distinguished himself in the War of the Lance, fighting under Laurana’s command, and had been made a Knight of the Rose. But Tanis remembered Laurana telling him that the young man’s bravery was nonchalant—almost casual—and totally undependable. (“I always had the feeling,” Laurana said thoughtfully, “that he fought in the battle simply because there was nothing more interesting to do at the time.”)

Remembering her assessment of the young knight, and hearing his cheerful, unconcerned tone, Tanis frowned.

“There wasn’t one,” he said abruptly. An almost comic look of hope and relief dawned in Lord Amothus’s face. At the sight, Tanis nearly laughed, but—fearing it would be hysterical laughter—he managed to control himself. He glanced at Sir Markham, who had raised an eyebrow.

“No battle? Then the enemy didn’t come—”

“Oh, they came,” Tanis said bitterly, “came and went. Right by.” He gestured in the air. “Whoosh.”

“Whoosh?” Amothus turned pale. “I don’t understand.”

“A flying citadel!”

“Name of the Abyss!” Sir Markham let out a low whistle. “A flying citadel.” He grew thoughtful, his hand absently smoothing his elegant riding clothes. “They didn’t attack the High Clerist’s Tower. They’re flying over the mountains. That means—”

“They plan to throw everything they have at Palanthas,” Tanis finished.

“But, I don’t understand!” Lord Amothus looked bewildered. “The knights didn’t stop them?”

“It would have been impossible, m’lord,” Sir Markham said with a negligent shrug. “The only way to attack a flying citadel that stands a chance of succeeding is with flights of dragons.”

“And by terms of the surrender treaty, the good dragons will not attack unless first attacked. All we had at the High Clerist’s Tower was one flight of bronzes. It will take far greater numbers than that—silver and golden dragons, as well—to stop the citadel,” Tanis said wearily.

Leaning back in his chair, Sir Markham pondered. “There are a few silver dragons in the area who will, of course, immediately rise up when the evil dragons are sighted. But there are not many. Perhaps more could be sent for—”

“The citadel is not our gravest danger,” Tanis said. Closing his eyes, he tried to stop the room from spinning. What was the matter with him? Getting old, he supposed. Too old for this.

“It isn’t?” Lord Amothus appeared to be on the verge of collapse from this additional blow but—nobleman that he was—he was doing his best to regain his shattered composure.

“Most assuredly Lord Soth rides with Highlord Kitiara.”

“A death knight!” Sir Markham murmured with a slight smile. Lord Amothus paled so visibly that Charles, returning with the food, set it down at once and hurried to his master’s side.

“Thank you, Charles,” Amothus said in a stiff, unnatural voice. “A little brandy, perhaps.”

“A lot of brandy would be more to the point,” Sir Markham said gaily, draining his glass. “Might as well get good and roaring drunk. Not much use staying sober. Not against a death knight and his legions... .” The young knight’s voice trailed off.

“You gentlemen should eat now,” Charles said firmly, having made his master more comfortable.

A sip of brandy brought some color back to Amothus’s face. The smell of the food made Tanis realize that he was hungry, and so he did not protest when Charles, bustling about efficiently, brought over a table and served the meal.

“Wh—what does it all mean?” Lord Amothus faltered, spreading his napkin on his lap automatically. “I—I’ve heard of this death knight before. My great-great-great grandfather was one of the nobles who witnessed Soth’s trial in Palanthas. And this Soth was the one who kidnapped Laurana, wasn’t he, Tanis?”

The half-elf’s face darkened. He did not reply.

Amothus raised his hands appealingly. “But what can he do against a city?”

Still no one replied. There was, however, no need. Amothus looked from the grim, exhausted face of the half-elf to the young knight, who was smiling bitterly as he methodically stabbed tiny holes in the lace tablecloth with his knife. The lord had his answer.

Rising to his feet, his breakfast untouched, his napkin slipping unnoticed from his lap to the floor, Amothus walked across the sumptuously appointed room to stand before a tall window made of hand-cut glass, crafted in an intricate design. A large oval pane in the center framed a view of the beautiful city of Palanthas. The sky above it was dark and filled with the strange, churning clouds. But the storm above only seemed to intensify the beauty and apparent serenity of the city below. Lord Amothus stood there, his hand resting upon a satin curtain, looking out into the city. It was market day. People passed the palace on their way to the market square, chatting together about the ominous sky, carrying their baskets, scolding their playful children.

“I know what you’re thinking, Tanis,” Amothus said finally, a break in his voice. “You’re thinking of Tarsis and Solace and Silvanesti and Kalaman. You’re thinking of your friend who died at the High Clerist’s Tower. You’re thinking of all those who died and suffered in the last war while we in Palanthas remained untouched, unaffected.”

Still Tanis did not respond. He ate in silence.

“And you, Sir Markham—” Amothus sighed. “I heard you and your knights laughing the other day. I heard the comments about the people of Palanthas carrying their money bags into battle, planning to defeat the enemy by tossing coins and yelling, ‘Go away! Go away’”

“Against Lord Soth, that will do quite as well as swords!” With a shrug and a short, sardonic laugh, Markham held out his brandy snifter for Charles to refill.

Amothus rested his head against the window pane. “We never thought war would come to us! It never has! Through all the Ages, Palanthas has remained a city of peace, a city of beauty and light. The gods spared us, even during the Cataclysm. And now, now that there is peace in the world, this comes to us!” He turned around, his pale face drawn and anguished. “Why? I don’t understand?”

Tanis shoved his plate away. Leaning back, he stretched, trying to ease the cramps in his muscles. I am getting old, he thought, old and soft. I miss my sleep at night. I miss a meal and grow faint. I miss days long past. I miss friends long gone. And I’m sick and tired of seeing people die in some stupid, senseless war! Heaving a sigh, he rubbed his bleary eyes and then, resting his elbows on the table, let his head sink into his hands.

“You talk of peace. What peace?” he asked. “We’ve been behaving like children in a house where mother and father have fought constantly for days and now, at last, they’re quiet and civil. We smile a lot and try to be merry and eat all our vegetables and tiptoe around, scared of making a sound. Because we know, if we do, the fighting will start all over again. And we call this peace!” Tanis laughed bitterly. “Speak one false word, my lord, and Porthios will have the elves on your neck. Stroke your beard the wrong way, and the dwarves will bar the gates to the mountain once again.”

Glancing over at Lord Amothus, Tanis saw the man’s head bow, he saw the delicate hand brush his eyes, his shoulders slump. Tanis’s anger dwindled. Who was he angry at anyway? Fate? The gods?

Rising tiredly to his feet, Tanis walked over to stand at the, window, looking out over the peaceful, beautiful, doomed city.

“I don’t have the answer, my lord,” he said quietly. “If I did, I’d have a Temple built to me and a whole string of clerics following me about, I suppose. All I know is that we can’t give up. We’ve got to keep trying.”

“Another brandy, Charles,” said Sir Markham, holding out his glass once again. “A pledge, gentlemen.” He raised his glass.

“Here’s to trying... Rhymes with dying.”

13

There came a soft knock at the door. Absorbed in his work, Tanis started. “Yes, what is it?” he called.

The door opened. “It is Charles, my lord. You asked that I call you during the changing of the watch.”

Turning his head, Tanis glanced out the window. He had opened it to let in some air. But the spring night was warm and sultry and no breeze stirred. The sky was dark except for the occasional streaks of the eerie pink-tinged lightning that flashed from cloud to cloud. Now that his attention was drawn to it, he could hear the chimes striking Deepwatch, he could hear the voices of the guards newly arrived on duty, he could hear the measured tread of those departing for their rest.

Their rest would be short-lived.

“Thank you, Charles,” Tanis said. “Step in for a moment, will you?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

The servant entered, gently closing the door behind him. Tanis stared for a moment longer at the paper on the desk.

Then, his lips tightening in resolve, he wrote two more lines in a firm, elven hand. Sprinkling sand upon the ink to dry it, he began to reread the letter carefully. But his eyes misted over and the handwriting blurred in his vision. Finally, giving up, he signed his name, rolled up the parchment, and sat holding it in his hand.

“Sir,” said Charles, “are you quite well?”

“Charles...” began Tanis, twisting a ring of steel and gold that he wore upon his finger. His voice died.

“My lord?” Charles prompted.

“This is a letter to my wife, Charles,” Tanis continued in a low voice, not looking at the servant.

“She is in Silvanesti. This needs to get out tonight, before—”

“I quite understand, sir,” Charles said, stepping forward and taking charge of the letter. Tanis flushed guiltily. “I know there are much more important documents than this that need to be going out—dispatches to the knights, and such—but—”

“I have just the messenger, my lord. He is elven, from Silvanesti, in fact. He is loyal and, to be quite honest, sir, will be more than pleased to leave the city on some honorable assignment.”

“Thank you, Charles.” Tanis sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “If something were to happen, I want her to know—”

“Of course you do, my lord. Perfectly understandable. Do not give it another thought. Your seal, perhaps, however?”

“Oh, yes, certainly.” Removing the ring, Tanis pressed it into the hot wax that Charles dripped onto the parchment, imprinting in the sealing wax the image of an aspen leaf.

“Lord Gunthar has arrived, my lord. He is meeting with Lord Markham right now.”

“Lord Gunthar!” Tanis’s brow cleared. “Excellent. Am I—”

“They asked to meet with you, if it is convenient, my lord,” Charles said imperturbably.

“Oh, it’s quite convenient,” Tanis said, rising to his feet. “I don’t suppose there’s been any sign of the cita—”

“Not yet, my lord. You will find the lords in the summer breakfast parlor—now, officially, the war room.”

“Thank you, Charles,” Tanis said, amazed that he had, at last, managed to complete a sentence.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No, thank you. I know the—”

“Very good, my lord.” Bowing, letter in hand, Charles held the door for Tanis, then locked it behind him. After waiting a moment to see if Tanis might have any last minute desires, he bowed again and departed.

His mind still on his letter, Tanis stood alone, thankful for the shadowy stillness of the dimly lit corridor. Then, drawing a shaking breath, he walked firmly off in search of the morning breakfast parlor—now the war room.

Tanis had his hand on the doorknob and was just about to enter the room when he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he saw a figure of darkness materialize out of the air.

“Dalamar?” Tanis said in astonishment, leaving the unopened door to the war room and walking down the hallway toward the dark elf. “I thought—”

“Tanis. You are the one I seek.”

“Do you have news?”

“None that you will like to hear,” Dalamar said, shrugging. “I cannot stay long, our fate teeters on the edge of a knife’s blade. But I brought you this.” Reaching into a black velvet pouch hanging at his side, he took out a silver bracelet and held it out to Tanis.

Taking hold of the bracelet in his hand, Tanis examined it curiously. The bracelet was about four inches in width, made of solid silver. From its width and weight, Tanis guessed, it had been designed to fit on a man’s wrist. Slightly tarnished, it was set with black stones whose polished surfaces gleamed in the flickering torchlight of the corridor. And it came from the Tower of High Sorcery.

Tanis held it gingerly. “Is it—” he hesitated, not sure he wanted to know.

“Magical? Yes,” Dalamar replied.

“Raistlin’s?” Tanis frowned.

“No.” Dalamar smiled sardonically. “The Shalafi needs no such magical defenses as these. It is part of the collection of such objects in the Tower. This is very old, undoubtedly dating back to the time of Huma.”

“What will it do?” Tanis studied the bracelet dubiously, still frowning.

“It makes the one wearing it resistant to magic.”

Tanis raised his head. “Lord Soth’s magic?”

“Any magic. But, yes, it will protect the wearer from the death knight’s power words—‘kill,’ ‘stun,’ ‘blind.’ It will keep the wearer from feeling the effects of the fear he generates. And it will protect the wearer from both his spells of fire and of ice.”

Tanis stared at Dalamar intently. “This is truly a valuable gift! It gives us a chance.”

“The wearer may thank me when and if he returns alive!” Dalamar folded his hands within his sleeves. “Even without his magic, Lord Soth is a formidable opponent, not to mention those who follow him, who are sworn to his service with oaths death itself could not erase. Yes, Half-Elven, thank me when you return.”

“Me?” Tanis said in astonishment. “But—I haven’t wielded a sword in over two years!” He stared at Dalamar intently, suddenly suspicious. “Why me?”

Dalamar’s smile widened. The slanted eyes glinted in amusement. “Give it to one of the knights, half-elf. Let one of them hold it. You will understand. Remember—it came from a place of darkness. It knows one of its own.”

“Wait!” Seeing the dark elf prepared to leave, Tanis caught hold of Dalamar’s black-robed arm.

“Just one more second. You said there was news—”

“It is not your concern.”

“Tell me.”

Dalamar paused, his brows came together in irritation at this delay. Tanis felt the young elf’s arm tense. He’s frightened, Tanis realized suddenly. But even as this thought crossed his mind, he saw Dalamar regain control of himself. The handsome features grew calm, expressionless.

“The cleric, Lady Crysania, has been mortally wounded. She managed to protect Raistlin, however. He is uninjured and has gone on to find the Queen. So Her Dark Majesty tells me.”

Tanis felt his throat constrict. “What about Crysania?” he said harshly. “Did he just leave her to die?”

“Of course.” Dalamar appeared faintly surprised at the question. “She can be of no more use to him.”

Looking down at the bracelet in his hand, Tanis longed to hurl it into the gleaming teeth of the dark elf. But, in time, he remembered that he could not afford the luxury of anger. What an insane, twisted situation! Incongruously, he remembered Elistan going to the Tower, bringing comfort to the archmage...

Turning on his heel, Tanis stalked angrily away. But he gripped the bracelet tightly in his hand.

“The magic is activated when you put it on.” Dalamar’s soft voice floated through Tanis’s haze of fury. He could have sworn the dark elf was laughing.

“What’s the matter, Tanis?” Lord Gunthar asked as the half-elf came into the war room. “My dear fellow, you’re pale as death... .”

“Nothing. I—I just heard some disturbing news. I’ll be all right.” Tanis drew a deep breath, then glanced at the knights. “You don’t look any too good yourselves.”

“Another pledge?” Sir Markham said, raising his brandy snifter.

Lord Gunthar gave him a stern, disapproving glance, which the young knight ignored as he casually quaffed his drink in a gulp.

“The citadel has been sighted. It crossed the mountains. It will be here at dawn.”

Tanis nodded. “About what I had figured.” He scratched his beard, then wearily rubbed his eyes. Casting a glance at the brandy bottle, he shook his head. No, it would probably just send him straight to sleep.

“What’s that you’re holding?” Gunthar asked, reaching out his hand to take the bracelet. “Some sort of elven good luck charm?”

“I wouldn’t touch—” Tanis began.

“Damnation!” Gunthar gasped, snatching his hand back. The bracelet dropped to the floor, landing on a plush, hand-woven rug. The knight wrung his hand in pain.

Bending down, Tanis picked up the bracelet. Gunthar watched him with disbelieving eyes. Sir Markham was choking back laughter.

“The mage, Dalamar, brought it to us. It’s from the Tower of High Sorcery,” Tanis said, ignoring Lord Gunthar’s scowl. “It will protect the wearer from the effects of magic—the one thing that will give someone a chance of getting near Lord Soth.”

“Someone!” Gunthar repeated. He stared down at his hand. The fingers where he had touched the bracelet were burned. “Not only that, but it sent a jolt through me that nearly stopped my heart! Who in the name of the Abyss can wear such a thing?”

“I can, for one,” Tanis returned. It came from a place of darkness. It knows one of its own. “It has something to do with you knights and holy vows to Paladine,” he muttered, feeling his face flush.

“Bury it!” Lord Gunthar growled. “We do not need such help as those of the Black Robes would give us!”

“It seems to me we can use all the help we can get, my lord!” Tanis snapped. “I would also remind you that, odd as it may seem, we’re all on the same side! And now, Sir Markham, what of the plans for defending the city?”

Slipping the bracelet into a pouch, affecting not to notice Lord Gunthar’s glare, Tanis turned to Sir Markham who, though rather startled at this sudden call, quickly rode to Tanis’s rescue with his report.

The Knights of Solamnia were marching from the High Clerist’s Tower. It would be days, at least, before they could reach Palanthas. He had sent a messenger to alert the good dragons, but it seemed unlikely that they, too, could reach Palanthas in time.

The city itself was on the alert. In a brief, spare speech, Lord Amothus had told the citizens what faced them. There had been no panic, a fact Gunthar found hard to believe. Oh, a few of the wealthy had tried to bribe ships’ captains to take them out, but the captains had, to a man, refused to sail into the seas under the threat of such ominous-looking storm clouds. The gates to Old City were opened. Those who wanted to flee the city and risk going out in the wilderness had, of course, been allowed to go. Not many took the chance. In Palanthas, at least the city walls and the knights afforded protection.

Personally, Tanis thought that if the citizens had known what horrors they faced, they would have taken their chances. As it was, however, the women put aside their rich clothing and began filling every available container with water to have available to fight fires. Those who lived in New City (not protected by walls) were evacuated into Old City, whose walls were being fortified as best they could in the little time that remained. Children were bedded down in wine cellars and storm shelters. Merchants opened shops, handing out needed supplies. Armorers gave out weapons, and the forges were still burning, late into the night, for mending swords, shields, and armor.

Looking out over the city, Tanis saw lights in most homes—people preparing for a morning that he knew from experience could never be prepared for.

With a sigh, thinking of his letter to Laurana, he made his bitter decision. But he knew it would entail argument. He needed to lay the groundwork. Turning abruptly, he interrupted Markham.

“What do you guess will be their plan of attack?” he asked Lord Gunthar.

“I think that’s fairly simple.” Gunthar tugged at his mustaches. “They’ll do what they did at Kalaman. Bring the citadel as close as they can get. At Kalaman that wasn’t very close. The dragons held them back. But”—he shrugged “we don’t have near the numbers of dragons they did. Once the citadel is over the walls, the draconians will drop from it and try to take the city from within. The evil dragons will attack—”

“And Lord Soth will sweep through the gates,” Tanis finished.

“The knights should at least get here in time to keep him from looting our corpses,” Sir Markham said, draining his snifter again.

“And Kitiara,” Tanis mused, “will be trying to reach the Tower of High Sorcery. Dalamar says no living being can get through Shoikan Grove, but he also said Kit had a charm, given to her by Raistlin. She might wait for Seth before going, figuring he can help her, as well.”

“If the Tower is her objective,” Gunthar said with emphasis on the if. It was obvious he still believed little of the tale about Raistlin. “My guess is that she will use the battle as cover to fly her dragon over the walls and land as near the Tower as possible. Maybe we could post knights around the Grove to try to stop her—”

“They couldn’t get close enough,” Sir Markham interrupted, adding a belated, “m’lord. The Grove has an unnerving effect on anyone coming within miles of it.”

“Besides, we’ll need the knights to deal with Soth’s legions,” Tanis said. He drew a deep breath... I have a plan, if I may be allowed to propose it?”

“By all means, Half-Elven.”

“You believe that the citadel will attack from above and Lord Soth will come through the front gates, creating a diversion that will give Kit her chance to reach the Tower. Right?”

Gunthar nodded.

“Then, mount what knights we can upon bronze dragons. Let me have Fireflash. Since the bracelet gives me the best defense against Soth, I’ll take him. The rest of the knights can concentrate on his followers. I have a private score to settle with Soth anyway,” Tanis added, seeing Gunthar already shaking his head.

“Absolutely not. You did very well in the last war, but you’ve never been trained! To go up against a Knight of Solamnia—”

“Even a dead Knight of Solamnia!” Sir Markham struck in, with a drunken giggle.

Gunthar’s mustaches quivered in anger, but he contained himself and continued coldly, “—a trained knight, as Soth is trained, and you must fall—bracelet or no bracelet.”

“Without the bracelet, however, my lord, training in swordmanship will matter very little.” Sir Markham pointed out, drinking another brandy. “A chap who can point at you and say ‘die’ has the distinct advantage.”

“Please, sir,” Tanis intervened, “I admit that my formal training has been limited, but my years wearing a sword outnumber yours, my lord, by almost two to one. My elven blood—”

“To the Abyss with your elven blood,” Gunthar muttered, glaring at Sir Markham, who was resolutely ignoring his superior, and lifting the brandy bottle again.

“I will, if I am forced, pull rank, my lord,” Tanis said quietly.

Gunthar’s face reddened. “Damn it, that was honorary!”

Tanis smiled. “The Code makes no such distinction. Honorary or not, I am a Knight of the Rose, and my age—well over one hundred, my lord—gives me seniority.”

Sir Markham was laughing. “Oh, for the gods’ sake, Gunthar, give him your permission to die. What the Abyss difference does it make anyway?”

“He’s drunk,” Gunthar muttered, casting a scathing glance at Sir Markham.

“He’s young,” Tanis replied. “Well, my lord?”

Lord Gunthar’s eyes flashed in anger. As he glared at the half-elf, sharp words of reproval came to his lips. But they were never uttered. Gunthar knew—none better—that the one who faced Soth was placing himself in a situation of almost certain death—magical bracelet or no magical bracelet. He had first assumed Tanis was either too naive or too foolhardy to recognize this. Looking into the half-elf’s dark, shadowed eyes, he realized that, once again, he had misjudged him. Swallowing his words with a gruff cough, Lord Gunthar made a gesture at Sir Markham. “See if you can get him sobered up, Half-Elven. Then I suppose you had better get yourself into position. I’ll have the knights waiting.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Tanis murmured.

“And may the gods go with you,” Gunthar added in a low, choked voice. Gripping Tanis by the hand, he turned and stalked out of the room.

Tanis glanced over at Sir Markham, who was staring intently into the empty brandy bottle with a wry smile. He’s not as drunk as he’s letting on, Tanis decided. Or as he wishes he could be. Turning from the young knight, the half-elf walked over to the window. Looking out, he waited for the dawn.