Test of the Twins

The Return

The gate guard lounged in the dark shadows of the gatehouse of Old City. Outside, he could hear the voices of the other guards, tight and tense with excitement and fear, talking up their courage. There must be twenty of them out there, the old guard thought sourly. The night watch had been doubled, those off duty had decided to stay rather than go back home. Above him, on the wall, he could hear the slow, steady pacing of the Knights of Solamnia. High above him, occasionally, he could hear the creak and flap of a dragon’s wing, or sometimes their voices, speaking to each other in the secret tongue of the dragons. These were the bronze dragons Lord Gunthar had brought from the High Clerist’s Tower, keeping watch in the air as the humans kept watch upon the ground.

All around him he could hear the sounds—the sounds of impending doom. That thought was in the gatekeeper’s mind, though not in those exact words, of course—neither “impending” nor “doom” being a part of his vocabulary. But the knowledge was there, just the same. The gate guard was an old mercenary, he’d been through many of these nights. He’d been a young man like those outside, once, boasting of the great deeds he’d do in the morning. His first battle, he’d been so scared he couldn’t to this day remember a thing about it.

But there’d been many battles after that. You got used to the fear. It became a part of you, just like your sword. Thinking about this battle coming up was no different. The morning would come and, if you were lucky, so would the night.

A sudden clatter of pikes and voices and a general flurry jolted the old guard out of his philosophic musings. Grumbling, but feeling a touch of the old excitement just the same, he poked his head out of the guardhouse.

“I heard something!” a young guard panted, running up, nearly out of breath. “Out—out there! Sounded like armor jingling, a whole troop!”

The other guards were peering out into the darkness. Even the Knights of Solamnia had ceased their pacing and were looking down into the broad highway that ran through the gate from New City into Old. Extra torches had been hastily added to those that already burned on the walls. They cast a bright circle of light on the ground below. But the light ended about twenty feet away, making the darkness beyond seem just that much darker. The old guard could hear the sounds now, too, but he didn’t panic. He was veteran enough to know that darkness and fear can make one man sound like a regiment.

Stumping out of the gatehouse, he waved his hands, adding with a snarl, “Back to yer posts.”

The younger guards, muttering, returned to their positions, but kept their weapons ready. The old guard, hand on his sword hilt, stood stolidly in the middle of the street, waiting. Sure enough, into the light came—not a division of draconians—but one man (who might, however, have been big enough for two) and what appeared to be a kender.

The two stopped, blinking in the torchlight. The old guard sized them up. The big man wore no cloak, and the guard could see light reflecting off armor that might once have gleamed brightly but was now caked with gray mud and even blackened in places, as though he had been in a fire.

The kender, too, was covered with the same type of mud though he had apparently made some effort to brush it off his gaudy blue leggings. The big man limped when he walked, and both he and the kender gave every indication of having recently been in battle.

Odd, thought the gate guard. There’s been no fighting yet, leastways none that we’ve heard tell of.

“Cool customers, both of ’em,” the old guard muttered, noting that the big mans hand rested easily on the hilt of his sword as he looked about, taking stock of the situation. The kender was staring around with usual kender curiosity. The gate guard was slightly startled to see, however, that the kender held in his arms a large, leather-bound book. “State yer business,” the gate guard said, coming forward to stand in front of the two.

“I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender, managing, after a brief struggle with the book, to free a small hand. He held it out to the guard. “And this is my friend, Caramon. We’re from Sol—”

“Our business depends on where we are,” said the man called Caramon in a friendly voice but with a serious expression on his face that gave the gate guard pause.

“You mean you don’t know where you are?” the guard asked suspiciously.

“We’re not from this part of the country” the big man answered coolly. “We lost our map. Seeing the lights of the city, we naturally headed toward it.”

Yeah, and I’m Lord Amothus, thought the guard. “Yer in Palanthas.”

The big man glanced behind him, then back down at the guard, who barely came to his shoulder.

“So that must be New City, behind us. Where are all the people? We’ve walked the length and breadth of the town. No sign of anyone.”

“We’re under alert.” The guard jerked his head. “Everyone’s been taken inside the walls. I guess that’s all you need to know for the present. Now, what’s yer business here? And how is it you don’t know what’s going on? The word’s over half the country by now, I reckon.”

The big man ran his hand across an unshaven jaw, smiling ruefully. “A full bottle of dwarf spirits kinda blots out most everything. True enough, captain?”

“True enough,” growled the guard. And also true enough that this fellow’s eyes were sharp and clear and filled with a fixed purpose, a firm resolve. Looking into those eyes, the guard shook his head. He’d seen them before, the eyes of a man who is going to his death, who knows it, and who has made peace with both the gods and himself.

“Will you let us inside?” the big man asked. “I guess, from the looks of things, you could use another couple of fighters.”

“We can use a man yer size,” the guard returned. He scowled down at the kender. “But I mistrust we should just leave ’im here for buzzard bait.”

“I’m a fighter, too!” the kender protested indignantly. “Why, I saved Caramon’s life once!” His face brightened. “Do you want to hear about it? It’s the most wonderful story. We were in a magical fortress. Raistlin had taken me there, after he killed my fri—But never mind about that. Anyway, there were these dark dwarves and they were attacking Caramon and he slipped and—”

“Open the gate!” the old guard shouted.

“C’mon, Tas,” the big man said.

“But I just got to the best part!”

“Oh, by the way”—the big man turned around, first deftly squelching the kender with his hand—“can you tell me the date?”

“Thirdday, Fifthmonth, 356,” said the guard. “Oh, and you might be wantin’ a cleric to look at that leg of yours.”

“Clerics,” the big man murmured to himself. “That’s right, I’d forgotten. There are clerics now. Thank you,” he called out as he and the kender walked through the gates. The gate guard could hear the kender’s voice piping up again, as he managed to free himself from the big mans hand. “Phew! You should really wash, Caramon. I’ve—blooey! Drat, mud in my mouth!—Now, where was I? Oh, yes, you should have let me finish! I’d just gotten to the part where you tripped in the blood and—”

Shaking his head, the gate guard looked after the two. “There’s a story there,” he muttered, as the big gates swung shut again, “and not even a kender could make up a better one, I’ll wager.”

1

“What’s it say, Caramon?” Tas stood. on tiptoe, trying to peer over the big man’s arm.

“Shh!” Caramon whispered irritably. “I’m reading.” He shook his arm. “Let loose.” The big man had been leafing hurriedly through the Chronicles he had taken from Astinus. But he had stopped turning pages, and was now studying one intently.

With a sigh—after all, he’d carried the book!—Tas slumped back against the wall and looked around. They were standing beneath one of the flaming braziers that Palanthians used to light the streets at night. It was nearly dawn, the kender guessed. The storm clouds blocked the sunlight, but the city was taking on a dismal gray tint. A chill fog curled up from the bay, swirling and winding through the streets.

Though there were lights in most of the windows, there were few people on the streets, the citizens having been told to stay indoors, unless they were members of the militia. But Tas could see the faces of women, pressed against the glass, watching, waiting. Occasionally a man ran past them, clutching a weapon in his hand, heading for the front gate of the city. And once, a door to a dwelling right across from Tas opened. A man stepped out, a rusty sword in his hand. A woman followed, weeping. Leaning down, he kissed her tenderly, then kissed the small child she held in her arms. Then, turning away abruptly, he walked rapidly down the street. As he passed Tas, the kender saw tears flowing down his face.

“Oh, no!” Caramon muttered.

“What? What?” Tas cried, leaping up, trying to see the page Caramon was reading.

“Listen to this—‘on the morning of Thirdday, the flying citadel appeared in the air above Palanthas, accompanied by flights of blue dragons and black. And with the appearance of the citadel in the air, there came before the Gates of Old City an apparition, the sight of which caused more than one veteran of many campaigns to blench in fear and turn his head away.

“‘For there appeared, as if created out of the darkness of the night itself, Lord Soth, Knight of the Black Rose, mounted upon a nightmare with eyes and hooves of flame. He rode unchallenged toward the city gate, the guards fleeing before him in terror.

“‘And there he stopped.

“‘ “Lord of Palanthas,” the death knight called in a hollow voice that came from the realms of death, “surrender your city to Lord Kitiara. Give up to her the keys to the Tower of High Sorcery, name her ruler of Palanthas, and she will allow you to continue to live in peace. Your city will be spared destruction.”

“‘Lord Amothus took his place upon the wall, looking down at the death knight. Many of those around him could not look, so shaken were they by their fear. But the lord—although pale as death himself—stood tall and straight, his words bringing back courage to those who had lost it.”

“‘ “Take this message to your Dragon Highlord. Palanthas has lived in peace and beauty for many centuries. But we will buy neither peace nor beauty at the price of our freedom.”

“‘ “Then buy it at the price of your lives!” Lord Soth shouted. Out of the air, seemingly, materialized his legions thirteen skeletal warriors, riding upon horses with eyes and hooves of flame, took their places behind him. And, behind them, standing in chariots made of human bone pulled by wyvern, appeared banshees—the spirits of those elven women constrained by the gods to serve Soth. They held swords of ice in their hands, to hear their wailing cry alone meant death.

“‘Raising a hand made visible only by the glove of chain steel he wore upon it, Lord Soth pointed at the gate of the city that stood closed, barring his way. He spoke a word of magic and, at that word, a dreadful cold swept over all who watched, freezing the soul more than the blood. The iron of the gate began to whiten with frost, then it changed to ice, then—at another word from Soth—the ice gate shattered.

“‘Soth’s hand fell. He charged through the broken gate, his legions following.

“‘Waiting for him on the other side of the gate, mounted upon the bronze dragon, Fireflash (his dragonish name being Khirsah), was Tanis Half-Elven, Hero of the Lance. Immediately upon sighting his opponent, the death knight sought to slay him instantly by shouting the magical power word, “Die!” Tanis Half-Elven, being protected by the silver bracelet of magic resistance, was not affected by the spell. But the bracelet that saved his life in this first attack, could help him no longer—’”

“‘Help him no longer!’” cried Tas, interrupting Caramon’s reading. “What does that mean?”

“Shush!” Caramon hissed and went on. “‘—help him no longer. The bronze dragon he rode, having no magical protection, died at Soth’s command, forcing Tanis Half-Elven to fight the death knight on foot. Lord Soth dismounted to meet his opponent according to the Laws of Combat as set forth by the Knights of Solamnia, these laws binding the death knight still, even though he had long since passed beyond their jurisdiction. Tanis Half-Elven fought bravely but was no match for Lord Soth. He fell, mortally wounded, the death knight’s sword in his chest—’”

“No!” Tas gasped. “No! We cant let Tanis die!” Reaching up, he tugged on Caramon’s arm. “Let’s go! There’s still time! We can find him and warn him—”

“I cant, Tas,” Caramon said quietly. “I’ve got to go to the Tower. I can sense Raistlin’s presence drawing closer to me. I don’t have time, Tas.”

“You can’t mean that! W e can’t just let Tanis die!” Tas whispered, staring at Caramon, wide-eyed.

“No, Tas, we can’t,” said Caramon, regarding the kender gravely. “You’re going to save him.”

The thought literally took Tasslehoff’s breath away. When he finally found his voice, it was more of a squeak. “Me? But, Caramon, I’m not a warrior! Oh, I know I told the guard that I—”

“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” Caramon said sternly, “I suppose it is possible that the gods arranged this entire matter simply for your own private amusement. Possible—but I doubt it. We’re part of this world, and we’ve got to take some responsibility for it. I see this now. I see it very clearly.” He sighed, and for a moment his face was solemn and so filled with sadness that Tas felt a choking lump rise up in his throat.

“I know that I’m part of the world, Caramon,” Tas said miserably, “and I’d gladly take as much responsibility as I think it likely I can handle. But—it’s just that I’m such a short part of the world—if you take my meaning. And Lord Soth’s such a tall and ugly part. And—”

A trumpet sounded, then another. Both Tas and Caramon fell silent, listening until the braying had died away.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Tas said softly.

“Yes,” Caramon replied. “You better hurry”

Closing the book, he shoved it carefully into an old knapsack Tas had managed to “acquire” when they were in the deserted New City. The kender had managed to acquire some new pouches for himself, as well, plus a few other interesting items it was probably just as well Caramon didn’t know he had. Then, reaching out his hand, the big man laid it on Tas’s head, smoothing back the ridiculous topknot.

“Good-bye, Tas. Thank YOU.”

“But, Caramon!” Tas stared at him, feeling suddenly very lonely and confused. “Wh—where will you be?”

Caramon glanced up into the sky to where the Tower of High Sorcery loomed, a black rent in the storm clouds. Lights burned in the top windows of the Tower where the laboratory—and the Portal—were located.

Tas followed his gaze, looking up at the Tower. He saw the storm clouds lowering around it, the eerie lightning play around it, toying with it. He remembered his one close-up glimpse of the Shoikan Grove.

“Oh, Caramon!” he cried, catching hold of the big man’s hand. “Caramon, don’t... wait... .”

“Good-bye, Tas,” Caramon said, firmly detaching the clinging kender. “I’ve got to do this. You know what will happen if I don’t. And you know what you’ve got to do, too. Now hurry up. The citadel’s probably over the gate by now.”

“But, Caramon—” Tas wailed.

“Tas, you’ve got to do this!” Caramon yelled, his angry voice echoing down the empty street. “Are you going to let Tanis die without trying to help him?”

Tas shrank back. He’d never seen Caramon angry before, at least, not angry at him. And in all their adventures together, Caramon had never once yelled at him. “No, Caramon,” he said meekly. “It’s just... I’m not sure what I can do...”

“You’ll think of something,” Caramon muttered, scowling. “You always do.” Turning around, he walked away, leaving Tas to stare after him disconsolately.

“G-good-bye, Caramon,” he called out after the retreating figure. “I-I wont let you down.”

The big man turned. When he spoke, his voice sounded funny to Tas, like maybe he was choking on something. “I know you won’t, Tas, no matter what happens.” With a wave, he set off again down the street.

In the distance, Tas saw the dark shadows of Shoikan Grove, the shadows no day would ever brighten, the shadows where lurked the guardians of the Tower.

Tas stood for a moment, watching Caramon until he lost him in the darkness. He had hoped, if the truth be told, that Caramon would suddenly change his mind, turn around and shout, “Wait, Tas! I’ll come with you to save Tanis!”

But he didn’t.

“Which leaves it up to me,” Tas said with a sigh. “And he yelled at me!” Snuffling a little, he turned and trudged off in the opposite direction, toward the gate. His heart was in his mud-coated shoes, making them feel even heavier. He had absolutely no idea how he was going to go about rescuing Tanis from a death knight, and, the more he thought about it, the more unusual it seemed that Caramon would give him this responsibility.

“Still, I did save Caramon s life,” Tas muttered. “Maybe he’s coming to realize—”

Suddenly, he stopped and stood stock—still in the middle of the street.

“Caramon got rid of me!” he cried. “Tasslehoff Burrfoot, you have all the brains of a doorknob, as Flint told you many times. He got rid of me! He’s going there to die! Sending me to rescue Tanis was just an excuse!” Distraught and unhappy, Tas stared down the street one way and up it another. “Now, what do I do?” he muttered.

He took a step toward Caramon. Then he heard a trumpet sound again, this time with a shrill, blaring note of alarm. And, rising above it, he thought he could hear a voice, shouting orders—Tanis’s voice.

“But if I go to Caramon, Tanis will die!” Tas stopped. Half turning, he took a step toward Tanis. Then he stopped again, winding his topknot into a perfect corkscrew of indecision. The kender had never felt so frustrated in his entire life.

“Both of them need me!” he wailed in agony. “How can I choose?”

Then—“I know!” His brow cleared. “That’s it!”

With a great sigh of relief, Tas spun around and continued in the direction of the gate, this time at a run.

“I’ll rescue Tanis,” he panted as he took a short-cut through an alley, “and then I’ll just come back and rescue Caramon. Tanis might even be of some help to me.”

Scuttling down the alley, sending cats scattering in a panic, Tas frowned irritably. “I wonder how many heroes this makes that I’ve had to save,” he said to himself with a sniff. “Frankly, I’m getting just a bit fed up with all of them!”

The floating citadel appeared in the skies over Palanthas just as the trumpets sounded for the changing of the watch. The tall, crumbling spires and battlements, the towering stone walls, the lighted windows jammed with draconian troops—all could be seen quite plainly as the citadel floated downward, resting on its foundation of boiling, magical cloud.

The wall of Old City was crammed with men—townsmen, knights, mercenaries. None spoke a word. All gripped their weapons, staring upward in grim silence.

But, after all, there was one word spoken at the sight of the citadel—or several, as it were.

“Oh!” breathed Tas in awe, clasping his hands together, marveling at the sight. “Isn’t it wonderful! I’d forgotten how truly magnificent and glorious the flying citadels are! I’d give anything, anything, to ride on one.” Then, with a sigh, he shook himself. “Not now, Burrfoot,” he said to himself sternly in his Flint voice. “You have work to do. Now”—he looked around—“there’s the gate. There’s the citadel. And there goes Lord Amothus... . My, he looks terrible! I’ve seen better looking dead people. But where’s—Ah!”

A grim processional appeared, marching up the street toward Tas—a group of Solamnic Knights, walking on foot, leading their horses. There was no cheering, they did not talk. Each mans face was solemn and tense, each man knew he walked—most likely—to his death. They were led by a man whose bearded face stood out in sharp contrast to the clean-shaven, mustached faces of the knights around him. And, although he wore the armor of a Knight of the Rose, he did not wear it with the ease of the other knights.

“Tanis always hated plate-mail,” Tas said, watching his friend approach. “And here he is, wearing the armor of a Knight of Solamnia. I wonder what Sturm would have thought of that! I wish Sturm was here right now!” Tas’s lower lip began quivering. A tear sneaked down his nose before he could stop it. “I wish anyone brave and clever was here right now!”

When the Knights drew near the Gate, Tanis stopped and turned to face them, issuing orders in a low voice. The creaking sound of dragon wings came from overhead. Looking up, Tasslehoff saw Khirsah, circling, leading a formation of other bronze dragons. And there was the citadel, coming closer to the wall, dropping down lower and lower.

“Sturm’s not here. Caramon’s not here. No one’s here, Burrfoot,” Tas muttered, resolutely wiping his eyes. “Once again—you’re on your own. Now, what am I going to do?”

Wild thoughts ran through the kender’s mind—everything from holding Tanis at sword point (“I mean it, Tanis, keep those hands in the air!”) to clunking him over the head with a sharp rock (“Uh, say, Tanis, would you mind taking off your helm for a moment?”). Tas was even desperate enough to consider telling the truth (“You see, Tanis, we went back in time, then we went ahead in time, and Caramon got hold of this book from Astinus just as the world was coming to an end, and, in the next to the last chapter, it tells in there how you died, and—”). Suddenly, Tas saw Tanis raise his right arm. There was a flash of silver—

“That’s it,” said Tas, breathing a profound sigh of relief. “That’s what I’ll do—just what I do best...”

“No matter what happens, leave me to deal with Lord Soth,” Tanis said, looking grimly at the knights standing around him. “I want you to swear this, by the Code and the Measure.”

“Tanis, my lord—” began Sir Markham.

“No, I’m not going to argue, Knight. You’ll stand no chance at all against him without magical protection. Each one of you will be needed to fight his legions. Now, either swear this oath, or I will order you off the field. Swear!”

From beyond the closed gate, a deep, hollow voice spoke, calling out for Palanthas to surrender.

The knights glanced at each other, feeling shivers of fear run through their bodies at the inhuman sound. There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the creaking of dragons’ wings overhead as the great creatures—bronze, silver, blue, and black—circled, eyeing each other balefully, waiting for the call to battle. Tanis’s dragon, Khirsah, hovered in the air near his rider, ready to come down upon command.

And then they heard Lord Amothus’s voice—brittle and tight, but strong with purpose—answering the death knight. “Take this message to your Dragon Highlord. Palanthas has lived in peace and beauty for many centuries. But we will buy neither peace nor beauty at the price of our freedom.”

“I swear,” said Sir Markham softly, “by the Code and the Measure.”

“I swear,” came the responses of the other knights after him.

“Thank you,” Tanis said, looking at each of the young men standing before him, thinking that most wouldn’t be alive much longer... . Thinking that he himself—Angrily, he shook his head.

“Fireflash—” The words that would summon his dragon were on Tanis’s lips when he heard a commotion break out at the rear of the line of knights.

“Ouch! Get off my foot, you great lummox!”

A horse whinnied. Tanis heard one of the knights cursing, then a shrill voice answering innocently, “Well, it’s not my fault! Your horse stepped on me! Flint was right about those stupid beasts—”

The other horses, sensing battle and already affected by the tenseness of their riders, pricked their ears and snorted nervously. One danced out of line, his rider grasping at the bridle.

“Get those horses under control!” Tanis called out tensely. “What’s going on—”

“Let me past! Get out of my way. What? Is that dagger yours? You must have dropped it...”

Beyond the gate, Tanis heard the death knight’s voice. “You’ll pay for it with your lives!”

And from the line ahead of him, another voice.

“Tanis, it’s me, Tasslehoff!”

The half-elf’s heart sank. He wasn’t at all certain, at that moment, which voice chilled him more. But there didn’t seem to be time for thought or wonder. Glancing over his shoulder, Tanis saw the gate turn to ice, he saw it shatter... .

“Tanis!” Something had hold of his arm. “Oh, Tanis!” Tas clutched at him. “Tanis! You’ve got to come quickly and save Caramon! He’s going into Shoikan Grove!”

Caramon? Caramon’s dead! was Tanis’s first thought. But then Tas is dead, too. What’s going on? Am I going mad from fear?

Someone shouted. Looking around dazedly, Tanis saw the faces of the knights turn deathly white beneath their helms, and he knew Lord Soth and his legions were entering the gates.

“Mount!” he called, frantically trying to pry loose the kender, who was clinging to him tenaciously.

“Tas! This is no time—Get out of here, damn it!”

“Caramon’s going to die!” Tas wailed. “You’ve got to save him, Tanis!”

“Caramon’s... already... dead!” Tanis snarled. Khirsah landed on the ground beside him, screaming a battle cry. Evil and good—the other dragons shrieked in anger, flying at each other, talons gleaming. In an instant, battle was joined. The air was filled with the flash of lightning and the smell of acid. From above, horns sounded in the floating citadel. There were cries of glee from the draconians, who began eagerly dropping down into the city, their leathery wings spread to break their fall.

And moving closer, the chill of death flowing from his fleshless body, rode Lord Soth.

But, try as he might, Tanis couldn’t shake Tas loose. Finally, swearing beneath his breath, the half-elf got a grip on the writhing kender. Catching hold of Tas around the waist, so angry he was literally choking with rage—Tanis hurled the kender into a corner of a nearby alley.

“And stay there!” he roared.

“Tanis!” Tas pleaded. “You can’t go out there! You’re going to die. I know!”

Giving Tas a last, furious glance, Tanis turned on his heel and ran. “Fireflash!” he shouted. The dragon swooped over to him, landing on the street beside him.

“Tanis!” Tas screamed shrilly. “You cant fight Lord Soth without the bracelet!”

2

The bracelet! Tanis looked down at his wrist. The bracelet was gone! Whirling, he made a lunge for the kender. But it was too late. Tasslehoff was dashing down the street, running as if his life depended on it. (Which, after glimpsing Tanis’s furious face, Tas figured it probably did.)

“Tanis!” cried out Sir Markham.

Tanis turned. Lord Soth sat upon his nightmare, framed by the shattered gates of the city of Palanthas. His flaming-eyed gaze met Tanis’s and held. Even at that distance, Tanis felt his soul shrivel with the fear that shrouds the walking dead.

What could he do? He didn’t have the bracelet. Without it, there’d be no chance. No chance whatsoever! Thank the gods, Tanis thought in that split second, thank the gods I’m not a knight, bound to die with honor.

“Run!” he commanded through lips so stiff he could barely speak. “Fly! There is nothing you can do against these! Remember your oath! Retreat! Spend your lives fighting the living! Even as he spoke, a draconian landed in front of him, its horrible reptilian face twisted in bloodlust. Remembering just in time not to stab the thing, whose foul body would turn to stone, encasing the sword of its killers, Tanis bashed it in the face with the hilt of his weapon, kicked it in the stomach, then leaped over it as it tumbled to the ground.

Behind him, he heard the sounds of horses shrieking in terror and the clattering of hooves. He hoped the knights were obeying his last command, but he could spare no time to see. There was still a chance, if he could get hold of Tas and the magical bracelet...

“The kender!” he yelled to the dragon, pointing down the street at the fleeing, fleet-footed little figure.

Khirsah understood and was off at once, the tips of his wings grazing buildings as he swooped down the broad street in pursuit, knocking stone and brick to the ground.

Tanis ran behind the dragon. He did not look around. He didn’t need to. He could hear, by the agonized cries and screams, what was happening.

That morning, death rode the streets of Palanthas. Led by Lord Soth, the ghastly army swept through the gate like a chill wind, withering everything that stood in its path.

By the time Tanis caught up with the dragon, Khirsah had Tas in his teeth. Gripping the kender upside down by the seat of his blue pants, the dragon was shaking him like the most efficient of jail wardens. Tas’s newly acquired pouches flew open, sending a small hailstorm of rings, spoons, a napkin holder, and a half of a cheese tumbling about the street.

But no silver bracelet.

“Where is it, Tas?” Tanis demanded angrily, longing to shake the kender himself.

“Y you’ll... n-nev-ver... f-find-d-d it-t-t-t,” returned the kender, his teeth rattling in his head.

“Put him down,” Tanis instructed the dragon. “Fireflash, keep watch.”

The floating citadel had come to a stop at the city’s walls, its magic-users and dark clerics battling the attacking silver and bronze dragons. It was difficult to see in the flashes of blinding lightning and the spreading haze of smoke, but Tanis was certain he caught a quick glimpse of a blue dragon leaving the citadel. Kitiara, he thought—but he had no time to spare worrying about her. Khirsah dropped Tas (nearly on his head), and—spreading his wings—turned to face the southern part of the city where the enemy was grouping and where the city’s defenders were valiantly holding them back.

Tanis came over to stare down at the small culprit, who was staring right back at him defiantly as he stood up.

“Tasslehoff,” said Tanis, his voice quivering with suppressed rage, “this time you’ve gone too far. This prank may cost the lives of hundreds of innocent people. Give me the bracelet, Tas, and know this—from this moment on, our friendship ends!”

Expecting some hare—brained excuse or some sniffling apology, the half-elf was not prepared to see Tas regarding him with a pale face, trembling lips, and an air of quiet dignity.

“It’s very hard to explain, Tanis, and I really don’t have time. But your fighting Lord Soth wouldn’t have made any difference.” He looked at the half-elf earnestly. “You must believe me, Tanis. I’m telling the truth. It wouldn’t have mattered. All those people who are going to die would still have died, and you would have died, too, and—what’s worse—the whole world would have died. But you didn’t, so maybe it wont. And now,” Tas said firmly, tugging and twitching his pouches and his clothes into place, “we’ve got to go rescue Caramon.”

Tanis stared at Tas, then, wearily, he put his hand to his head and yanked off the hot, steel helm. He had absolutely no idea what was going on. “All right, Tas,” he said in exhaustion. “Tell me about Caramon. He’s alive? Where is he?”

Tas’s face twisted in worry. “That’s just it, Tanis. He may not be alive. At least not much longer. He’s going to try to get into the Shoikan Grove!”

“The Grove!” Tanis looked alarmed. “That’s impossible!”

“I know!” Tas tugged nervously at his topknot. “But he’s trying to get to the Tower of High Sorcery to stop Raistlin—”

“I see,” Tanis muttered. He tossed the helm down into the street. “Or I’m beginning to, at any rate. Let’s go. Which way?” Tas’s face brightened. “You’re coming? You believe me? Oh, Tanis! I’m so glad! You’ve no idea what a major responsibility it is, looking after Caramon. This way!” he cried, pointing eagerly.

“Is there anything further I can do for you, Half-Elven?” asked Khirsah, fanning his wings, his gaze going eagerly to the battle being fought overhead.

“Not unless you can enter the Grove.”

Khirsah shook his head. “I am sorry, Half-Elven. Not even dragons can enter that accursed woods. I wish you good fortune, but do not expect to find your friend alive.”

Wings beating, the dragon leaped into the air and soared toward the action. Shaking his head gravely, Tanis started off down the street at a rapid pace, Tasslehoff running to keep up.

“Maybe Caramon couldn’t even get that far,” Tas said hopefully. “I couldn’t, the last time Flint and I came. And kender aren’t frightened of anything!”

“You say he’s trying to stop Raistlin?”

Tas nodded.

“He’ll get that far,” Tanis predicted gloomily.

It had taken every bit of Caramon’s nerve and courage to even approach the Shoikan Grove. As it was, he was able to come closer to it than any other living mortal not bearing a charm allowing safe passage. Now he stood before those dark, silent trees, shivering and sweating and trying to make himself take one more step.

“My death lies in there,” he murmured to himself, licking his dry lips. “But what difference should that make? I’ve faced death before, a hundred times!” Hand gripping the hilt of his sword, Caramon edged a foot forward.

“No, I will not die!” he shouted at the forest. “I cannot die. Too much depends on me. And I will not be stopped by... by trees!”

He edged his other foot forward.

“I have walked in darker places than this.” He kept talking, defiantly. “I have walked the Forest of Wayreth. I have walked Krynn when it was dying. I have seen the end of the world. No,” he continued firmly. “This forest holds no terrors for me that I cannot overcome.”

With that, Caramon strode forward and stepped into the Shoikan Grove.

He was immediately plunged into everlasting darkness. It was like being back in the Tower again, when Crysania’s spell had blinded him. Only this time he was alone. Panic clutched him. There was life within that darkness! Horrible, unholy life that wasn’t life at all but living death... Caramon’s muscles went weak. He fell to his hands and knees, sobbing and shivering in terror.

“You’re ours!” whispered soft, hissing voices. “Your blood, your warmth, your life! Ours! Ours! Come closer. Bring us your sweet blood, your warm flesh. We are cold, cold, cold beyond endurance. Come closer, come closer.”

Horror overwhelmed Caramon. He had only to turn and run and he would escape... But, no,” he gasped in the hissing, smothering darkness, “I must stop Raistlin! I must... go... on.,, For the first time in his life, Caramon reached far down within himself and found the same indomitable will that had led his twin to overcome frailty and pain and even death itself to achieve his goal. Gritting his teeth, unable to stand yet determined to move ahead, Caramon crawled on his hands and knees through the dirt.

It was a valiant effort, but he did not get far. Staring into the darkness, he watched in paralyzed fascination as a fleshless hand reached up through the ground. Fingers, chill and smooth as marble, closed over his hand and began dragging him down. Desperately, he tried to free himself, but other hands grasped for him, their nails tearing into his flesh. He felt himself being sucked under. The hissing voices whispered in his ears, lips of bone pressed against his flesh. The cold froze his heart.

“I have failed...”

“Caramon,” came a worried voice.

Caramon stirred.

“Caramon?” Then, “Tanis, he’s coming around!”

“Thank the gods!”

Caramon opened his eyes. Looking up, he stared into the face of the bearded half-elf, who was looking at him with an expression of relief mingled with puzzlement, amazement, and admiration.

“Tanis!” Sitting up groggily, still numb with horror, Caramon gripped his friend in his strong arms, holding him fast, sobbing in relief.

“My friend!” Tanis said, and then was prevented from saying anything more by his own tears choking him.

“Are you all right, Caramon?” Tas asked, hovering near.

The big man drew a shivering breath. “Yes,” he said, putting his head into his shaking hands. “I guess so.”

“That was the bravest thing I have seen any man do,” Tanis said solemnly, leaning back to rest upon his heels as he stared at Caramon. “The bravest... and the stupidest.”

Caramon flushed. “Yeah,” he muttered, “well, you know me.”

“I used to,” Tanis said, scratching his beard. His gaze took in the big man’s splendid physique, his bronze skin, his expression of quiet, firm resolve. “Damn it, Caramon! A month ago, you passed out dead drunk at my feet! Your gut practically dragged the floor! And now—”

“I’ve lived years, Tanis,” Caramon said, slowly getting to his feet with Tas’s help. “That’s all I can tell you. But, what happened? How did I get out of that horrible place?” Glancing behind him, he saw the shadows of the trees far down at the end of the street, and he could not help shuddering.

“I found you,” Tanis said, rising to his feet. “They—those things—were dragging you under. You would have had an uneasy resting place there, my friend.”

“How did you get in?”

“This,” Tanis said, smiling and holding up a silver bracelet.

“It got you in? Then maybe—”

“No, Caramon,” Tanis said, carefully tucking the bracelet back inside his belt with a sidelong glance at Tas, who was looking extremely innocent. “Its magic was barely strong enough to get me to the edge of those cursed woods. I could feel its power dwindling—”

Caramon’s s eager expression faded. “I tried our magical device, too,” he said, looking at Tas. “It doesn’t work either. I didn’t much expect it to. It wouldn’t even get us through the Forest of Wayreth. But I had to try. I-I couldn’t even get it to transform itself! It nearly fell apart in my hands, so I left it alone.” He was silent for a moment, then, his voice shaking with desperation, he burst out, “Tanis, I have to reach the Tower!” His hands clenched into fists. “I can’t explain, but I’ve seen the future, Tanis! I must go into the Portal and stop Raistlin. I’m the only one who can!”

Startled, Tanis laid a calming hand on the big man’s shoulder. “So Tas told me—sort of. But, Caramon, Dalamar’s there... and... how in the name of the gods can you get inside the Portal anyway?”

“Tanis,” Caramon said, looking at his friend with such a serious, firm expression that the half-elf blinked in astonishment, “you cannot understand and there is no time to explain. But you’ve got to believe me. I must get into that Tower!”

“You’re right,” Tanis said, after staring at Caramon in mystified wonder, “I don’t understand. But I’ll help you, if I can, if it’s at all possible.”

Caramon sighed heavily, his head drooping, his shoulders slumping. “Thank you, my friend,” he said simply. “I’ve been so alone through all this. If it hadn’t been for Tas—”

He looked over at the kender, but Tas wasn’t listening. His gaze was fixed with rapt attention on the flying citadel, still hovering above the city walls. The battle was raging in the air around it, among the dragons, and on the ground below, as could be seen from the thick columns of smoke rising from the south part of the city, the sounds of screams and cries, the clash of arms, and the clattering of horses’ hooves.

“I’ll bet a person could fly that citadel to the Tower,” Tas said, staring at it with interest. “Whoosh!

Right over the Grove. After all, its magic is evil and the Grove’s magic is evil and it’s pretty big—the citadel, that is, not the Grove. It would probably take a lot of magic to stop it and—”

“Tas!”

The kender turned to find both Caramon and Tanis standing, staring at him.

“What?” he cried in alarm. “I didn’t do it! It’s not my fault—”

“If we could only get up there!” Tanis stared at the citadel.

“The magical device!” Caramon cried in excitement, fishing it out of the inner pocket of the shirt he wore beneath his armor. “This will take us there!”

“Take us where?” Tasslehoff had suddenly realized something was going on. “Take us...”—he followed Tanis’s gaze—“there? There!” The kender’s eyes shone as brightly as stars. “Really? Truly? Into the flying citadel! That’s so wonderful! I’m ready. Let’s go!” His gaze went to the magical device Caramon was holding in his hand. “But that only works for two people, Caramon. How will Tanis get up?”

Caramon cleared his throat uncomfortably, and comprehension dawned upon the kender.

“Oh, no!” Tas wailed. “No!”

“I’m sorry, Tas,” Caramon said, his trembling hands hastily transforming the small, nondescript pendant into the brilliant, bejeweled sceptre, “but we’re going to have a stiff fight on our hands to get inside that thing—”

“You must take me, Caramon!” Tas cried. “It was my idea! I can fight!” Fumbling in his belt, he drew his little knife. “I saved your life! I saved Tanis’s life!”

Seeing by the expression on Caramon’s face that he was going to be stubborn about this, Tas turned to Tanis and threw his arms around him pleadingly. “Take me with you! Maybe the device will work with three people. Or rather two people and a kender. I’m short. It may not notice me! Please!”

“No, Tas,” Tanis said firmly. Prying the kender loose, he moved over to stand next to Caramon.

Raising a warning finger, he cautioned—with a look Tas knew well. “And I mean it this time!”

Tas stood there with an expression so forlorn that Caramon’s heart misgave him. “Tas,” he said softly, kneeling down beside the distraught kender, “you saw what’s going to happen if we fail! I need Tanis with me—I need his strength, his sword. You understand, don’t you?”

Tas tried to smile, but his lower lip quivered. “Yes, Caramon, I understand. I’m sorry”

“And, after all, it was your idea,” Caramon added solemnly, getting to his feet.

While this thought appeared to comfort the kender, it didn’t do a lot for the confidence of the half-elf. “Somehow,” Tanis muttered, “that has me worried.” So did the expression on the kender’s face. “Tas”—Tanis assumed his sternest air as Caramon moved to stand beside him once more—“promise me that you will find somewhere safe and stay there and that you’ll keep out of mischief! Do you promise?”

Tas’s face was the picture of inner turmoil—he bit his lip, his brows knotted together, he twisted his topknot clear up to the top of his head. Then—suddenly—his eyes widened. He smiled, and let go of his hair, which tumbled down his back. “Of course, I promise, Tanis,” he said with expression of such sincere innocence that the half-elf groaned.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. Caramon was already reciting the magical chant and manipulating the device. The last glimpse Tanis had, before he vanished into the swirling mists of magic, was of Tasslehoff standing on one foot, rubbing the back of his leg with the other, and waving goodbye with a cheerful smile.

3

“Fireflash!” said Tasslehoff to himself as soon as Tanis and Caramon had vanished from his sight. Turning, the kender ran down the street toward the southern end of town where the fighting was heaviest. “For,” he reasoned, “that’s where the dragons are probably doing their battling.”

It was then that the unfortunate flaw in his scheme occurred to Tas. “Drat!” he muttered, stopping and staring up into the sky that was filled with dragons snarling and clawing and biting and breathing their breath weapons at each other in rage. “Now, how am I ever going to find him in that mess?”

Drawing a deep, exasperated breath, the kender promptly choked and coughed. Looking around, he noticed that the air was getting extremely smoky and that the sky, formerly gray with the dawn beneath the storm clouds, was now brightening with a fiery glow. Palanthas was burning.

“Not exactly a safe place to be,” Tas muttered. “And Tanis told me to find a safe place. And the safest place I know is with him and Caramon and they’re up there in that citadel right now, probably getting into no end of trouble, and I’m stuck here in a town that’s being burned and pillaged and looted.” The kender thought hard. “I know!” he said suddenly. “I’ll pray to Fizban! It worked a couple of times—well, I think it worked. But—at any rate—it can’t hurt.”

Seeing a draconian patrol coming down the street and not wanting any interruption, Tas ducked down an alley where he crouched behind a refuse pile and looked up into the sky. “Fizban,” he said solemnly, “this is it! If we don’t get out of this one, then we might just as soon toss the silver down the well and move in with the chickens, as my mother used to say, and—though I’m not too certain what she had in mind it certainly does sound dire. I need to be with Tanis and Caramon. You know they can’t manage things without me. And to do that, I need a dragon. Now, that isn’t much. I could have asked for a lot more—like maybe you just skipping the middle man and whooshing me up there. But I didn’t. Just one dragon. That’s it.”

Tas waited.

Nothing happened.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Tas eyed the sky sternly and waited some more.

Still nothing.

Tas heaved a sigh. “All right, I admit it. I’d give the contents of one pouch—maybe even two—for the chance to fly in the citadel. There, that’s the truth. The rest of the truth at any rate. And I did always find your hat for you...

But, despite this magnanimous gesture, no dragon appeared.

Finally, Tas gave up. Realizing that the draconian patrol had passed on by, he rose up from behind the garbage heap and made his way back out of the alley onto the street.

“Well,” he muttered,. “I suppose you’re busy, Fizban, and—”

At that instant, the ground lifted beneath Tas’s feet, the air filled with broken rock and brick and debris, a sound like thunder deafened the kender, and then... silence.

Picking himself up, brushing the dust off his leggings, Tas peered through the smoke and rubble, trying to see what had happened. For a moment, he thought that perhaps another building had been dropped on him, like at Tarsis. But then he saw that wasn’t the case.

A bronze dragon lay on its back in the middle of the street. It was covered with blood, its wings, spread over the block, had crushed several buildings, its tail lay across several more. Its eyes were closed, there were scorch marks up and down its flanks, and it didn’t appear to be breathing.

“Now this,” said Tas irritably, staring at the dragon, “was not what I had in mind!”

At that moment, however, the dragon stirred. One eye flickered open and seemed to regard the kender with dazed recollection.

“Fireflash!” Tas gasped, running up one of the huge legs to look the wounded dragon in the eye. “I was looking for you! Are—are you hurt badly?”

The young dragon seemed about to try to reply when a dark shadow covered both of them.

Khirsah’s eyes flared open, he gave a soft snarl and tried feebly to raise his head, but the effort seemed beyond him. Looking up, Tas saw a large black dragon swooping toward them, apparently intent on finishing off his victim.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Tas muttered. “This is my bronze! Fizban sent him to me. Now, how does one fight a dragon?”

Stories of Huma came to the kender’s mind, but they weren’t much help, since he didn’t have a dragonlance, or even a sword. Pulling out his small knife, he looked at it hopefully, then shook his head and shoved it back in his belt. Well, he’d have to do the best he could.

“Fireflash,” he instructed the dragon as he clamored up on the creature’s broad, scaled stomach.

“You just lie there and keep quiet, all right? Yes, I know all about how you want to die honorably, fighting your enemy. I had a friend who was a Knight of Solamnia. But right now we can’t afford to be honorable. I have two other friends who are alive right now but who maybe won’t be if you can’t help me get to them. Besides, I saved your life once already this morning, although that’s probably not too obvious at the moment, and you owe me this.”

Whether Khirsah understood and was obeying orders or had simply lost consciousness, Tas couldn’t be certain. Anyway, he didn’t have time to worry about it. Standing on top of the dragon’s stomach, he reached deep into one of his pouches to see what he had that might help and out came Tanis’s silver bracelet.

“You wouldn’t think he’d be so careless with this,” Tas muttered to himself as he put it on his arm.

“He must have dropped it when he was tending to Caramon. Lucky I picked it up. Now—” Raising his arm, he pointed at the black dragon, who was hovering above, its jaws gaping open, ready to spew its deadly acid on its victim.

“Just hold it!” the kender shouted. “This dragon corpse is mine! I found it. Well... it found me, so to speak. Nearly squashed me into the ground. So just clear out and don’t ruin it with that nasty breath of yours!”

The black dragon paused, puzzled, staring down. She had, often enough, given over a prize or two to draconians and goblins, but never—that she could recollect—to a kender. She, too, had been injured in the battle and was feeling rather light-headed from loss of blood and a clout on the nose, but something told her this wasn’t right. She couldn’t recollect ever having met an evil kender. She had to admit, however, that there might be a first time. This one did wear a bracelet of undoubtedly black magic, whose power she could feel blocking her spells.

“Do you know what I can get for dragon’s teeth in Sanction these days?” the kender shouted. “To say nothing of the claws. I know a wizard paying thirty steel pieces for one claw alone!”

The black dragon scowled. This was a stupid conversation. She was hurting and angry. Deciding to simply destroy this irritating kender along with her enemy, she opened her mouth... when she was suddenly struck from behind by another bronze. Shrieking in fury, the black forgot her prey as she fought for her life, clawing frantically to gain air space, the bronze following.

Heaving a vast sigh, Tas sat down on Khirsah’s stomach.

“I thought we were gone for sure there,” the kender muttered, pulling off the silver bracelet and stuffing it back into his pouch. He felt the dragon stir beneath him, drawing a deep breath. Sliding down the dragon’s scaly side, Tas landed on the ground.

“Fireflash? Are—are you very much hurt?” How did one heal a dragon anyway? “I-I could go look for a cleric, though I suppose they’re all pretty busy right now, what with the battle going on and everything—”

“No, kender,” said Khirsah in a deep voice, “that will not be necessary.” Opening his eyes, the dragon shook his great head and craned his long neck to look around. “You saved my life,” he said, staring at the kender in some confusion.

“Twice,” Tas pointed out cheerfully. “First there was this morning with Lord Soth. My friend, Caramon—you don’t know him—has this book that tells what will happen in the future—or rather what won’t happen in the future, now that we’re changing it. Anyway, you and Tanis would have fought Lord Soth and you both would have died only I stole the bracelet so now you didn’t. Die, that is.”

“Indeed.” Rolling over on his side, Khirsah extended one huge leathery wing up into the smoky air and examined it closely. It was cut and bleeding, but had not been torn. He proceeded to examine the other wing in similar fashion while Tas watched, enchanted.

“I think I would like to be a dragon,” he said with a sigh.

“Of course.” Khirsah slowly twisted his bronze body over to stand upon his taloned feet, first extracting his long tail from the rubble of a building it had crushed. “We are the chosen of the gods. Our life spans are so long that the lives of the elves seem as brief as the burning of a candle to us, while the lives of humans and you kender are but as falling stars. Our breath is death, our magic so powerful that only the greatest wizards outrank us.”

“I know,” said Tasslehoff, trying to conceal his impatience. “Now, are you certain everything works?”

Khirsah himself concealed a smile. “Yes, Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” the dragon said gravely, flexing his wings, “everything, um... works, as you put it.” He shook his head. “I am feeling a little groggy, that is all. And so, since you have saved my life, I—”

“Twice.”

“Twice,” the dragon amended, “I am bound to perform a service for you. What do you ask of me?”

“Take me up to the flying citadel!” Tas said, all prepared to climb up on the dragons back. He felt himself being hoisted in the air by his shirt collar which was hooked in one of Khirsah’s huge claws. “Oh, thanks for the lift. Though I could have made it on my own—”

But he was not being placed upon the dragon’s back. Rather he found himself confronting Khirsah eye to eye.

“That would be extremely dangerous—if not fatal—for you, kender,” Khirsah said sternly. “I cannot allow it. Let me take you to the Knights of Solamnia, who are in the High Clerist’s Tower—”

“I’ve been to the High Clerist’s Tower!” Tas wailed. “I must get to the flying citadel! You see, uh, you see—Tanis Half-Elven! You know him? He’s up there, right now, and, uh—He left me here to get some important, uh, information for him and”—Tas finished in a rush—“I’ve got it and now I’ve got to get to him with it.”

“Give me the information,” Khirsah said. “I will convey it to him.”

“N—no, no, that—uh—won’t work at all,” Tas stammered, thinking frantically. “It—it’s—uh—in kenderspeak! And and it can’t be translated into—er—Common. You don’t speak—uh—kenderspeak, do you, Fireflash?”

“Of course,” the dragon was about to say. But, looking into Tasslehoff’s hopeful eyes, Khirsah snorted. “Of course not!” he said scornfully. Slowly, carefully, he deposited the kender on his back, between his wings. “I will take you to Tanis Half Elven, if that is your wish. There is no dragonsaddle, since we are not fighting using mounted riders, so hold onto my mane tightly.”

“Yes, Fireflash,” Tas shouted gleefully, settling his pouches about him and gripping the dragon’s bronze mane with both small hands. A sudden thought occurred to him. “Say, Fireflash,” he cried, “you won’t be doing any adventuresome things up there—like rolling over upside down or diving straight for the ground—will you? Because, while they certainly are entertaining, it might be rather uncomfortable for me since I’m not strapped in or anything...”

“No,” Khirsah replied, smiling. “I will take you there as swiftly as possible so that I may return to the battle.”

“Ready when you are!” Tas shouted, kicking Khirsah’s flanks with his heels as the bronze dragon leaped into the air. Catching the wind currents, he rose up into the sky and soared over the city of Palanthas.

It was not a pleasant ride. Looking down, Tas caught his breath. Almost all of New City was in flames. Since it had been evacuated, the draconians swept through it unchallenged, systematically looting and burning. The good dragons had been able to keep the blue and black dragons from completely destroying Old City—as they had destroyed Tarsis—and the city’s defenders were holding their own against the draconians. But Lord Soth’s charge had been costly. Tas could see, from his lofty vantage point, the bodies of knights and their horses scattered about the streets like tin soldiers smashed by a vengeful child. And, while he watched, he could see Soth riding on unchecked, his warriors butchering any living thing that crossed their path, the banshees’ frightful wail rising above the cries of the dying.

Tas swallowed painfully. “Oh, dear,” he whispered, “suppose this is my fault! I don’t really know, after all. Caramon never got to read any farther in the book! I just supposed No,” Tas answered himself firmly, “if I hadn’t save Tanis, then Caramon would have died in the Grove. I did what I had to do and, since it’s such a muddle, I won’t think about it, ever again.”

To take his mind off his problems—and the horrible things he could see happening on the ground below—Tas looked around, peering through the smoke, to see what was happening in the skies. Catching a glimpse of movement behind him, he saw a large blue dragon rising up from the streets near Shoikan Grove. “Kitiara’s dragon!” Tas murmured, recognizing the splendid, deadly Skie. But the dragon had no rider, Kitiara was nowhere to be seen.

“Fireflash!” Tas called out warningly, twisting around to watch the blue dragon, who had spotted them and was changing his direction to speed toward them.

“I am aware of him,” Khirsah said coolly, glancing toward Skie. “Do not worry, we are near your destination. I will deposit you, kender, then return to deal with my enemy.”

Turning, Tas saw that they were indeed very near the flying citadel. All thoughts of Kitiara and blue dragons went right out of his head. The citadel was even more wonderful up close than from down below. He could see quite clearly the huge, jagged chunks of rock hanging beneath it—what had once been the bedrock on which it was built.

Magical clouds boiled about it, keeping it afloat, lightning sizzled and crackled among the towers. Studying the citadel itself, Tas saw giant cracks snaking up the sides of the stone fortress—structural damage resulting from the tremendous force necessary to rip the building from the bones of the earth. Light gleamed from the windows of the citadel’s three tall towers and from the open portcullis in front, but Tas could see no outward signs of life. He had no doubt, however, that there would be all kinds of life inside!

“Where would you like to go?” Khirsah asked, a note of impatience in his voice.

“Anywhere’s fine, thank you,” Tas replied politely, understanding that the dragon was eager to get back to battle.

“I don’t think the main entrance would be advisable,” said the dragon, swerving suddenly in his flight. Banking sharply, he circled around the citadel. “I will take you to the back.”

Tas would have said “thank you” again but his stomach had, for some unaccountable reason, suddenly taken a plunge for the ground while his heart leaped into his throat as the dragons circling motion turned them both sideways in the air. Then Khirsah leveled out and, swooping downward, landed smoothly in a deserted courtyard. Occupied for the moment with getting his insides sorted out, Tas was barely able to slide off the dragons back and leap down into the shadows without worrying about the social amenities.

Once on the solid ground (well, sort of solid ground), however, the kender felt immensely more himself.

“Good-bye, Fireflash!” he called, waving his small hand. “Thank you! Good luck!”

But if the bronze heard him, he did not answer. Khirsah was climbing rapidly, gaining air space. Zooming up after him came Skie, his red eyes glowing with hatred. With a shrug and a small sigh, Tas left them to their battle. Turning around, he studied his surroundings.

He was standing at the back of the fortress upon half of a courtyard, the other half having apparently been left behind when the citadel was dragged from the ground. Noticing that he was, in fact, uncomfortably near the edge of the broken stone flagging, Tas hurried toward the wall of the fortress itself. He moved softly, keeping to the shadows with the unconsciously adept stealth that kender are born possessing.

Pausing, he looked around. There was a back door leading into the courtyard, but it was a huge, wooden door, banded with iron bars. And, while it did have a most interesting looking lock that Tas’s finger itched to try, the kender figured, with a sigh, that it probably had a very interesting looking guard standing on the other side as well. He’d do much better creeping in a window, and there happened to be a lighted window, right above him.

Way above him.

“Drat!” Tas muttered. The window was at least six feet off the ground. Glancing about, Tas found a chunk of broken rock and, with much pushing and shoving, managed to maneuver it over beneath the window. Climbing up on it, he peered cautiously inside.

Two draconians lay in a heap of stone upon the floor, their heads smashed. Another draconian lay dead near them, its head completely severed from its body. Other than the corpses, there was no one or nothing else in the room. Standing on tiptoe, Tas poked his head inside, listening. Not too far away, he could hear the sounds of metal clashing and harsh shouts and yells and, once, a tremendous roar.

“Caramon!” said Tas. Crawling through the window, he leaped down onto the floor, pleased to notice that, as yet, the citadel was holding perfectly still and didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Listening again, he could hear the familiar roaring grow louder, mingled with Tanis’s swearing.

“How nice of them,” Tas said, nodding in satisfaction as he crept across the room. “They’re waiting for me.”

Emerging into a corridor with blank stone walls, Tas paused a moment to get his bearings. The sounds of battle were above him. Peering down the torch lit hall, Tas saw a staircase and headed in that direction. As a precaution, he drew his little knife, but he met no one. The corridor was empty and so were the narrow, steep stairs.

“Humpf,” Tas muttered, “certainly a much safer place to be than the city, right now. I must remember to mention that to Tanis. Speaking of whom, where can he and Caramon be and how do I get there?”

After climbing almost straight upward for about ten minutes, Tas stopped, staring up into the torchlit darkness. He was, he realized, ascending a narrow stair sandwiched between the inner and outer walls of one of the citadel’s towers. He could still hear the battle raging—now it sounded like Tanis and Caramon were right on the other side of the wall from him—but he couldn’t see any way to get through to them. Frustrated—and with tired legs—he stopped to think.

I can either go back down and try another way, he reasoned, or I can keep going. Back down—while easier on the feet—is likely to be more crowded. And there must be a door up here somewhere, or else why have a stair?

That line of logic appealing to him, Tas decided to keep going up, even though it meant that the sounds of battle seemed to be below him now instead of above him. Suddenly, just as he was beginning to think that a drunken dwarf with a warped sense of humor had built this stupid staircase, he arrived at the top and found his door.

“Ah, a lock!” he said, rubbing his hands. He hadn’t had a chance to pick one in a long time, and he was afraid he might be getting rusty. Examining the lock with a practiced eye, he gingerly and delicately placed his hand upon the door handle. Much to his disappointment, it opened easily.

“Oh, well,” he said with a sigh, “I don’t have my lockpicking tools anyway.” Cautiously pushing on the door, he peeped out. There was nothing but a wooden railing in front of him. Tas shoved the door open a bit more and stepped through it to find himself standing on a narrow balcony that ran around the inside of the tower.

The sounds of fighting were much clearer, reverberating loudly against the stone. Hurrying across the wooden floor of the balcony, Tas leaned over the edge of the railing, peering down below at the source of the sounds of wood smashing and swords clanging and cries and thuds.

“Hullo, Tanis. Hullo, Caramon!” he called in excitement. “Hey, have you figured out how to fly this thing yet?”

4

Trapped on an other balcony several flights below the one Tas leaned over, Tanis and Caramon were fighting for their lives on the opposite side of the tower from where the kender was standing. What appeared to be a small army of draconians and goblins were crammed on the stairs below them.

The two warriors had barricaded themselves behind a huge wooden bench which they had dragged across the head of the stairs. Behind them was a door, and it looked to Tas as if they had climbed up the stairs toward the door in an effort to escape but had been stopped before they could get out.

Caramon, his arms covered with green blood up to his elbows, was bashing heads with a hunk of wood he had ripped loose from the balcony—a more effective weapon than a sword when fighting these creatures whose bodies turned to stone. Tanis’s sword was notched—he had been using it as a club—and he was bleeding from several cuts through the slashed chain mail on his arms, and there was a large dent in his breastplate. As far as Tas could tell from his first fevered glance, matters appeared to be at a stalemate. The draconians couldn’t get close enough to the bench to haul it out of the way or climb over it. But, the moment Caramon and Tanis left their position, it would be overrun.

“Tanis! Caramon!” Tas shouted. “Up here!”

Both men glanced around in astonishment at the sound of the kender’s voice. Then Caramon, catching hold of Tanis, pointed.

“Tasslehoff!” Caramon called, his booming voice echoing in the tower chamber. “Tas! This door, behind us! It’s locked! We cant get out!”

“I’ll be right there,” Tas called in excitement, climbing up onto the railing and preparing to leap down into the thick of things.

“No!” Tanis screamed. “Unlock it from the other side! The other side!” He pointed frantically.

“Oh,” Tas said in disappointment. “Sure, no problem.” He climbed back down and was just turning to his doorway when he saw the draconians on the stairs below Tanis and Caramon suddenly cease fighting, their attention apparently caught by something. There was a harsh word of command, and the draconians began shoving and pushing each other to one side, their faces breaking into fanged grins. Tanis and Caramon, startled at the lull in the battle, risked a cautious glance over the top of the bench, while Tas stared down over the railing of the balcony. A draconian in black robes decorated with arcane runes was ascending the stairs. He held a staff in his clawed hand a staff carved into the likeness of a striking serpent.

A Bozak magic-user! Tas felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach almost as bad as the one he’d had when the dragon came in for a landing. The draconian soldiers were sheathing their weapons, obviously figuring the battle was ending. Their wizard would handle the matter, quickly and simply.

Tas saw Tanis’s hand reach into his belt... and come out empty. Tanis’s face went white beneath his beard. His hand went to another part of his belt. Nothing there. Frantically, the half-elf looked around on the floor.

“You know,” said Tas to himself, “I’ll bet that bracelet of magic resistance would come in handy now. Perhaps that’s what he’s hunting for. I guess he doesn’t realize he lost it.” Reaching into a pouch, he drew out the silver bracelet.

“Here it is, Tanis! Don’t worry! You dropped it, but I found it!” he cried, waving it in the air.

The half-elf looked up, scowling, his eyebrows coming together in such an alarming manner that Tas hurriedly tossed the bracelet down to him. After waiting a moment to see if Tanis would thank him (he didn’t), the kender sighed.

“Be there in a minute!” he yelled. Turning, he dashed back through the door and ran down the stairs.

“He certainly didn’t act very grateful,” Tas humpfed as he sped along. “Not a bit like the old fun-loving Tanis. I don’t think being a hero agrees with him.”

Behind him, muffled by the wall, he could hear the sound of harsh chanting and several explosions. Then draconian voices raised in cries of anger and disappointment.

“That bracelet will hold them off for a while,” Tas muttered, “but not for long. Now, how do I get over to the other side of the tower to reach them? I guess there’s no help for it but to go clear back to the bottom level.”

Racing down the stairs, he reached the ground level again, ran past the room where he had entered the citadel, and continued on until he came to a corridor running at right angles to the one he was in. Hopefully, it led to the opposite side of the tower where Tanis and Caramon were trapped.

There was the sound of another explosion and, this time, the whole tower shook. Tas increased his speed. Making a sharp turn to his right, the kender hurtled around a corner. Bam! He slammed into something squat and dark that toppled over with a “wuf.”

The impact bowled Tas head over heels. He lay quite still, having the distinct impression—from the smell—that he’d been struck by a bundle of rotting garbage. Somewhat shaken, he nevertheless managed to stagger to his feet and, gripping his little knife, prepared to defend himself against the short, dark creature which was on its feet as well.

Putting a hand to its forehead, the creature said, “Ooh,” in a pained tone. Then, glancing about groggily, it saw Tas standing in front of it, looking grim and determined. Torchlight flashed off the kender’s knife blade. The “ooh,” turned to an “AAAAAHHH.” With a groan, the smelly creature fainted dead away.

“Gully dwarf!” said Tas, his nose wrinkling in disgust. He sheathed his knife and started to leave. Then he stopped. “You know, though,” he said, talking to himself, “this might come in handy.”

Bending down, Tas grasped the gully dwarf by a handful of rag and shook it. “Hey, wake up!”

Drawing a shuddering breath, the gully dwarf opened his eyes. Seeing a stern-looking kender crouched threateningly above him, the gully dwarf went deathly white, hurriedly closed his eyes again, and attempted to look unconscious.

Tas shook the bundle again.

With a trembling sigh, the gully dwarf opened one eye, and saw Tas was still there. There was only one thing to do look dead. This is achieved (among gully dwarves) by holding the breath and going instantly stiff and rigid.

“C’mon,” play Tas irritably, shaking the gully dwarf. “I need your help.”

“You go way,” the gully dwarf said in deep, sepulchral tones. “Me dead.”

“You’re not dead yet,” Tas said in the most awful voice he could muster, “but you’re going to be unless you help me!” He raised the knife.

The gully dwarf gulped and quickly sat up, rubbing his head in confusion. Then, seeing Tas, he threw his arms around the kender. “You heal! Me back from dead! You great and powerful cleric!”

“No, I’m not!” snapped Tas, considerably startled by this reaction. “Now, let loose. No, you’re tangled up in the pouch. Not that way... .”

After several moments, he finally managed to divest himself of the gully dwarf. Dragging the creature to his feet, Tas glared at him sternly. “I’m trying to get to the other side of the tower. Is this the right way?”

The gully dwarf stared up and down the corridor thoughtfully, then he turned to Tas. “This right way,” he said finally, pointing in the direction Tas had been heading.

“Good!” Tas started off again.

“What tower?” the gully dwarf muttered, scratching his head.

Tas stopped. Turning around, he glared at the gully dwarf, his hand straying for his knife.

“Me go with great cleric,” the gully dwarf offered hurriedly. “Me guide.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” the kender reflected. Grabbing hold of the gully dwarf’s grubby hand, Tas dragged him along. Soon they found another staircase leading up. The sounds of battle were much louder now—a fact that caused the gully dwarf’s eyes to widen. He tried to pull his hand loose. “Me been dead once,” the gully dwarf cried, frantically attempting to free himself. “When you dead two times, they put you in box, throw you in big hole. Me not like that.”

Although this seemed an interesting concept, Tas didn’t have time to explore it. Keeping hold of the gully dwarf firmly, Tas tugged him up the stairs, the sounds of fighting on the other side of the wall getting louder every moment. As on the opposite side of the tower, the steep staircase ended at a door. Behind it, he could hear thuds and groans and Caramon’s swearing. Tas tried the handle. It was locked from this side, too. The kender smiled, rubbing his hands again.

“Certainly a well-built door,” he said, studying it. Leaning down, he peered through the keyhole.

“I’m here!” he shouted.

“Open the”—muffled shouts—“door!” came Caramon’s booming bellow.

“I’m doing the best I can!” Tas yelled back, somewhat irritably. “I don’t have my tools, you know.

Well, I’ll just have to improvise. You—stay here!” He grabbed hold of the gully dwarf, who was just creeping back to the stairs. Taking out his knife, he held it up threateningly. The gully dwarf collapsed in a heap.

“Me stay!” he whimpered, cowering on the floor.

Turning back to the door, Tas stuck the tip of the knife into the lock and began twisting it around carefully. He thought he could almost feel the lock give when something thudded against the door. The knife jerked out of the lock.

“You’re not helping!” he shouted through the door. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Tas put the knife back in the lock again.

The gully dwarf crawled closer, staring up at Tas from the floor. “Lot you know. Me guess you not such great cleric.”

“What do you mean?” Tas muttered, concentrating.

“Knife not open door,” the gully dwarf said with vast disdain. “Key open door.”

“I know a key opens the door,” Tas said, glancing about in exasperation, “but I don’t have—Give me that!”

Tas angrily snatched the key the gully dwarf was holding in its hand. Putting the key into the door lock, he heard it click and yanked the door open. Tanis tumbled out, practically on top of the kender, Caramon running out behind him. The big man slammed the heavy door shut, breaking off the tip of a draconian sword just entering the doorway. Leaning his back against the door, he looked down at Tas, breathing heavily.

“Lock it!” he managed to gasp.

Quickly Tas turned the key in the lock again. Behind the door, there were shouts and more thuds and the sounds of splintering wood.

“It’ll hold for a while, I think,” Tanis said, studying the door.

“But not long,” Caramon said grimly. “Especially with that Bozak mage down there. C’mon.”

“Where?” Tanis demanded, wiping sweat from his face. He was bleeding from a slash on his hand and numerous cuts on his arms, but otherwise appeared unhurt. Caramon was covered with blood, but most of it was green, so Tas assumed that it was the enemy’s. “We still haven’t found out where the device that flies this thing is located!”

“I’ll bet he knows,” Tas said, pointing to the gully dwarf. “That’s why I brought him along,” the kender added, rather proud of himself.

There was a tremendous crash. The door shuddered.

“Let’s at least get out of here,” Tanis muttered. “What’s your name?” he asked the gully dwarf as they hurried back down the stairs.

“Rounce,” said the gully dwarf, regarding Tanis with deep suspicion.

“Very well, Rounce” Tanis said, pausing on a shadowy landing to catch his breath, “show us the room where the device is that flies this citadel.”

“The Wind Captain’s Chair,” Caramon added, glaring at the gully dwarf sternly. “That’s what we heard one of the goblins call it.”

“That secret!” Rounce said solemnly. “Me not tell! Me make promise!”

Caramon growled so fiercely that Rounce went dead white beneath the dirt on his face, and Tas, afraid he was going to faint again, hurriedly interposed. “Pooh! I’ll bet he doesn’t know!” Tas said, winking at Caramon.

“Me do too know!” Rounce said loftily. “And you try trick to make me tell. Me not fall for stupid trick.”

Tas slumped back against the wall with a sigh. Caramon growled again, but the gully dwarf, cringing slightly, still stared at him with brave defiance. “Cross pigs not drag secret out of me!”

Rounce declared, folding his filthy arms across a grease-covered, food-spattered chest. There was a shattering crash from above, and the sound of draconian voices.

“Uh, Rounce,” Tanis murmured confidentially, squatting down beside the gully dwarf, “what is it exactly that you’re not supposed to tell?”

Rounce assumed a crafty look. “Me not supposed to tell that the Wind Captains Chair in top of middle tower. That’s what me not supposed to tell!” He scowled at Tanis viciously and raised a small, clenched fist. “And you can’t make me!”

They reached the corridor leading to the room where the Wind Captains Chair wasn’t located (according to Rounce, who had been guiding them the entire way by saying, “This not door that lead to stair that lead to secret place”). They entered it cautiously, thinking that things had been just a little too quiet. They were right. About halfway down the corridor, a door burst open. Twenty draconians, followed by the Bozak magic-user, lunged out at them.

“Get behind me!” Tanis said, drawing his sword. “I’ve still got the bracelet—” Remembering Tas was with them, he added, “I think,” and glanced hurriedly at his arm. The bracelet was still there.

“Tanis,” said Caramon, drawing his sword and falling back slowly as the draconians, waiting for instructions from the Bozak, hesitated, “we’re running out of time! I know! I can sense it! I’ve got to get to the Tower of High Sorcery! Someone’s got to get up there and fly this thing!”

“One of us can’t hold off this many!” Tanis returned. “That doesn’t leave anyone to operate the Wind Captain—” The words died on his lips. He stared at Caramon. “Oh, you’re not serious—”

“We don’t have any choice,” Caramon growled as the sound of chanting filled the air. He glanced back at Tasslehoff.

“No,” Tanis began, “absolutely not—”

“There’s no other way!” Caramon insisted.

Tanis sighed, shaking his head.

The kender, watching both of them, blinked in confusion. Then, suddenly, he understood.

“Oh, Caramon!” he breathed, clasping his hands together, barely avoiding skewering himself with his knife. “Oh, Tanis! How wonderful! I’ll make you proud of me! I’ll get you to the Tower! You wont be sorry! Rounce, I’m going to need your help.”

Grabbing the gully dwarf by the arm, Tas raced along the corridor toward a spiral staircase Rounce was pointing out, insisting that, “This stair not take you to secret place!”

Designed by Lord Ariakas, formerly head of the Dark Queen’s forces during the War of the Lance, the Wind Captain’s Chair that operates a floating citadel has long since passed into history as one of the most brilliant creations of Ariakas’s brilliant, if dark and twisted, mind.

The Chair is located in a room specially built for it at the very top of the citadel. Climbing a narrow flight of spiral steps, the Wind Captain ascends an iron ladder leading to a trap door. Upon opening the trap door, the Captain enters a small, circular room devoid of windows. In the center of the room is a raised platform. Two pedestals, positioned about three feet apart, stand on the platform.

At the sight of these pedestals, Tas—pulling Rounce up after him—drew in a deep breath. Made of silver, standing about four feet tall, the pedestals were the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Intricate designs and magical symbols were etched into their surfaces. Every tiny line was filled with gold that glittered in the torchlight streaming up from the stairway below. And, on top of each pedestal, was poised a huge globe, made of shining black crystal.

“You not get up on platform,” Rounce said severely.

“Rounce,” said Tas, climbing up onto the platform, which was about three feet off the floor, “do you know how to make this work?”

“No,” said Rounce coolly, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at Tas. “Me never been here lots. Me never run errand for big boss wizard. Me never put into this room and me never told fetch whatever wizard want. Me never watch big boss wizard fly many times.”

“Big boss wizard?” Tas said, frowning. He glanced hastily about the small room, peering into the shadows. “Where is the big boss wizard?”

“Him not down below,” Rounce said stubbornly. “Him not getting ready to blow friends to tiny bits.”

“Oh, that big boss wizard,” Tas said in relief. Then the kender paused. “But—if he’s not here—who’s flying this thing?”

“We not flying,” Rounce said, rolling his eyes. “We stand still. Boy, you some dumb cleric!”

“I see,” muttered Tas to himself. “When it’s standing still, the big boss wizard can leave it and go do big boss wizard things.” He glanced around. “My, my,” he said loudly, studying the platform, “what is it I’m not supposed to do?”

Rounce shook his head. “Me never tell. You not s’posed to step in two black circles on floor of platform.”

“I see,” said Tas, stepping into the black circles set into the floor between the pedestals. They appeared to be made of the same type of black crystal as the glass globes. From the corridor below, he heard another explosion and, again, shouts of the angry draconians. Apparently Tanis’s bracelet was still fending off the wizard’s magic.

“Now,” said Rounce, “you not s’pose to look up at circle in ceiling.”

Looking up, Tas gasped in awe. Above him, a circle the same size and diameter as the platform upon which he stood was beginning to glow with an eerie blue-white light.

“All right, Rounce,” Tas said, his voice shrill with excitement, “what is it I’m not supposed to do next?”

“You not put hands on black crystal globes. You not tell globes which way we go,” Rounce replied, sniffing. “Pooh. You never figure out big magic like this!”

“Tanis.” Tas yelled down through the opening in the floor, “which direction is the Tower of High Sorcery from here?”

For a moment, all he could hear was the clatter of swords and a few screams. Then, Tanis’s voice, sounding gradually closer as he and Caramon backed their way down the corridor, floated up. “Northwest! Almost straight northwest!”

“Right!” Planting his feet firmly in the black crystal depressions, Tas drew a shaking breath, then raised his hands to place them upon the crystal globes.

“Drat!” he cried in dismay, staring up. “I’m too short!”

Looking down at Rounce, he motioned. “I suppose your hands don’t have to be on the globe and your feet don’t have to be in the black circles at the same time?”

Tas had the unfortunate feeling that he already knew the answer to this, which was just as well. The question had thrown Rounce into such a state of confusion that he could only stare at Tas, his mouth gaping open.

Glaring at the gully dwarf simply because he had to have something to glare at in his frustration, Tas decided to try to jump up to touch the globes. He could reach them then, but when his feet left the black crystal circles—the blue-white light went dim.

“Now what?” he groaned. “Caramon or Tanis could reach it easily, but they’re down there and, from the sounds of things, they’re not going to be coming up here for a while. What can I do? I—Rounce!” he said suddenly, “come up here!”

Rounce’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Me not allowed,” he said, starting to back away from the platform.

“Wait! Rounce! Don’t leave!” Tas cried. “Look, you come help me! We’ll fly this together!”

“Me!” Rounce gasped. His eyes opened round as teacups. “Fly like big boss wizard?”

“Yes, Rounce! C’mon. Just climb up, stand on my shoulders, and—”

A look of wonder came into Rounce’s face. “Me,” he breathed with a gusty sigh of ecstasy, “fly like big boss wizard!”

“Yes, Rounce, yes,” said Tas impatiently, “now, hurry up before—before the big boss wizard catches us.”

“Me hurry,” Rounce said, crawling up onto the platform and from there onto Tas’s shoulders, “Me hurry. Me always want to fly/

“Here, I’ve got hold of your ankles. Now, ouch! Let go of my hair! You’re pulling! I’m not going to drop you. No, stand up. Stand up, Rounce. Just stand up slowly. You’ll be all right. See, I have your ankles. I won’t let you fall. No! No! You’ve got to balan—”

Kender and gully dwarf tumbled over in a heap.

“Tas!” Caramon’s warning voice came up the stairs.

“Just a minute! Almost got it!” Tas cried, yanking Rounce to his feet and shaking him soundly.

“Now, balance, balance!”

“Balance, balance,” Rounce muttered, his teeth clicking together.

Tas took his place upon the black crystal circles once again and Rounce crawled up onto his shoulders again. This time, the gully dwarf, after a few tense moments of wobbling, managed to stand up. Tas heaved a sigh. Reaching out his dirty hands, Rounce—after a few false starts—gingerly placed them upon the black crystal globes.

Immediately, a curtain of light dropped down from the glowing circle in the ceiling, forming a brilliant wall around Tas and the gully dwarf. Runes appeared on the ceiling, glowing red and violet.

And, with a heart-stopping lurch, the flying citadel began to move.

Down the stairs in the corridor below the Wind Captain’s Chair, the jolt sent draconians and their magic-user crashing to the floor. Tanis fell backward against a wall, and Caramon slammed into him.

Screaming and cursing, the Bozak wizard struggled to his feet. Stepping on his own men, who littered the corridor, and completely ignoring Tanis and Caramon, the draconian began to run toward the staircase leading up to the Wind Captain’s room.

“Stop him!” Caramon growled, pushing himself away from the wall as the citadel canted to one side like a sinking ship.

“I’ll try” Tanis wheezed, having had the breath knocked out of him, “but I think this bracelet is about used up.”

He made a lunge for the Bozak, but the citadel suddenly tipped in the opposite direction. Tanis missed and tumbled to the floor. The Bozak, intent only on stopping the thieves who were stealing his citadel, stumbled on toward the stairs. Drawing his dagger, Caramon hurled it at the Bozak’s back. But it struck a magical, invisible barrier around the black robes, and fell harmlessly to the floor.

The Bozak had just reached the bottom of the spiral stairs leading up to the Wind Captain’s room, the other draconians were finally regaining their feet, and Tanis was just nearing the Bozak once again when the citadel leaped straight up into the air. The Bozak fell backward on top of Tanis, draconians went flying everywhere, and Caramon, just barely managing to keep his feet, jumped on the Bozak wizard.

The sudden gyrations of the tower broke the mage’s concentration—the Bozak’s protection spell failed. The draconian fought desperately with its clawed hands, but Caramon—dragging the creature off Tanis—thrust his sword into the Bozak just as the wizard began shrieking another chant.

The draconian’s body dissolved instantly in a horrible yellow pool, sending clouds of foul, poisonous smoke billowing through the chamber.

“Get away!” Tanis cried, stumbling toward an open window, coughing. Leaning out, he took a deep breath of fresh air, then gasped.

“Tas!” he shouted, “we’re going the wrong way! I said northwest!”

He heard the kender’s shrill voice cry, “Think northwest, Rounce! Northwest.”

“Rounce?” Caramon muttered, coughing and glancing at Tanis in sudden alarm.

“How me think of two direction same time?” demanded a voice. “You want go north or you want go west? Make up mind.”

“Northwest!” cried Tas. “It’s one direc—oh, never mind. Look, Rounce, you think north and I’ll think west. That might work.”

Closing his eyes, Caramon sighed in despair and slumped against a wall.

“Tanis,” he said, “Maybe you better—”

“No time,” Tanis answered grimly, his sword in his hand. “Here they come.”

But the draconians, thrown into confusion by the death of their leader and completely unable to comprehend what was happening to their citadel, were eyeing each other—and their enemy—askance. At that moment, the flying citadel changed direction again, heading off northwest and dropping down about twenty feet at the same time.

Turning, tripping, shoving and sliding, the draconians ran down the corridor and disappeared back through the secret way they had come.

“We’re finally going in the right direction,” Tanis reported, staring out the window. Joining him, Caramon saw the Tower of High Sorcery drawing nearer and nearer.

“Good! Let’s see what’s going on,” Caramon muttered, starting to climb the stairs.

“No, wait”—Tanis stopped him—“Tas can’t see, apparently. We’re going to have to guide him. Besides, those draconians might come back any moment.”

“I guess you’re right,” Caramon said, peering up the stairs dubiously.

“We should be there in a few minutes,” Tanis said, leaning against the window ledge wearily. “But I think we’ve got time enough for you to tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s hard to believe,” said Tanis softly, looking out the window again, “even of Raistlin.”

“I know,” Caramon said, his voice edged with sorrow. “I didn’t want to believe it, not for a long time. But when I saw him standing before the Portal and when I heard him tell what he was going to do to Crysania, I knew that the evil had finally eaten into his soul.”

“You are right, you must stop him,” Tanis said, reaching out to grip the big mans hand in his own.

“But, Caramon, does that mean you have to go into the Abyss after him? Dalamar is in the Tower, waiting at the Portal. Surely, the two of you together can prevent Raistlin from coming through. You don’t need to enter the Portal yourself—”

“No, Tanis,” Caramon said, shaking his head. “Remember—Dalamar failed to stop Raistlin the first time. Something must be going to happen to the dark elf—something that will prevent him from fulfilling his assignment.” Reaching into his knapsack, Caramon pulled out the leather-bound Chronicles.

“Maybe we can get there in time to stop it,” Tanis suggested, feeling strange talking about a future that was already described.

Turning to the page he had marked, Caramon scanned it hurriedly, then drew in his breath with a soft whistle.

“What is it?” Tanis asked, leaning over to see. Caramon hastily shut the book.

“Something happens to him, all right,” the big man muttered, avoiding Tanis’s eyes. “Kitiara kills him.”

5

Dalamar sat alone in the laboratory of the Tower of High Sorcery. The guardians of the Tower, both living and dead, stood at their posts by the entrance, waiting... watching.

Outside the Tower window, Dalamar could see the city of Palanthas burning. The dark elf had watched the progress of the battle from his vantage point high atop the Tower. He had seen Lord Soth enter the gate, he had seen the knights scatter and fall, he had seen the draconians swoop down from the flying citadel. All the while, up above, the dragons battled, the dragon blood falling like rain upon the city streets.

The last glimpse he had, before the rising smoke obscured his vision, showed him the flying citadel starting to drift in his direction, moving slowly and erratically, once even seeming to change its mind and head back toward the mountains. Puzzled, Dalamar watched this for several minutes, wondering what it portended. Was this how Kitiara planned to get into the Tower? The dark elf felt a moment of fear. Could the citadel fly over the Shoikan Grove? Yes, he realized, it might! His hand clenched. Why hadn’t he foreseen that possibility? He stared out the window, cursing the smoke that increasingly blocked his vision. As he watched, the citadel changed direction again, stumbling through the skies like a drunkard searching for his dwelling. It was once more headed for the Tower, but at a snail’s pace. What was going on? Was the operator wounded? He stared at it, trying to see. And then thick, black smoke rolled past the windows, completely blotting out his vision of the citadel. The odor of burning hemp and pitch was strong. The warehouses, Dalamar thought. As he was turning from the window with a curse, his attention was caught by the sight of a brief flare of firelight coming from a building almost directly opposite him—the Temple of Paladine. He could see, even through the smoke, the glow brightening, and he could picture, in his mind, the white robed clerics, wielding mace and stick, calling upon Paladine as they slew their enemies.

Dalamar smiled grimly, shaking his head as he walked swiftly across the room, past the great stone table with its bottles and jars and beakers. He had shoved most of these aside, making room for his spellbooks, his scrolls and magical devices. He glanced over them for the hundredth time, making certain all was in readiness, then continued on, hurrying past the shelves lined with the nightblue-bound spellbooks of Fistandantilus, past the shelves lined with Raistlin’s own blackbound spellbooks. Reaching the door of the laboratory, Dalamar opened it and spoke one word into the darkness beyond.

Instantly, a pair of eyes glimmered before him, the spectral body shimmering in and out of his vision as if stirred by hot winds.

“I want guardians at the top of the Tower,” Dalamar instructed.

“Where, apprentice?”

Dalamar thought. “The doorway, leading down from the Death Walk. Post them there.”

The eyes flickered closed in brief acknowledgment, then vanished. Dalamar returned to the laboratory, closing the door behind him. Then he hesitated, stopped. He could lay spells of enchantment upon the door, spells that would prevent anyone from entering. This had been a common practice of Raistlin’s s in the laboratory when performing some delicate magical experiment in which the least interruption could prove fatal. A breath drawn at the wrong moment could mean the unleashing of magical forces that would destroy the Tower itself. Dalamar paused, his delicate fingers on the door, the words upon his lips.

Then, no, he thought. I might need help. The guardians must be free to enter in case I am not able to remove the spells. Walking back across the room, he sat down in the comfortable chair that was his favorite—the chair he’d had brought from his own quarters to help ease the weariness of his vigil.

In case I am not able to remove the spells. Sinking down into the chair’s soft, velvet cushions, Dalamar thought about death, about dying. His gaze went to the Portal. It looked as it had always looked—the five dragon heads, each a different color, facing inward, their five mouths open in five silent shouts of tribute to their Dark Queen. It looked the same as always—the heads dark and frozen, the void within the Portal empty, unchanging. Or was it? Dalamar blinked. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought the eyes of each of the heads were beginning to glow, slightly. The dark elf’s throat tightened, his palms began to sweat and he rubbed his hands upon his robes. Death, dying. Would it come to that? His fingers brushed over the silver runes embroidered on the black fabric, runes that would block or dispel certain magical attacks. He looked at his hands, the lovely green stone of a ring of healing sparkled there—a powerful magical device. But its power could only be used once.

Hastily, Dalamar went over in his mind Raistlin’s lessons on judging whether a wound was mortal and required immediate healing or if the healing device’s power should be saved.

Dalamar shuddered. He could hear the Shalafi’s voice coldly discussing varying degrees of pain. He could feel those fingers, burning with that strange inner heat, tracing over the different portions of his anatomy, pointing out the vital areas. Reflexively, Dalamar’s hand went to his breast, where the five holes Raistlin had burned into his flesh forever bled and festered. At the same time, Raistlin’s s eyes burned into his mind—mirrorlike, golden, flat, deadly.

Dalamar shrank back. Powerful magic surrounds me and protects me, he told himself. I am skilled in the Art, and, though not as skilled as he, the Shalafi will come through that Portal injured, weak, upon the point of death! It will be easy to destroy him! Dalamar’s hands clenched. Then why am I literally suffocating with fear? he demanded.

A silver bell sounded, once. Startled, Dalamar rose from the chair, his fear of the imaginings of his mind replaced by a fear of something very real. And with the fear of something concrete, tangible, Dalamar’s body tensed, his blood ran cool in his veins, the dark shadows in his mind vanished. He was in control.

The silver bell meant an intruder. Someone had won his way through the Shoikan Grove and was at the Tower entrance. Ordinarily, Dalamar would have left the laboratory instantly, on the words of a spell, to confront the intruder himself. But he dared not leave the Portal. Glancing back at it, the dark elf nodded to himself slowly. No, it had not been his imagination, the eyes of the dragons heads were glowing. He even thought he saw the void within stir and shift, as if a ripple had passed across its surface.

No, he dared not leave. He must trust to the guardians. Walking to the door, he bent his head, listening. He thought he heard faint sounds down below—a muffled cry, a clash of steel. Then nothing but silence. He waited, holding his breath, hearing only the beating of his own heart. Nothing else.

Dalamar sighed. The guardians must have handled the matter. Leaving the door, he crossed the laboratory to look out the window, but he could see nothing. The smoke was as thick as fog. He heard a distant rumble of thunder, or perhaps it was an explosion. Who had it been down there? he found himself wondering. Some draconian, perhaps? Eager for more killing, more loot. One of them might have won through...

Not that it mattered, he told himself coldly. When all this was over, he would go down, examine the corpse... “Dalamar!”

Dalamar’s heart leaped, both fear and hope surging through him at the sound of that voice.

“Caution, caution, my friend,” he whispered to himself. “She betrayed her brother. She betrayed you. Do not trust her.”

Yet he found his hands shaking as he slowly crossed the laboratory toward the door.

“Dalamar!” Her voice again, quivering with pain and terror. There was a thud against the door, the sound of a body sliding down it. “Dalamar,” she called again weakly.

Dalamar’s hand was on the handle. Behind him, the dragon’s eyes glowed red, white, blue, green, black.

“Dalamar,” Kitiara murmured faintly, “I—I’ve come... to help you.”

Slowly, Dalamar opened the laboratory door.

Kitiara lay on the floor at his feet. At the sight of her, Dalamar drew in his breath. If she had once worn armor, it had now been torn from her body by inhuman hands. He could see the marks of their nails upon her flesh. The black, tight fitting garment she wore beneath her armor was ripped almost to shreds, exposing her tan skin, her white breasts. Blood oozed from a ghastly wound upon one leg, her leather boots were in tatters. Yet, she looked up at him with clear eyes, eyes that were not afraid. In her hand, she held the night jewel, the charm Raistlin had given her to protect her in the Grove.

“I was strong enough, barely,” she whispered, her lips parting in the crooked smile that made Dalamar’s blood burn. She raised her arms. “I’ve come to you. Help me stand.”

Reaching down, Dalamar lifted Kitiara to her feet. She slumped against him. He could feel her body shivering and shook his head, knowing what poison worked in her blood. His arm around her, he half-carried her into the laboratory and shut the door behind them.

Her weight upon him increased, her eyes rolled back. “Oh, Dalamar,” she murmured, and he saw she was going to faint. He put his arms completely around her. She leaned her head against his chest, breathing a thankful sigh of relief.

He could smell the fragrance of her hair—that strange smell, a mixture of perfume and steel. Her body trembled in his arms. His grasp around her tightened. Opening her eyes, she looked up into his. “I’m feeling better now,” she whispered. Her hands slid down...

Too late, Dalamar saw the brown eyes glitter. Too late, he saw the crooked smile twist. Too late he felt her hand jerk, and the quick stabbing thrust of pain as her knife entered his body.

“Well, we made it,” Caramon yelled, staring down from the crumbling courtyard of the flying citadel as it floated above the tops of the dark trees of the Shoikan Grove.

“Yes, at least this far,” Tanis muttered. Even from this vantage point, high above the cursed forest, he could feel the cold waves of hatred and bloodlust rising up to grasp at them as if the guardians could, even now, drag them down. Shivering, Tanis forced his gaze to where the top of the Tower of High Sorcery loomed near. “If we can get close enough,” he shouted to Caramon above the rush of the wind in his ears, “we can drop down on that walkway that circles around the top.”

“The Death Walk,” Caramon returned grimly.

“What?”

“The Death Walk!” Caramon edged closer, watching his footing as the dark trees drifted beneath them like the waves of a black ocean. “That’s where the evil mage stood when he called down the curse upon the Tower. So Raistlin told me. That’s where he jumped from.”

“Nice, cheerful place,” Tanis muttered into his beard, staring at it grimly. Smoke rolled around them, blotting out the sight of the trees. The half-elf tried not to think about what was happening in the city. He’d already caught a glimpse of the Temple of Paladine in flames.

“You know, of course,” he yelled, grabbing hold of Caramon s shoulder as the two stood on the edge of the courtyard of the citadel, “there’s every possibility Tasslehoff is going to crash right into that thing!”

“We’ve come this far,” Caramon said softly. “The gods are with us.”

Tanis blinked, wondering if he’d heard right. “That doesn’t sound like the old jovial Caramon,” he said with a grin.

“That Caramon’s dead, Tanis,” Caramon replied flatly, his eyes on the approaching Tower.

Tanis’s grin softened to a sigh. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think of to say, putting a clumsy hand on Caramon’s shoulder.

Caramon looked at him, his eyes bright and clear. “No, Tanis,” he said. “Par-Salian told me, when he sent me back in time, that I was going back to ‘save a soul. Nothing more. Nothing less.’”

Caramon smiled sadly. “I thought he meant Raistlin’s s soul. I see now he didn’t. He meant my own.” The big man’s body tensed. “C’mon,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “We’re close enough to jump for it.”

A balcony that encircled the top of Tower appeared beneath them, dimly seen through the swirling smoke. Looking down, Tanis felt his stomach shrivel. Although he knew it was impossible, it seemed that the Tower itself was lurching around beneath him, while he was standing perfectly still. It had looked so huge, as they were nearing it. Now, he might have been planning to leap out of a vallenwood to land upon the roof of a child’s toy castle. To make matters worse, the citadel continued to fly closer and closer to the Tower. The blood-red tips of the black minarets that topped it danced in Tanis’s vision as the citadel lurched back and forth and bobbed up and down.

“Jump!” shouted Caramon, hurling himself into space.

An eddy of smoke swirled past Tanis, blinding him. The citadel was still moving. Suddenly, a huge, black rock column loomed right before him. It was either jump or be squashed. Frantically, Tanis jumped, hearing a horrible crunching and grinding sound right above him. He was falling into nothingness, the smoke swirled about him, and then he had one split second to brace himself as the stones of the Death Walk materialized beneath his feet.

He landed with a jarring thud that shook every bone in his body and left him stunned and breathless. He had just sense enough to roll over onto his stomach, covering his head with his arms as showers of rock tumbled down around him.

Caramon was on his feet, roaring, “North! Due north!”

Very, very faintly, Tanis thought he heard a shrill voice screaming from the citadel above, “North! North! North! We’ve got to head off straight north!”

The grinding, crunching sound ceased. Raising his head cautiously, Tanis saw, through a ripple in the smoke, the flying citadel drifting off on its new tack, wobbling slightly, and heading straight for the palace of Lord Amothus.

“You all right?” Caramon helped Tanis to his feet.

“Yeah,” said the half-elf shakily. He wiped blood from his mouth. “Bit my tongue. Damn, that hurts!”

“The only way down is over here,” Caramon said, leading the way around the Death Walk. They came to an archway carved into the black stone of the Tower. A small wooden door stood closed and barred.

“There’ll probably be guards,” Tanis pointed out as Caramon, backing off, prepared to hurl his weight against the door.

“Yeah,” the big man grunted. Making a short run, he threw himself forward, smashing into the door. It shivered and creaked, wood splintered along the iron bars, but it held. Rubbing his shoulder, Caramon backed off. Eyeing the door, concentrating all his strength and effort on it, he crashed into it once again. This time, it gave with a shattering boom, carrying Caramon with it. Hurrying inside, peering around in the smoke-filled darkness, Tanis found Caramon lying on the floor, surrounded by shards of wood. The half-elf started to reach a hand down to his friend when he stopped, staring.

“Name of the Abyss!” he swore, his breath catching in his throat.

Hurriedly, Caramon got to his feet. “Yeah,” he said warily. “I’ve run into these before.”

Two pairs of disembodied eyes, glowing white with an eerie, cold light, floated before them.

“Don’t let them touch you,” Caramon warned in a low voice. “They drain the life from your body.” The eyes floated nearer.

Hurriedly Caramon stepped in front of Tanis, facing the eyes. “I am Caramon Majere, brother of Fistandantilus,” he said softly. “You know me. You have seen me before, in times long past.”

The eyes halted, Tanis could feel their chill scrutiny. Slowly, he lifted his arm. The cold light of t he guardian’s eyes was reflected in the silver bracelet.

“I am a friend of your master’s, Dalamar,” he said, trying to keep his voice firm. “He gave me this bracelet.” Tanis felt, suddenly, a cold grip on his arm. He gasped in pain that seemed to bore straight to his heart. Staggering, he almost fell. Caramon caught hold of him.

“The bracelet’s gone!” Tanis said through clenched teeth.

“Dalamar!” Caramon yelled, his voice booming and echoing through the chamber. “Dalamar! It is Caramon! Raistlin’s brother! I’ve got to get into the Portal! I can stop him! Call off the guardians, Dalamar!”

“Perhaps it’s too late,” Tanis said, staring at the pallid eyes, which stared back at them. “Maybe Kit got here first. Perhaps he’s dead... .”

“Then so are we,” Caramon said softly.

6

“Damn you, Kitiara!” Dalamar gagged in pain. Staggering backward, he pressed his hand against his side, feeling his own blood flow warm through his fingers.

There was no smile of elation on Kitiara’s face. Rather, there was a look of fear, for she saw that the stroke that should have killed had missed. Why? she asked herself in fury. She had slain a hundred men that way! Why should she miss now? Dropping her knife, she drew her sword, lunging forward in the same motion.

The sword whistled with the force of her stroke, but it struck against a solid wall. Sparks crackled as the metal connected with the magical shield Dalamar had conjured up around him, and a paralyzing shock sizzled from the blade, through the handle, and up her arm. The sword fell from her nerveless hand. Gripping her arm, the astonished Kitiara stumbled to her knees.

Dalamar had time to recover from the shock of his wound. The defensive spells he had cast had been reflexive, a result of years of training. He had not really even needed to think about them. But now he stared grimly at the woman on the floor before him, who was reaching for her sword with her left hand, even as she flexed the right, trying to regain feeling in it.

The battle had just begun.

Like a cat, Kitiara twisted to her feet, her eyes burning with battle rage and the almost sexual lust that consumed her when fighting. Dalamar had seen that look in someone’s eyes before—in Raistlin’s, when he was lost in the ecstasy of his magic. The dark elf swallowed a choking sensation in his throat and tried to banish the pain and fear from his mind, seeking to concentrate only on his spells.

“Don’t make me kill you, Kitiara,” he said, playing for time, feeling himself grow stronger every moment. He had to conserve that strength! It would avail him little to stop Kitiara, only to die at her brother’s hands.

His first thought was to call for the guardians. But he rejected that. She had won past them once, probably using the nightjewel. Falling backward before the Dragon Highlord, Dalamar edged his way nearer the stone desk, where lay his magical devices. From the corner of his eye, he caught the gleam of gold—a magical wand. His timing must be precise, he would have to dispel the magical shield to use the wand against Kit. And he saw in Kitiara’s eyes that she knew this. She was waiting for him to drop the shield, biding her time.

“You have been deceived, Kitiara,” Dalamar said softly, hoping to distract her.

“By you!” She sneered. Lifting a silver, branched candle stand, she hurled it at Dalamar. It bounced harmlessly off the magical shield to fall at his feet. A curl of smoke rose from the carpet, but the small fire died almost instantly, drowned in the melting candlewax.

“By Lord Soth,” Dalamar said.

“Hah!” Kitiara laughed, hurling a glass beaker against the magical shield. It broke into a thousand, glittering shards. Another candlestand followed. Kitiara had fought magic-users before. She knew how to defeat them. Her missiles were not intended to hurt, only to weaken the mage, force him to spend his strength maintaining the shield, make him think twice about lowering it.

“Why do you suppose you found Palanthas fortified?” Dalamar continued, backing up, creeping nearer the stone table. “Had you expected that? Soth told me your plans! He told me you were going to attack Palanthas to try to help your brother! ‘When Raistlin comes through the Portal, drawing the Dark Queen after him, Kitiara will be here to greet him like a loving sister!’”

Kitiara paused, her sword lowered a fraction of an inch. “Soth told you that?”

“Yes,” Dalamar said, sensing with relief her hesitation and confusion. The pain of his injury had eased somewhat. He ventured a glance down at the wound. His robes had stuck to it, forming a crude bandage. The bleeding had almost stopped.

“Why?” Kitiara raised her eyebrows mockingly. “Why would Soth betray me to you, dark elf?”

“Because he wants you, Kitiara,” Dalamar said softly. “He wants you the only way he can have you...

A cold sliver of terror pierced Kitiara to her very soul. She remembered that odd edge in Soth’s hollow voice. She remembered it was he who had advised her to attack Palanthas. Her rage seeping from her, Kitiara shuddered, convulsed with chills. The wounds are poisoned she realized bitterly, seeing the long scratches upon her arms and legs, feeling again the icy claws of those who made them. Poison. Lord Soth. She couldn’t think. Glancing up dizzily, she saw Dalamar smile. Angrily, she turned from him to conceal her emotions, to get hold of herself.

Keeping an eye on her, Dalamar moved nearer the stone table, his glance going to the wand he needed.

Kitiara let her shoulders slump, her head droop. She held the sword weakly in her right hand, balancing the blade with her left, feigning to be seriously hurt. All the while, she felt strength returning to her numb sword arm. Let him think he has won. I’ll hear him when he attacks. At the first magical word he utters, I’ll slice him in two! Her hand tightened on the sword hilt. Listening carefully, she heard nothing. Only the soft rustle of black robes, the painful catch in the dark elf’s breath. Was it true, she wondered, about Lord Soth? If it were, did it matter? Kitiara found the thought rather amusing. Men had done more than that to gain her. She was still free. She would deal with Soth later. What Dalamar said about Raistlin intrigued her more. Could he, perhaps, win?

Would he bring the Dark Queen into this plane? The thought appalled Kitiara, appalled and frightened her. “I was useful to you once, wasn’t I, Dark Majesty?” she whispered. “Once, when you were weak and only a shadow upon this side of the glass. But when you are strong, what place will there be for me in this world? None! Because you hate me and you fear me even as I hate and fear you.

“As for my sniveling worm of a brother, there will be one waiting for him—Dalamar! You belong to your Shalafi body and soul! You’re the one who means to help, not hinder, him when he comes through the Portal! No, dear lover. I do not trust you! Dare not trust you!”

Dalamar saw Kitiara shiver, he saw the wounds upon her body turning a purplish blue. She was weakening, certainly. He had seen her face pale when he mentioned Soth, her eyes dilate for an instant with fear. Surely she must realize she had been betrayed. Surely she must now see her great folly. Not that it mattered, not now. He did not trust her, dare not trust her... .

Dalamar’s hand snaked backward. Grasping the wand, he swung it up, speaking the word of magic that diffused the magical shield guarding him. At that instant, Kitiara whirled around. Her sword grasped in both hands, she wielded it with all her strength. The blow would have severed Dalamar’s head from his neck, had he not twisted his body to use the wand.

As it was, the blade caught him across the back of the right shoulder, plunging deep into his flesh, shattering the shoulderblade, nearly slicing his arm off. He dropped the wand with a scream, but not before it had unleashed its magical power. Lightning forked, its sizzling blast striking Kitiara in the chest, knocking her writhing body backward, slamming her to the floor.

Dalamar stumped over the table, reeling from pain. Blood spurted rhythmically from his arm. He watched it dully, uncomprehending for an instant, then Raistlin’s s lessons in anatomy returned. That was the heartblood pouring out. He would be dead within minutes. The ring of healing was on his right hand, his injured arm. Feebly reaching across with his left, he grasped the stone and spoke the simple word that activated the magic. Then he lost consciousness, his body slipping to the floor to lie in a pool of his own blood.

“Dalamar!” A voice called his name.

Drowsily, the dark elf stirred. Pain shot through his body. He moaned and fought to sink back into the darkness. But the voice shouted again. Memory returned, and with memory came fear. Fear brought him to consciousness. He tried to sit up, but pain tore through him, nearly making him pass out again. He could hear the broken ends of bones crunching together, his right arm and hand hung limp and lifeless at his side. The ring had stopped the bleeding. He would live, but would it be only to die at the hands of his Shalafi?

“Dalamar!” the voice shouted again. “It’s Caramon!”

Dalamar sobbed in relief. Lifting his head—a move that required a supreme effort—he looked at the Portal. The dragons eyes glowed brighter still, the glow even seeming to spread along their necks. The void was definitely stirring now. He could feel a hot wind upon his cheek, or perhaps it was the fever in his body. He heard a rustling in a shadowed corner across the room, and another fear gripped Dalamar.

No! It was impossible she should be alive! Gritting his teeth against the pain, he turned his head. He could see her armored body, reflecting the glow of the dragon’s eyes. She lay still, unmoving in the shadows. He could smell the stench of burned flesh. But that sound...

Wearily, Dalamar shut his eyes. Darkness swirled in his head, threatening to drag him down. He could not rest yet! Fighting the pain, he forced himself to consciousness, wondering why Caramon didn’t come. He could hear him calling again. What was the matter? And then Dalamar remembered—the guardians! Of course, they would never let him pass!

“Guardians, hear my words and obey,” Dalamar began, concentrating his thoughts and energies, murmuring the words that would help Caramon pass the dread defenders of the Tower and enter the chamber.

Behind Dalamar, the dragons heads glowed brighter yet, while before him, in the shadowed corner, a hand reached into a blood—drenched belt and, with its dying strength, gripped the handle of a dagger.

“Caramon,” said Tanis softly, watching the eyes watching him, “we could leave. Go up the stairs again. Maybe there’s another way—

“There isn’t. I’m not leaving,” Caramon said stubbornly.

“Name of the gods, Caramon! You can’t fight the damn things!”

“Dalamar!” Caramon called again desperately. “Dalamar, I—”

As suddenly as if they had been snuffed out, the glowing eyes vanished.

“They’re gone!” said Caramon, starting forward eagerly. But Tanis caught hold of him.

“A trick—”

“No,” Caramon drew him on. “You can sense them, even when they’re not visible. And I can’t sense them anymore. Can you?”

“I sense something!” Tanis muttered.

“But it’s not them and it’s not concerned about us,” Caramon said, heading down the winding stairs of the top of the Tower at a run. Another door at the bottom of the steps stood open. Here, Caramon paused, peering inside the main part of the building cautiously.

It was dark inside, as dark as if light had not yet been created. The torches had been extinguished. No windows permitted even the smoke-clouded light from outside the Tower to seep into it. Tanis had a sudden vision of stepping into that darkness and vanishing forever, falling into the thick, devouring evil that permeated every rock and stone. Beside him, he could hear Caramon’s breathing quicken, and feel the big man’s body tense.

“Caramon—what’s out there?”

“Nothing’s out there. Just a long drop to the bottom. The center of the Tower’s hollow. There are stairs that run around the edge of the wall, rooms branch off from the stairs. I’m standing on a narrow landing now, if I remember right. The laboratory’s about two flights down from here.”

Caramon s voice broke. “We’ve got to go on! We’re losing time! He’s getting nearer!” Clutching at Tanis, he continued more calmly. “C’mon. Just keep close to the wall. This stairway leads down to the laboratory—”

“One false step in this blasted darkness and it won’t matter to us anymore what your brother does!” Tanis said. But he knew his words were useless. Blind as he was in the smothering endless night, he could almost see Caramon s face tighten with resolve. He heard the big man take a shuffling step forward, trying to feel his way along the wall. With a sigh, Tanis prepared to follow... .

And then the eyes were back, staring at them.

Tanis reached for his sword—a stupid, futile gesture. But the eyes only continued to stare at them, and a voice spoke. “Come. This way”

A hand wavered in the darkness.

“We can’t see, damn it!” Tanis snarled.

A ghostly light appeared, held in that wasted hand. Tanis shuddered. He preferred the darkness, after all. But he said nothing, for Caramon was hurrying ahead, running down a long winding flight of stairs. At the bottom, the eyes and the hand and the light came to halt. Before them was an open door and a room beyond. Inside the room, light shone brightly, beaming into the corridor. Caramon dashed ahead, and Tanis followed, hastily slamming the door shut behind him so that the horrible eyes wouldn’t follow.

Turning, he stopped, staring around the room, and he realized, suddenly, where he was—Raistlin’s laboratory. Standing numbly, pressed against the door, Tanis watched as Caramon hurried forward to kneel beside a figure huddled in a pool of blood upon the floor. Dalamar, Tanis registered, seeing the black robes. But he couldn’t react, couldn’t move.

The evil in the darkness outside the door had been smothering, dusty, centuries old. But the evil in here was alive; it breathed and throbbed and pulsed. Its chill flowed from the nightblue-bound spellbooks upon the shelves, its warmth rose from a new set of black-bound spellbooks, marked with hourglass runes, that stood beside them. His horrified gaze looked into beakers and saw tormented eyes staring back at him. He choked on the smells of spices and mold and fungus and roses and, somewhere, the sweet smell of burned flesh.

And then, his gaze was caught and held by glowing light radiating from a corner. The light was beautiful, yet it filled him with awe and terror, reminding him vividly of his encounter with the Dark Queen. Mesmerized, he stared at the light. It seemed to be of every color he had ever seen whirling into one. But, as he watched, horrified, fascinated, unable to look away, he saw the light separate and become distinct, forming into the five heads of a dragon.

A doorway! Tanis realized suddenly. The five heads rose from a golden dais, forming an oval shape with their necks. Each craned inward, its mouth open in a frozen scream. Tanis looked beyond them into the void within the oval. Nothing was there, but that nothing moved. All was empty, and alive. He knew suddenly, instinctively, where the doorway led, and the knowledge chilled him.

“The Portal,” said Caramon, seeing Tanis’s pale face and staring eyes. “Come here, give me a hand.”

“You’re going in there?” Tanis whispered savagely, amazed at the big man’s calm. Crossing the room, he came to stand beside his friend. “Caramon, don’t be a fool!”

“I have no choice, Tanis,” Caramon said, that new look of quiet decision on his face. Tanis started to argue, but Caramon turned away from him, back to the injured dark elf.

“I’ve seen what will happen!” he reminded Tanis.

Swallowing his words, choking on them, Tanis knelt down beside Dalamar. The dark elf had managed to drag himself to a sitting position, so that he could face the Portal. He had lapsed into unconsciousness again, but, at the sound of their voices, his eyes flared open.

“Caramon!” He gasped, reaching out a trembling hand. “You must stop—”

“I know, Dalamar,” Caramon said gently. “I know what I must do. But I need your help! Tell me—”

Dalamar’s eyes fluttered shut, his skin was ashen. Tanis reached across Dalamar’s chest to feel for the lifebeat in the young elf’s neck. His hand had just touched the mage’s skin when there was a ringing sound. Something jarred his arm, striking the armor and bouncing off, falling to the floor with a clatter. Looking down, Tanis saw a blood-stained dagger. Startled, he whirled around, twisting to his feet, sword in hand.

“Kitiara!” Dalamar whispered with a feeble nod of his head.

Staring into the shadows of the laboratory, Tanis saw the body in the corner.

“Of course,” Caramon murmured. “That’s how she killed him.” He lifted the dagger in his hand.

“This time, Tanis, you blocked her throw.”

But Tanis didn’t hear. Sliding his sword back into his sheath, he crossed the room, stepping unheedingly on broken glass, kicking aside a silver candlestand that rolled beneath his feet. Kitiara lay on her stomach, her cheek pressed against the bloody floor, her dark hair falling across her eyes. The dagger throw had taken her last energy, it seemed. Tanis, approaching her, his emotions in turmoil, was certain she must be dead.

But the indomitable will that had carried one brother through darkness and another into light, burned still within Kitiara.

She heard footsteps... her enemy... .

Her hand grasped feebly for her sword. She raised her head, looking up with eyes fast dimming.

“Tanis?” She stared at him, puzzled, confused. Where was she? Flotsam? Were they together there again? Of course! He had come back to her! Smiling, she raised her hand to him.

Tanis caught his breath, his stomach wrenching. As she moved, he saw a blackened hole gaping in her chest. Her flesh had been burned away, he could see white bone beneath. It was a gruesome sight, and Tanis, sickened and overwhelmed by a surge of memories, was forced to turn his head away.

“Tanis!” she called in a cracked voice. “Come to me.”

His heart filled with pity, Tanis knelt down beside her to lift her in his arms. She looked up into his face... and saw her death in his eyes. Fear shook her. She struggled to rise. But the effort was too much. She collapsed.

“I’m... hurt,” she whispered angrily. “How... bad?” Lifting her hand, she started to touch the wound.

Snatching off his cloak, Tanis wrapped it around Kitiara’s torn body. “Rest easy, Kit,” he said gently. “You’ll be all right.”

“You’re a damn liar!” she cried, her hands clenching into fists, echoing—if she had only known it—the dying Elistan. “He’s killed me! That wretched elf!” She smiled, a ghastly smile. Tanis shuddered. “But I fixed him! He can’t help Raistlin now. The Dark Queen will slay him, slay them all!”

Moaning, she writhed in agony and clutched at Tanis. He held her tightly. When the pain eased, she looked up at him. “You weakling,” she whispered in a tone that was part bitter scorn, part bitter regret, “we could have had the world, you and I.”

“I have the world, Kitiara,” Tanis said softly, his heart torn with revulsion and sorrow.

Angrily, she shook her head and seemed about to say more when her eyes grew wide, her gaze fixed upon something at the far end of the room.

“No!” she cried in a terror that no torture or suffering could have ever wrenched from her. “No!”

Shrinking, huddling against Tanis, she whispered in a frantic, strangled voice. “Don’t let him take me! Tanis, no! Keep him away! I always loved you, half-elf! Always... loved... you...”

Her voice faded to a gasping whisper.

Tanis looked up, alarmed. But the doorway was empty. There was no one there. Had she meant Dalamar? “Who? Kitiara! I don’t understand—”

But she did not hear him. Her ears were deaf forever to mortal voices. The only voice she heard now was one she would hear forever, through all eternity.

Tanis felt the body in his arms go limp. Smoothing back the dark, curly hair, he searched her face for some sign that death had brought peace to her soul. But the expression on her face was one of horror—her brown eyes fixed in a terrified stare, the crooked, charming smile twisted into a grimace.

Tanis glanced up at Caramon. His face pale and grave, the big man shook his head. Slowly, Tanis laid Kitiara’s body back down upon the floor. Leaning over, he started to kiss the cold forehead, but he found that he couldn’t. The look on the corpse’s face was too grim, too ghastly. Pulling his cloak up over Kitiara’s head, Tanis remained for a moment, kneeling beside her body, surrounded by darkness. And then he heard Caramon’s step, he felt a hand upon his arm. “Tanis—”

“I’m all right,” the half-elf said gruffly, rising to his feet. But, in his mind, he could still hear her dying plea.

“Keep him away!”

7

“I’m glad you’re here with me, Tanis,” Caramon said.

He stood before the Portal, staring into it intently, watching every shift and wave of the void within. Near him sat Dalamar, propped up by pillows in his chair, his face pale and drawn with pain, his arm bound in a crude sling. Tanis paced the floor restlessly. The dragon’s heads now glowed so brightly it hurt the eye to look at them directly.

“Caramon,” he began, “please—”

Caramon looked over at him, his same grave, calm expression unchanged.

Tanis was baffled. How could you argue with granite? He sighed. “All right. But just how are you going to get in there?” he asked abruptly.

Caramon smiled. He knew what Tanis had been about to say, and he was grateful to him for not having said it.

Giving the Portal a grim look, Tanis gestured toward the opening. “From what you told me earlier, Raistlin had to study years and become this Fistandantilus and entrap Lady Crysania into going with him, and even then he barely made it!” Tanis shifted his gaze to Dalamar. “Can you enter the Portal, dark elf?”

Dalamar shook his head. “No, As you say, it takes one of great power to cross that dread threshold. I do not have such power, perhaps I never will. But, do not glower, Half-Elven. We do not waste our time. I am certain Caramon would not have undertaken this if he did not know how he could enter.” Dalamar looked at the big warrior intently. “For enter he must, or we are doomed.”

“When Raistlin fights the Dark Queen and her minions in the Abyss,” Caramon said, his voice even and expressionless, “he will need to concentrate upon them completely, to the exclusion of all else. Isn’t that true, Dalamar?”

“Most assuredly.” The dark elf shivered and pulled his black robes about him closer with his good hand. “One breath, one blink, one twitch, and they will rend him limb from limb and devour him.”

Caramon nodded.

How can he be so calm? Tanis wondered. And a voice within him replied, it is the calm of one who knows and accepts his fate.

“In Astinus’s book,” Caramon continued, “he wrote that Raistlin, knowing he would have to concentrate his magic upon fighting the Queen, opened the Portal to make sure of his escape route before he went into battle. Thus, when he arrived, he would find it ready for him to enter when he returned to this world.”

“He also knew undoubtedly that he would be too weakened by that time to open it himself,” Dalamar murmured. “He would need to be at the height of his strength. Yes, you are right. He will open it, and soon. And when he does, anyone with the strength and courage necessary to pass the boundary may enter.”

The dark elf closed his eyes, biting his lip to keep from crying out. He had refused a potion to ease the pain. “If you fail,” he had said to Caramon, “I am our last hope.”

Our last hope, thought Tanis—a dark elf. This is insane! It can’t be happening. Leaning against the stone table, he let his head sink into his hands. Name of the gods, he was tired! His body ached, his wounds burned and stung. He had removed the breast plate of his armor—it felt as heavy as a gravestone, slung around his neck. But as much as his body hurt, his soul hurt worse.

Memories flitted about him like the guardians of the Tower, reaching out to touch him with their cold hands. Caramon sneaking food off Flint’s plate while the dwarf had his back turned. Raistlin conjuring up visions of wonder and delight for the children of Flotsam. Kitiara, laughing, throwing her arms around his neck, whispering into his ear. Tanis’s heart shrank within him, the pain brought tears to his eyes. No! It was all wrong! Surely it wasn’t supposed to end this way! A book swam into his blurred vision—Caramon’s s book, resting upon the stone table, the last book of Astinus. Or is that how it was going to end? He became aware, then, of Caramon looking at him in concern. Angrily, he wiped his eyes and his face and stood up with a sigh. But the spectres remained with him, hovering near him. Near him... and near the burned and broken body that lay in the corner beneath his cloak.

Human, half-elf, and dark elf watched the Portal in silence. A water clock on the mantle kept track of time, the drops falling one by one with the regularity of a heartbeat. The tension in the room stretched until it seemed it must snap and break, whipping around the laboratory with stinging fury. Dalamar began muttering in elven. Tanis glanced at him sharply, fearing the dark elf might be delirious. The mage’s face was pale, cadaverous, his eyes surrounded by deep, purple shadows had sunken into their sockets. Their gaze never shifted, they stared always into the swirling void.

Even Caramon’s calm appeared to be slipping. His big hands clenched and unclenched nervously, sweat covered his body, glistening in the light of the five heads of the dragon. He began to shiver, involuntarily. The muscles in his arms twitched and bunched spasmodically. And then Tanis felt a strange sensation creep over him. The air was still, too still. Sounds of battle raging in the city outside the Tower—sounds that he had heard without even being aware of it—suddenly ceased. Inside the Tower, too, sound hushed. The words Dalamar muttered died on his lips.

The silence blanketed them, as thick and stifling as the darkness in the corridor, as the evil within the room. The dripping of the water clock grew louder, magnified, every drop seeming to jar Tanis’s bones. Dalamar’s eyes jerked open, his hand twitched, nervously grasping his black robes between white-knuckled fingers.

Tanis moved closer to Caramon, only to find the big man reaching out for him.

Both spoke at once. “Caramon...”

“Tanis...”

Desperately, Caramon grasped hold of Tanis’s arm. “You’ll take care of Tika for me, wont you?”

“Caramon, I cant let you go in there alone!” Tanis gripped him. “I’ll come—”

“No, Tanis,” Caramon’s voice was firm. “If I fail, Dalamar will need your help. Tell Tika good-bye, and try to explain to her, Tanis. Tell her I love her very much, so much I—” His voice broke. He couldn’t go on. Tanis held onto him tightly.

“I know what to tell her, Caramon,” he said, remembering a letter of good-bye of his own. Caramon nodded, shaking the tears from his eyes and drawing a deep, quivering breath. “And say good-bye to Tas. I-I don’t think he ever did understand. Not really.” He managed a smile. “Of course, you’ll have to get him out of that flying castle first.”

“I think he knew, Caramon,” Tanis said softly.

The dragon’s heads began to make a shrill sound, a faint scream that seemed to come from far away.

Caramon tensed.

The screaming grew louder, nearer, and more shrill. The Portal burned with color, each head of the dragon glistened brilliantly.

“Make ready,” Dalamar warned, his voice cracking.

“Good-bye, Tanis.” Caramon held onto his hand tightly.

“Good-bye, Caramon.”

Releasing his hold on his friend, Tanis stepped back.

The void parted. The Portal opened.

Tanis looked into it—he knew he looked into it, for he could not turn away. But he could never recall clearly what he saw. He dreamed of it, even years later. He knew he dreamed of it because he would wake in the night, drenched in sweat. But the image was always just fading from his consciousness, never to be grasped by his waking mind. And he would lie, staring into the darkness, trembling, for hours after.

But that was later. All he knew now was that he had to stop Caramon! But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t cry out. Transfixed, horror-stricken, he watched as Caramon, with a last, quiet look, turned and mounted the golden platform.

The dragons shrieked in warning, triumph, hatred... Tanis didn’t know. His own cry, wrenched from his body, was lost in the shrill, deafening sound.

There was a blinding, swirling, crashing wave of many colored light.

And then it was dark.

Caramon was gone.

“May Paladine be with you,” Tanis whispered, only to hear, to his discomfiture, Dalamar’s cool voice, echo, “Takhisis, my Queen, go with you.”

“I see him,” said Dalamar, after a moment. Staring intently into the Portal, he half-rose, to see more clearly. A gasp of pain, forgotten in the excitement, escaped him. Cursing, he sank back down into the chair, his pale face covered with sweat.

Tanis ceased his restless pacing and came to stand beside Dalamar. “There,” the dark elf pointed, his breath coming from between clenched teeth.

Reluctantly, still feeling the effects of the shock that lingered from when he had first looked into the Portal, Tanis looked into it again. At first he could see nothing but a bleak and barren landscape stretching beneath a burning sky. And then he saw red-tinged light glint off bright armor. He saw a small figure standing near the front of the Portal, sword in hand, facing away from them, waiting...

“How will he close it?” Tanis asked, trying to speak calmly though grief choked his voice.

“He cannot,” Dalamar replied.

Tanis stared at him in alarm. “Then what will stop the Queen from entering again?”

“She cannot come through unless one comes through ahead of her, half-elf,” Dalamar answered, somewhat irritably. “Otherwise, she would have entered long before this. Raistlin keeps it open. If he comes through it, she will follow. With his death, it will close.”

“So Caramon must kill him—his brother?”

“Yes.”

“And he must die as well,” Tanis murmured.

“Pray that he dies!” Dalamar licked his lips. The pain was making him dizzy, nauseated. “For he cannot return through the Portal either. And though death at the hands of the Dark Queen can be very slow, very unpleasant, believe me, Half-Elven, it is far preferable to life!”

“He knew this—”

“Yes, he knew it. But the world will be saved, Half-elven,” Dalamar remarked cynically. Sinking back into his chair, he continued staring into the Portal, his hand alternately crumpling, then smoothing, the folds of his black, rune-covered robes.

“No, not the world, a soul,” Tanis started to reply bitterly, when he heard, behind him, the laboratory door creak.

Dalamar’s gaze shifted instantly. Eyes glittering, his hand moved to a spell scroll he had slipped into his belt.

“No one can enter,” he said softly to Tanis, who had turned at the sound. “The guardians—”

“Cannot stop him,” Tanis said, his gaze fixed upon the door with a look of fear that mirrored, for an instant, the look of frozen fear upon Kitiara’s dead face.

Dalamar smiled grimly, and relapsed back into his chair. There was no need to look around. The chill of death flowed through the room like a foul mist.

“Enter, Lord Soth,” Dalamar said. “I’ve been expecting you...

5

Caramon was blinded by the dazzling light that seared even through his closed eyelids. Then darkness wrapped around him and, when he opened his eyes, for an instant he could not see, and he panicked, remembering the time he had been blind and lost in the Tower of High Sorcery. But, gradually, the darkness, too, lifted, and his eyes became accustomed to the eerie light of his surroundings. It burned with a strange, pinkish glow, as if the sun had just set, Tasslehoff had told him. And the land was just as the kender had described—vast, empty terrain beneath a vast, empty sky. Sky and land were the same color everywhere he looked, in every direction.

Except in one direction. Turning his head, Caramon saw the Portal, now behind him. It was the only swatch of colors in the barren land. Framed by the oval door of the five heads of the dragon, it seemed small and distant to him even though he knew he must be very near. Caramon fancied it looked like a picture, hung upon a wall. Though he could see Tanis and Dalamar quite clearly, they were not moving. They might well have been painted subjects, captured in arrested motion, forced to spend their painted eternity staring into nothing.

Firmly turning his back upon them, wondering, with a pang, if they could see him as he could see them, Caramon drew his sword from its sheath and stood, feet firmly planted on the shifting ground, waiting for his twin.

Caramon had no doubts, no doubts at all, that a battle between himself and Raistlin must end in his own death. Even weakened, Raistlin’s s magic would still be strong. And Caramon knew his brother well enough to know that Raistlin would never—if he could help it—allow himself to become totally vulnerable. There would always be one spell left, or at least—the silver dagger on his wrist. But, even though I will die, my objective will be accomplished, Caramon thought calmly. I am strong, healthy, and all it will take is one sword thrust through that thin, frail body.

He could do that much, he knew, before his brother’s magic withered him as it had withered him once, long ago, in the Tower of High Sorcery... .

Tears stung in his eyes, ran down his throat. He swallowed them, forcing his thoughts to something else to take his mind from his fear... his sorrow.

Lady Crysania.

Poor woman. Caramon sighed. He hoped, for her sake, she had died quickly... never knowing...

Caramon blinked, startled, staring ahead of him. What was happening? Where before there had been nothing to the pinkish, glowing horizon—now there was an object. It stood starkly black against the pink sky, and appeared flat, as if it had been cut out of paper. Tas’s words came to him again. But he recognized it—a wooden stake. The kind... the kind they had used in the old days to burn witches!

Memories flooded back. He could see Raistlin tied to the stake, see the heaps of wood stacked about his brother, who was struggling to free himself, shrieking defiance at those whom he had attempted to save from their own folly by exposing a charlatan cleric. But they had believed him to be a witch. “We got there just in time, Sturm and I,” Caramon muttered, remembering the knight’s sword flashing in the sun, its light alone driving back the superstitious peasants. Looking closer at the stake—which seemed, of its own accord, to move closer to him—Caramon saw a figure lying at the foot. Was it Raistlin? The stake slid closer and closer or was he walking toward it? Caramon turned his head again. The Portal was farther back, but he could still see it. Alarmed, fearing he might be swept away, he fought to stop himself and did so, immediately. Then, he heard the kender’s voice again. All you have to do to go anywhere is think yourself there. All you have to do to have anything you want is think of it, only be careful, because the Abyss can twist and distort what you see.

Looking at the wooden stake, Caramon thought himself there and instantly was standing right beside it. Turning once again, he glanced in the direction of the Portal and saw it, hanging like a miniature painting in between the sky and ground. Satisfied that he could return at any second, Caramon hurried toward the figure lying below the stake.

At first, he had thought it was garbed in black robes, and his heart lurched. But now he saw that it had only appeared as a black silhouette against the glowing ground. The robes it wore were white. And then he knew.

Of course, he had been thinking of her... .

“Crysania,” he said.

She opened her eyes and turned her head toward the sound of his voice, but her eyes did not fix on him. They stared past him, and he realized she was blind.

“Raistlin?” she whispered in a voice filled with such hope and longing that Caramon would have given anything, his life itself, to have confirmed that hope.

But, shaking his head, he knelt down and took her hand in his. “It is Caramon, Lady Crysania.”

She turned her sightless eyes toward the sound of his voice, weakly clasping his hand with her own. She stared toward him, confused. “Caramon? Where are we?”

“I entered the Portal, Crysania,” he said.

She sighed, closing her eyes. “So you are here in the Abyss, with us...

“Yes.”

“I have been a fool, Caramon,” she murmured, “but I am paying for my folly. I wish... I wish I knew... Has harm come to... to anyone... other than myself? And him?” The last word was almost inaudible.

“Lady—” Caramon didn’t know how to answer.

But Crysania stopped him. She could hear the sadness in his voice. Closing her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks, she pressed his hand against her lips. “Of course. I understand!” she whispered. “That is why you have come. I’m sorry, Caramon! So sorry!”

She began to weep. Gathering her close, Caramon held her, rocking her soothingly, like a child. He knew, then, that she was dying. He could feel her life ebbing from her body even as he held it. But what had injured her, what wounds she had suffered he could not imagine, for there was no mark upon her skin.

“There is nothing to be sorry for, my lady,” he said, smoothing back the thick, shining black hair that tumbled over her deathly pale face. “You loved him. If that is your folly, then it is mine as well, and I pay for it gladly.”

“If that were only true!” She moaned. “But it was my pride, my ambition, that led me here!”

“Was it, Crysania?” Caramon asked. “If so, why did Paladine grant your prayers and open the Portal for you when he refused to grant the demands of the Kingpriest? Why did he bless you with that gift if not because he saw truly what was in your heart?”

“Paladine has turned his face from me!” she cried. Taking the medallion in her hand she tried to wrench it from her neck. But she was too weak. Her hand closed over the medallion and remained there. And, as she did so, a look of peace filled her face. “No,” she said, talking softly to herself, “he is here. He holds me. I see him so clearly...”

Standing up, Caramon lifted her in his arms. Her head sank back against his shoulder, she relaxed in his firm grasp. “We are going back to the Portal,” he told her.

She did not answer, but she smiled. Had she heard him, or was she listening to another voice? Facing the Portal that glimmered like a multicolored jewel in the distance, Caramon thought himself near it, and it moved rapidly forward.

Suddenly the air around him split and cracked. Lightning stabbed from the sky, lightning such as he had never seen. Thousands of purple, sizzling branches struck the ground, penning him for a spectacular instant in a prison whose bars were death. Paralyzed by the shock, he could not move. Even after the lightning vanished, he waited, cringing, for the explosive blast of thunder that must deafen him forever.

But there was only silence, silence and, far away, an agonized, piercing scream. Crysania’s eyes opened. “Raistlin,” she said. Her hand tightened around the medallion.

“Yes,” Caramon replied.

Tears slid down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and clung to Caramon. He moved on, toward the Portal, traveling slowly now, a disturbing, disquieting idea coming to his mind. Lady Crysania was dying, certainly. The lifebeat in her neck was weak, fluttering beneath his fingers like the heart of a baby bird. But she was not dead, not yet. Perhaps, if he could get her back through the Portal, she might live.

Could he get her through, though, without taking her through himself?

Holding her in his arms, Caramon drew nearer the Portal. Or rather, it drew nearer him, leaping up at him as he approached, growing in size, the dragon’s heads staring at him with their glittering eyes, their mouths open to grasp and devour him.

He could still see through it, he could see Tanis and Dalamar—one standing, the other sitting; neither moving, both frozen in time. Could they help him? Could they take Crysania?

“Tanis!” he called out. “Dalamar!”

But if either heard him shouting, they did not react to his cries.

Gently, he lowered Lady Crysania to the shifting ground before the Portal. Caramon knew then that it was hopeless. He had known all along. He could take her back and she would live. But that would mean Raistlin would live and escape, drawing the Queen after him, dooming the world and its people to destruction.

He sank down to the strange ground. Sitting beside Crysania, he took hold of her hand. He was glad she was here with him, in a way. He didn’t feel so alone. The touch of her hand was comforting. If only he could save her... .

“What are you going to do to Raistlin, Caramon?” Crysania asked softly, after a moment.

“Stop him from leaving the Abyss,” Caramon replied, his voice even, without expression. She nodded in understanding, her hand holding his firmly, her sightless eyes staring up at him.

“He’ll kill you, won’t he?”

“Yes,” Caramon answered steadily. “But not before he himself falls.”

A spasm of pain contorted Crysania’s face. She gripped Caramon s hand. “I’ll wait for you!” She choked, her voice weakening. “I’ll wait for you. When it is over, you will be my guide since I cannot see. You will take me to Paladine. You will lead me from the darkness.”

Her eyes closed. Her head sank back slowly, as though she rested upon a pillow. But her hand still held Caramon’s. Her breast rose and fell with her breathing. He put his fingers on her neck, her life pulsed beneath them.

He had been prepared to condemn himself to death, he was prepared to condemn his brother. It had all been so simple!

But—could he condemn her?...

Perhaps he still had time... Perhaps he could carry her through the Portal and return...

Filled with hope, Caramon rose to his feet and started to lift Crysania in his arms again. Then he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye.

Turning, he saw Raistlin.

9

“Enter, Knight of the Black Rose,” repeated Dalamar.

Eyes of flame stared at Tanis, who put his hand on the hilt of his sword. At the same instant, slender fingers touched his arm, making him start.

“Do not interfere, Tanis,” Dalamar said softly. “He does not care about us. He comes for one thing only.”

The flickering, flaming gaze passed over Tanis. Candlelight glinted on the ancient, old-fashioned, ornate armor that bore still, beneath the blackened scorch-marks and the stains of his own blood—long since turned to dust—the faint outlines of the Rose, symbol of the Knights of Solamnia. Booted feet that made no sound crossed the room. The orange eyes had found their object in the shadowed corner—the huddled form lying beneath Tanis’s cloak.

Keep him away! Tanis hear Kitiara’s frantic voice. I have always loved you, half-elf!

Lord Soth stopped and knelt beside the body. But he appeared unable to touch it, as though constrained by some unseen force. Rising to his feet, he turned, his orange eyes flaming in the empty darkness beneath the helm he wore.

“Release her to me, Tanis Half-Elven,” said the hollow voice. “Your love binds her to this plane. Give her up.”

Tanis, gripping his sword, took a step forward.

“He’ll kill you, Tanis,” Dalamar warned. “He’ll slay you without hesitation. Let her go to him. After all, I think perhaps he was the only one of us who ever truly understood her.”

The orange eyes flared. “Understood her? Admired her! Like I myself, she was meant to rule, destined to conquer! But she was stronger than I was. She could throw aside love that threatened to chain her down. But for a twist of fate, she would have ruled all of Ansalon!”

The hollow voice resounded in the room, startling Tanis with its passion, its hatred.

“And there she was!” The chain mail fist clenched. “Penned up in Sanction like a caged beast, making plans for a war she could not hope to win. Her courage and resolve were beginning to weaken. She had even allowed herself to become chained like a slave to a dark-elf lover! Better she should die fighting than let her life burn out like a guttered candle.”

“No!” Tanis muttered, his hand clenching his sword. “No—”

Dalamar’s fingers closed over his wrist. “She never loved you, Tanis,” he said coldly. “She used you as she used us all, even him.” The dark elf glanced toward Soth. Tanis seemed about to speak, but Dalamar interrupted. “She used you to the end, Half-Elven. Even now, she reaches from beyond, hoping you will save her.”

Still Tanis hesitated. In his mind burned the image of her horror-filled face. The image burned, flames rose...

Flames filled Tanis’s vision. Staring into them, he saw a castle, once proud and noble, now black and crumbling, falling into flame. He saw a lovely, delicate elf maid, a little child in her arms, falling into flame. He saw warriors, running, dying, falling into flame. And out of the flame, he heard Soth’s voice.

“You have life, Half-Elven. You have much to live for. There are those among the living who depend upon you. I know, because all that you have was once mine. I cast it away, choosing to live in darkness instead of light. Will you follow me? Will you throw all you have aside for one who chose, long ago, to walk the paths of night?”

I have the world, Tanis heard his own words. Laurana’s face smiled upon him.

He closed his eyes... Laurana’s face, beautiful, wise, loving. Light shone from her golden hair, glistened in her clear, elven eyes. The light grew brighter, like a star. Purely, brilliantly, it gleamed, shining upon him with such radiance that he could no longer see in his memory the cold face beneath the cloak.

Slowly, Tanis withdrew his hand from his sword.

Lord Soth turned. Kneeling down, he lifted the body wrapped in the cloak, now stained dark with blood, in his unseen arms. He spoke a word of magic. Tanis had a sudden vision of a dark chasm yawning at the death knight’s feet. Soul-piercing cold swept through the room, the blast forcing him to avert his head, as if against a bitter wind.

When he looked, the shadowed corner was empty.

“They are gone.” Dalamar’s hand released his wrist. “And so is Caramon.”

“Gone?” Turning unsteadily, shivering, his body drenched in chill sweat, Tanis faced the Portal once again. The burning landscape was empty.

A hollow voice echoed. Will you throw all you have aside for one who chose, long ago, to walk the paths of night?

10

Ahead of him, the Portal.

Behind him, the Queen. Behind him, pain, suffering...

Ahead of him—victory.

Leaning upon the Staff of Magius, so weak he could barely stand, Raistlin kept the image of the Portal ever in his mind. It seemed he had walked, stumbled, crawled mile after end less mile to reach it. Now he was close. He could see its glittering, beautiful colors, colors of life—the green of grass, blue of sky, white of clouds, black of night, red of blood...

Blood. He looked at his hands, stained with blood, his own blood. His wounds were too numerous to count. Struck by mace, stabbed by sword, scorched by lightning, burned by fire, he had been attacked by dark clerics, dark wizards, legions of ghouls and demons—all who served Her Dark Majesty. His black robes hung about him in stained tatters. He did not draw a breath that was not wrenching agony. He had, long ago, stopped vomiting blood. And though he coughed, coughed until he could not stand but was forced to sink to his knees, retching, there was nothing there. Nothing inside him.

And, through it all, he had endured.

Exultation ran like fever through his veins. He had endured, he had survived. He lived... just barely. But he lived. The Queen’s fury thrummed behind him. He could feel the ground and sky pulsate with it. He had defeated her best, and there were none left now to challenge him. None, except herself. The Portal shimmered with myriad colors in his hourglass vision. Closer, closer he came. Behind him—the Queen, rage making her careless, heedless. He would escape the Abyss, she could not stop him now. A shadow crossed over him, chilling him. Looking up, he saw the fingers of a gigantic hand darkening the sky, the nails glistening blood red.

Raistlin smiled, and kept advancing. It was a shadow, nothing more. The hand that cast the shadow reached for him in vain. He was too close, and she, having counted upon her minions to stop him, was too far away. Her hand would grasp the skirts of his tattered black robes when he crossed over the threshold of the Portal, and, with his last strength, he would drag it through the door.

And then, upon his plane, who would prove the stronger?

Raistlin coughed, but even as he coughed, even as the pain tore at him, he smiled—no, grinned—a thin-lipped, bloodstained grin. He had no doubts. No doubts at all.

Clutching his chest with one hand, the Staff of Magius with the other, Raistlin moved ahead, carefully measuring out his life to himself as he needed it, cherishing every burning breath he drew like a miser gloating over a copper piece. The coming battle would be glorious. Now it would be his turn to summon legions to fight for him. The gods themselves would answer his call, for the Queen appearing in the world in all her might and majesty would bring down the wrath of the heavens. Moons would fall, planets shift in their orbits, stars change their courses. The elements would do his bidding—wind, air, water, fire—all under his command.

And now, ahead of him—the Portal, the dragon’s heads shrieking in impotent fury, knowing they lacked the power to stop him.

Just one more breath, one more lurching heartbeat, one more step...

He lifted his hooded head, and stopped.

A figure, unseen before, obscured by a haze of pain and blood and the shadows of death, rose up before him, standing before the Portal, a gleaming sword in its hand. Raistlin, looking at it, stared for a moment in complete and total incomprehension. Then, joy surged through his shattered body.

“Caramon!”

He stretched out a trembling hand. What miracle this was, he didn’t know. But his twin was here, as he had ever been here, waiting for him, waiting to fight at his side...

“Caramon!” Raistlin panted. “Help me, my brother.”

Exhaustion was overtaking him, pain claiming him. He was rapidly losing the power to think, to concentrate. His magic no longer sparkled through his body like quicksilver, but moved sluggishly, congealing like the blood upon his wounds.

“Caramon, come to me. I cannot walk alone—”

But Caramon did not move. He just stood there, his sword in his hand, staring at him with eyes of mingled love and sorrow, a deep, burning sorrow. A sorrow that cut through the haze of pain and exposed Raistlin’s s barren, empty soul. And then he knew. He knew why his twin was here.

“You block my way, brother,” Raistlin said coldly.

“I know.”

“Stand aside, then, if you will not help me!” Raistlin’s voice, coming from his raw throat, cracked with fury.

“No.”

“You fool! You will die!” This was a whisper, soft and lethal.

Caramon drew a deep breath. “Yes,” he said steadily, “and this time, so will you.”

The sky above them darkened. Shadows gathered around them, as if the light were slowly being sucked away. The air grew chill as the light dimmed, but Raistlin could feel a vast, flaming heat behind him, the rage of his Queen.

Fear twisted his bowels, anger wrenched his stomach. The words of magic surged up, tasting like blood upon his lips. He started to hurl them at his twin, but he choked, coughed, and sank to his knees. Still the words were there, the magic was his to command. He would see his twin burn in flames as he had once, long ago, seen his twins illusion burn in the Tower of High Sorcery. If only, if only he could catch his breath...

The spasm passed. The words of magic seethed in his brain. He looked up, a grotesque snarl twisting his face, his hand raised...

Caramon stood before him, his sword in his hand, staring at him with pity in his eyes.

Pity! The look slammed into Raistlin with the force of a hundred swords. Yes, his twin would die, but not with that look upon his face!

Leaning upon his staff, Raistlin pulled himself to his feet. Raising his hand, he cast the black hood from his head so that his brother could see himself—doomed—reflected in his golden eyes.

“So you pity me, Caramon,” he hissed. “You bumbling harebrained slob. You who are incapable of comprehending the power that I have achieved, the pain I have overcome, the victories that have been mine. You dare to pity me? Before I kill you—and I will kill you, my brother—I want you to die with the knowledge in your heart that I am going forth into the world to become a god!”

“I know, Raistlin,” Caramon answered steadily. The pity did not fade from his eyes, it only deepened. “And that is why I pity you. For I have seen the future. I know the outcome.”

Raistlin stared at his brother, suspecting some trick. Above him, the red-tinged sky grew darker still, but the hand that was outstretched had paused. He could feel the Queen hesitating. She had discovered Caramon’s presence. Raistlin sensed her confusion, her fear. The lingering doubt that Caramon might be some apparition conjured up to stop him vanished. Raistlin drew a step nearer his brother.

“You have seen the future? How?”

“When you went through the Portal, the magical field affected the device, throwing Tas and me into the future.”

Raistlin devoured his brother eagerly with his eyes. “And? What will happen?”

“You will win,” Caramon said simply. “You will be victorious, not only over the Queen of Darkness, but over all the gods. Your constellation alone will shine in the skies... for a time—”

“For a time?” Raistlin’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me! What happens? Who threatens? Who deposes me?”

“You do,” Caramon replied, his voice filled with sadness. “You rule over a dead world, Raistlin—a world of gray ash and smoldering ruin and bloated corpses. You are alone in those heavens, Raistlin. You try to create, but there is nothing left within you to draw upon, and so you suck life from the stars themselves until they finally burst and die. And then there is nothing around you, nothing inside you...

“No!” Raistlin snarled. “You lie! Damn you! You lie!” Hurling the Staff of Magius from him, Raistlin lurched forward, his clawing hands catching hold of his brother. Startled, Caramon raised his sword, but it fell to the shifting ground at a word from Raistlin. The big man’s grip tightened on his twin’s arms convulsively. He could break me in two, Raistlin thought, sneering. But he won’t. He is weak. He hesitates. He is lost. And I will know the truth!

Reaching up, Raistlin pressed his burning blood-stained hand upon his brother’s forehead, dragging Caramon’s visions from his mind into his own.

And Raistlin saw.

He saw the bones of the world, the stumps of trees, the gray mud and ash, the blasted rock, the rising smoke, the rotting bodies of the dead...

He saw himself, suspended in the cold void, emptiness around him, emptiness within. It pressed down upon him, squeezed him. It gnawed at him, ate at him. He twisted in upon himself, desperately seeking nourishment—a drop of blood, a scrap of pain. But there was nothing there. There would never be anything there. And he would continue to twist, snaking inward, to find nothing... nothing... nothing.

Raistlin’s head slumped, his hand slipped from his brother’s forehead, clenching in pain. He knew this would come to pass, knew it with every fiber of his shattered body. He knew it because the emptiness was already there. It had been there, within him, for so long, so long now. Oh, it had not consumed him utterly—not yet. But he could almost see his soul, frightened, lonely, crouched in a dark and empty corner.

With a bitter cry, Raistlin shoved his brother away from him. He looked around. The shadows deepened. His Queen hesitated no longer. She was gathering her strength.

Raistlin lowered his gaze, trying to think, trying to find the anger inside him, trying to kindle the burning flame of his magic—But even that was dying. Gripped by fear, he tried to run, but he was too feeble. Taking a step, he stumbled and fell on his hands and knees. Fear shook him. He sought for help, stretching out his hand...

He heard a sound, a moan, a cry. His hand closed over white cloth, he felt warm flesh!

“Bupu,” Raistlin whispered. With a choked sob, he crawled forward.

The body of the gully dwarf lay before him, her face pinched and starved, her eyes wide with terror. Wretched, terrified, she shrank away from him.

“Bupu!” Raistlin cried, grasping hold of her in desperation, “Bupu, don’t you remember me? You gave me a book, once. A book and an emerald.” Fishing around in one of his pouches, he pulled out the shimmering, shining green stone. “Here, Bupu. Look, ‘the pretty rock.’ Take it, keep it! It will protect you!”

She reached for it, but as she did, her fingers stiffened in death.

“No!” Raistlin cried, and felt Caramon’s hand upon his arm.

“Leave her alone!” Caramon cried harshly, catching hold of his twin and hurling him backward.

“Haven’t you done enough to her already?”

Caramon held his sword in his hand once more. Its bright light hurt Raistlin’s eyes. By its light, Raistlin saw—not Bupu—but Crysania, her skin blackened and blistered, her eyes staring at him without seeing him.

Empty... empty. Nothing within him? Yes... Something there. Something, not much, but something. His soul stretched forth its hand. His own hand reached out, touched Crysania’s blistered skin. “She is not dead, not yet,” he said.

“No, not yet,” Caramon replied, raising his sword. “Leave her alone! Let her at least die in peace!”

“She will live, if you take her through the Portal.”

“Yes, she will live,” Caramon said bitterly, “and so will you, won’t you, Raistlin? I take her through the Portal and you come right after us—”

“Take her.”

“No!” Caramon shook his head. Though tears glimmered in his eyes, and his face was pale with grief and anguish, he stepped toward his brother, his sword ready.

Raistlin raised his hand. Caramon couldn’t move, his sword hung suspended in the hot, shifting air.

“Take her, and take this as well.”

Reaching out, Raistlin’s frail hand closed around the Staff of Magius that lay at his side. The light from its crystal glowed clear and strong in the deepening darkness, shedding its magical glow over the three of them. Lifting the staff, Raistlin held it out to his twin.

Caramon hesitated, his brow furrowing.

“Take it!” Raistlin snapped, feeling his strength dwindling. He coughed. “Take it!” he whispered, gasping for breath. “Take it and her and yourself back through the Portal. Use the staff to close it behind you.”

Caramon stared at him, uncomprehending, then his eyes narrowed.

“No, I’m not lying,” Raistlin snarled. “I’ve lied to you before, but not now. Try it. See for yourself. Look, I release you from the enchantment. I cannot cast another spell. If you find I am lying, you may slay me. I will not be able to stop you.”

Caramon’s swordarm was freed. He could move it. Still holding his sword, his eyes on his twin, he reached out his other hand, hesitantly. His fingers touched the staff and he looked fearfully at the light in the crystal, expecting it to blink out and leave them all in the gathering, chilling darkness. But the light did not waver. Caramon’s hand closed around the staff, above his brother’s hand. The light gleamed brightly, shedding its radiance upon the torn and bloody black robes, the dull and mud-covered armor.

Raistlin let go of the staff. Slowly, almost falling, he staggered to his feet and drew himself up, standing without aid, standing alone. The staff, in Caramon’s hand, continued to glow.

“Hurry,” Raistlin said coldly, “I will keep the Queen from following you. But my strength will not last long.”

Caramon stared at him a moment, then at the staff, its light still burning brightly. Finally, drawing a ragged breath, he sheathed his sword.

“What will happen... to you?” he asked harshly, kneeling down to lift up Crysania in his arms. 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 the first sight you see.

The words curled about Raistlin’s brain like a snake. Behind him, he could hear sultry, mocking laughter.

“Be gone, Caramon,” he said. “She comes.”

Crysania’s head rested against Caramon’s broad chest. The dark hair fell across her pale face, her hand still clasped the medallion of Paladine. As Raistlin looked at her, he saw the ravages of the fire fade, leaving her face unscarred, softened by a look of sweet, peaceful rest. Raistlin’s gaze lifted to his brother’s face, and he saw that same stupid expression Caramon always wore—that look of puzzlement, of baffled hurt.

“You blubbering fool! What do you care what becomes of me?” Raistlin snarled. “Get out!”

Caramon’s expression changed, or maybe it didn’t change. Maybe it had been this way all the time. Raistlin’s strength was dwindling very fast, his vision dimmed. But, in Caramon’s eyes, he thought he saw understanding...

“Good-bye... my brother,” Caramon said.

Holding Crysania in his arms, the Staff of Magius in one hand, Caramon turned and walked away. The light of the staff formed a circle around him, a circle of silver that shone in the darkness like the moonbeams of Solinari glistening upon the calm waters of Crystalmir Lake. The silver beams struck the dragon’s heads, freezing them, changing them to silver, silencing their screams. Caramon stepped through the Portal. Raistlin, watching him with his soul, caught a blurred glimpse of colors and life and felt a brief whisper of warmth touch his sunken cheek. Behind him, he could hear the mocking laughter gurgle into harsh, hissing breath. He could hear the slithering sounds of a gigantic scaled tail, the creaking of wing tendons. Behind him, five heads whispered words of torment and terror.

Steadfastly, Raistlin stood, staring into the Portal. He saw Tanis run to help Caramon, he saw him take Crysania in his arms. Tears blurred Raistlin’s s vision. He wanted to follow! He wanted Tanis to touch his hand! He wanted to hold Crysania in his arms... He took a step forward.

He saw Caramon turn to face him, the staff in his hand.

Caramon stared into the Portal, stared at his twin, stared beyond his twin. Raistlin saw his brother’s eyes grow wide with fright.

Raistlin did not have to turn to know what his brother saw. Takhisis crouched behind him. He could feel the chill of the loathsome reptile body flow about him, fluttering his robes. He sensed her behind him, yet her thoughts were not on him. She saw her way to the world, standing open...

“Shut it!” Raistlin screamed.

A blast of flame seared Raistlin’s flesh. A taloned claw stabbed him in the back. He stumbled, falling to his knees. But he never took his eyes from the Portal, and he saw Caramon, his twins face anguished, take a step forward, toward him!

“Shut it, you fool!” Raistlin shrieked, clenching his fists. “Leave me alone! I don’t need you any more! I don’t need you!”

And then the light was gone. The Portal slammed shut, and blackness pounced upon him with raging, slathering fury. Talons ripped his flesh, teeth tore through muscle, and crunched bone. Blood flowed from his breast, but it would not take with it his life.

He screamed, and he would scream, and he would keep on screaming, unendingly...

Something touched him... a hand... He clutched at it as it shook him, gently. A voice called,

“Raist! Wake up! It was only a dream. Don’t be afraid. I won’t let them hurt you! Here, watch... I’ll make you laugh.”

The dragons coils tightened, crushing out his breath. Glistening black fangs ate his living organs, devoured his heart. Tearing into his body, they sought his soul.

A strong arm encircled him, holding him close. A hand raised, gleaming with silver light, forming childish pictures in the night, and the voice, dimly heard, whispered, “Look, Raist, bunnies... .”

He smiled, no longer afraid. Caramon was here.

The pain eased. The dream was driven back. From far away, he heard a wail of bitter disappointment and anger. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Now he just felt tired, so very, very tired...

Leaning his head upon his brother’s arm, Raistlin closed his eyes and drifted into a dark, dreamless, endless sleep.

11

The drops of water in the water clock dripped steadily, relentlessly, echoing in the silent laboratory. Staring into the Portal with eyes that burned from the strain, Tanis believed the drops must be falling, one by one, upon his taut, stretched nerves.

Rubbing his eyes, he turned from the Portal with a bitter snarl and walked over to look out the window. He was astonished to see that it was only late afternoon. After what he had been through, he would not have been much surprised to find that spring had come and gone, summer had bloomed and died, and autumn was setting in.

The thick smoke no longer swirled past the window. The fires, having eaten what they fed upon, were dying. He glanced up into the sky. The dragons had vanished from sight, both good and evil. He listened. No sound came from the city beneath him. A haze of fog and storm and smoke still hung over it, further shadowed by the darkness of the Shoikan Grove. The battle is over, he realized numbly. It has ended. And we have won. Victory. Hollow, wretched victory.

And then, a flutter of bright blue caught his eye. Looking out over the city, Tanis gasped. The flying citadel had suddenly drifted into view. Dropping down from the storm clouds, it was careening along merrily, having somewhere acquired a brilliant blue banner that streamed out in the wind. Tanis looked closer, thinking he recognized not only the banner but the graceful minaret from which it flew and which was now perched drunkenly on a tower of the citadel. Shaking his head, the half-elf could not help smiling. The banner—and the minaret—had once both been part of the palace of Lord Amothus.

Leaning against the window, Tanis continued watching the citadel, which had acquired a bronze dragon as honor guard. He felt his bleakness and grief and fear ease and the tension in his body relax. No matter what happened in the world or on the planes beyond, some things—kender among them—never changed.

Tanis watched as the flying castle wobbled out over the bay, then he was, however, considerably startled to see the citadel suddenly flip over and hang in the air, upside down.

“What is Tas doing?” he muttered.

And then he knew. The citadel began to bob up and down rapidly, like a salt shaker. Black shapes with leathery wings tumbled out of the windows and from doorways. Up and down, up and down bobbed the citadel, more and more black shapes dropping out. Tanis grinned. Tas was clearing out the guards! Then, when no more draconians could be seen spilling out into the water, the citadel righted itself again and continued on its way... then, as it skipped merrily along, its blue flag fluttering in the wind, it dove in a wild, unfortunate plunge, right into the ocean! Tanis caught his breath, but almost immediately the citadel appeared again, leaping out of the water like a blue bannered dolphin to soar up into the sky once more—water now streaming out of every conceivable opening—and vanish amidst the storm clouds.

Shaking his head, smiling, Tanis turned to see Dalamar gesture toward the Portal. “There he is. Caramon has returned to his position.”

Swiftly, the half-elf crossed the room and stood before the Portal once again.

He could see Caramon, still a tiny figure in gleaming armor. This time, he carried someone in his arms.

“Raistlin?” Tanis asked, puzzled.

“Lady Crysania,” Dalamar replied.

“Maybe she’s still alive!”

“It would be better for her were she not,” Dalamar said coldly. Bitterness further hardened his voice and his expression. “Better for all of us! Now Caramon must make a difficult choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“It will inevitably occur to him that he could save her by bringing her back through the Portal himself. Which would leave us all at the mercy of either his brother or the Queen or both.”

Tanis was silent, watching. Caramon was drawing closer and closer to the Portal, the white-robed figure of the woman in his arms.

“What do you know of him?” Dalamar asked abruptly. “What decision will he make? The last I saw of him he was a drunken buffoon, but his experiences appear to have changed him.”

“I don’t know,” Tanis said, troubled, talking more to himself than to Dalamar. “The Caramon I once knew was only half a person, the other half belonged to his brother. He is different now. He has changed.” Tanis scratched his beard, frowning. “Poor man. I don’t know...”

“Ah, it seems his choice has been made for him,” Dalamar said, relief mixed with fear in his voice. Looking into the Portal, Tanis saw Raistlin. He saw the final meeting between the twins.

Tanis never spoke to anyone of that meeting. Though the visions seen and words heard were indelibly etched upon his memory, he found he could not talk about them. To give them voice seemed to demean them, to take away their terrible horror, their terrible beauty. But often, if he was depressed or unhappy, he would remember the last gift of a benighted soul, and he would close his eyes and thank the gods for his blessings.

Caramon brought Lady Crysania through the Portal. Running forward to help him, Tanis took Crysania in his arms, staring in wonder at the sight of the big man carrying the magical staff, its light still glowing brightly.

“Stay with her, Tanis,” Caramon said, “I must close the Portal.”

“Do it quickly!” Tanis heard Dalamar’s sharp intake of breath. He saw the dark elf staring into the Portal in horror. “Close it!” he cried.

Holding Crysania in his arms, Tanis looked down at her and realized she was dying. Her breath faltered, her skin was ashen, her lips were blue. But he could do nothing for her, except take her to a place of safety.

Safety! He glanced about, his gaze going to the shadowed corner where another dying woman had lain. It was farthest from the Portal. She would be safe there—as safe as anywhere, he supposed sorrowfully. Laying her down, making her as comfortable as possible, he hastily returned to the opening in the void.

Tanis halted, mesmerized by the sight before his eyes.

A shadow of evil filled the Portal, the metallic dragon’s heads that formed the gate howled in triumph. The living dragons heads beyond the Portal writhed above the body of their victim as the archmage fell to their claws.

“No! Raistlin!” Caramon’s face twisted in. anguish. He took a step toward the Portal.

“Stop!” Dalamar screamed in fury. “Stop him, Half-Elven! Kill him if you must! Close the Portal!”

A woman’s hand lunged for the opening and, as they watched in stunned terror, the hand became a dragon’s claw, the nails tipped with red, the talons stained with blood. Nearer and nearer the Portal the hand of the Queen came, intent upon keeping this door to the world open so that, once more, she could gain entry.

“Caramon!” Tanis cried, springing forward. But, what could he do? He was not strong enough to physically overpower the big man. He’ll go to him, Tanis thought in agony. He will not let his brother die...

No, spoke a voice inside the half-elf. He will not... and therein lies the salvation of the world. Caramon stopped, held fast by the power of that bloodstained hand. The grasping dragons claw was close, and behind it gleamed laughing, triumphant, malevolent eyes. Slowly, struggling against the evil force, Caramon raised the Staff of Magius.

Nothing happened!

The dragon’s heads of the oval doorway split the air with their trumpeting, hailing the entry of their Queen into the world.

Then, a shadowy form appeared, standing beside Caramon. Dressed in black robes, white hair flowing down upon his shoulders, Raistlin raised a golden-skinned hand and, reaching out, gripped the Staff of Magius, his hand resting near his twins.

The staff flared with a pure, silver light.

The multicolored light within the Portal whirled and spun and fought to survive, but the silver light shone with the steadfast brilliance of the evening star, glittering in a twilight sky.

The Portal closed.

The metallic dragon’s heads ceased their screaming so suddenly that the new silence rang in their ears. Within the Portal, there was nothing, neither movement nor stillness, neither darkness nor light. There was simply nothing.

Caramon stood before the Portal alone, the Staff of Magius in his hand. The light of the crystal continued to burn brightly for a moment.

Then glimmered.

Then died.

The room was filled with darkness, a sweet darkness, a darkness restful to the eyes after the blinding light.

And there came through the darkness a whispering voice.

“Farewell, my brother.”

12

Astinus of Palanthas sat in his study in the Great Library, writing his history in the clear, sharp black strokes that had recorded all the history of Krynn from the first day the gods had looked upon the world until the last, when the great book would forever close. Astinus wrote, oblivious to the chaos around him, or rather—such was the mans presence—that it seemed as if he forced the chaos to be oblivious of him.

It was only two days after the end of what Astinus referred to in the Chronicles as the “Test of the Twins” (but which everyone else was calling the “Battle of Palanthas”). The city was in ruins. The only two buildings left standing were the Tower of High Sorcery and the Great Library, and the Library had not escaped unscathed.

The fact that it stood at all was due, in large part, to the heroics of the Aesthetics. Led by the rotund Bertrem, whose courage was kindled, so it was said, by the sight of a draconian daring to lay a clawed hand upon one of the sacred books, the Aesthetics attacked the enemy with such zeal and such a wild, reckless disregard for their own lives that few of the reptilian creatures escaped.

But, like the rest of Palanthas, the Aesthetics paid a grievous price for victory. Many of their order perished in the battle. These were mourned by their brethren, their ashes given honored rest among the books that they had sacrificed their lives to protect. The gallant Bertrem did not die. Only slightly wounded, he saw his name go down in one of the great books itself beside the names of the other Heroes of Palanthas. Life could offer nothing further in the way of reward to Bertrem. He never passed that one particular book upon the shelf but that he didn’t surreptitiously pull it down, open it to The Page, and bask in the light of his glory.

The beautiful city of Palanthas was now nothing more than memory and a few words of description in Astinus’s books. Heaps of charred and blackened stone marked the graves of palatial estates. The rich warehouses with their casks of fine wines and ales, their stores of cotton and of wheat, their boxes of wonders from all parts of Krynn, lay in a pile of cinder. Burned-out hulks of ships floated in the ash choked harbors. Merchants picked through the rubble of their shops, salvaging what they could. Families stared at their ruined houses, holding on to each other, and thanking the gods that they had, at least, survived with their lives.

For there were many who had not. Of the Knights of Solamnia within the city, they had perished almost to a man, fighting the hopeless battle against Lord Soth and his deadly legions. One of the first to fall was the dashing Sir Markham. True to his oath to Tanis, the knight had not fought Lord Soth, but had, instead, rallied the knights and led them in a charge against Soth’s skeletal warriors. Though pierced with many wounds, he fought valiantly still, leading his bloody, exhausted men time and again in charges against the foe until finally he fell from his horse, dead. Because of the knights’ courage, many lived in Palanthas who otherwise would have perished upon the ice-cold blades of the undead, who vanished mysteriously—so it was told when their leader appeared among them, bearing a shrouded corpse in his arms.

Mourned as heroes, the bodies of the Knights of Solamnia were taken by their fellows to the High Clerist’s Tower. Here they were entombed in a sepulcher where lay the body of Sturm Brightblade, Hero of the Lance.

Upon opening the sepulcher, which had not been disturbed since the Battle of the High Clerist’s Tower, the knights were awed to find Sturm’s body whole, unravaged by time. An elven jewel of some type, gleaming upon his breast, was believed accountable for this miracle. All those who entered the sepulcher that day in mourning for their fallen loved ones looked upon that steadily beaming jewel and felt peace ease the bitter sting of their grief.

The knights were not the only ones who were mourned. Many ordinary citizens had died in Palanthas as well. Men defending city and family, women defending home and children. The citizens of Palanthas burned their dead in accordance with ages-old custom, scattering the ashes of their loved ones in the sea, where they mingled with the ashes of their beloved city.

Astinus recorded it all as it was occurring. He had continued to write—so the Aesthetics reported with awe—even as Bertrem single-handedly bludgeoned to death a draconian who had dared invade the master’s study. He was writing still when he gradually became aware—above the sounds of hammering and sweeping and pounding and shuffling—that Bertrem was blocking his light.

Lifting up his head, he frowned.

Bertrem, who had not blenched once in the face of the enemy, turned deathly pale, and backed up instantly, letting the sunlight fall once more upon the page.

Astinus resumed his writing. “Well?” he said.

“Caramon Majere and a—a kender are here to see you, Master.” If Bertrem had said a demon from the Abyss was here to see Astinus, he could hardly have infused more horror into his voice than when he spoke the word “kender.”

“Send them in,” replied Astinus.

“Them, Master?” Bertrem could not help but repeat in shock.

Astinus looked up, his brow creased. “The draconian did not damage your hearing, did it, Bertrem? You did not receive, for example, a blow to the head?”

“N-no, Master.” Bertrem flushed and backed hurriedly out of the room, tripping over his robes as he did so.

“Caramon Majere and... and Tassle-f-foot B-burr-hoof,” announced the flustered Bertrem, moments later.

“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender, presenting a small hand to Astinus, who shook it gravely.

“And you’re Astinus of Palanthas,” Tas continued, his topknot bouncing with excitement. “I’ve met you before, but you don’t remember because it hasn’t happened yet. Or, rather, come to think of it, it never will happen, will it, Caramon?”

“No,” the big man replied. Astinus turned his gaze to Caramon, regarding him intently.

“You do not resemble your twin,” Astinus said coolly, “but then Raistlin had undergone many trials that marked him both physically and mentally. Still, there is something of him in your eyes...

The historian frowned, puzzled. He did not understand, and there was nothing on the face of Krynn that he did not understand. Consequently, he grew angry.

Astinus rarely grew angry. His irritation alone sent a wave of terror through the Aesthetics. But he was angry now. His graying brows bristled, his lips tightened, and there was a look in his eyes that made the kender glance about nervously, wondering if he hadn’t left something outside in the hall that he needed—now!

“What is it?” The historian demanded finally, slamming his hand down upon his book, causing his pen to jump, the ink to spill, and Bertrem—waiting in the corridor—to run away as fast as his flapping sandals could take him.

“There is a mystery about you, Caramon Majere, and there are no mysteries for me! I know everything that transpires upon the face of Krynn. I know the thoughts of every living being! I see their actions! I read the wishes of their hearts! Yet I cannot read your eyes!”

“Tas told you,” Caramon said imperturbably. Reaching into a knapsack he wore, the big man produced a huge, leather-bound volume which he set carefully down upon the desk in front of the historian.

“That’s one of mine!” Astinus said, glancing at it, his scowl deepening. His voice rose until he actually shouted. “Where did it come from? None of my books leave without my knowledge! Bertrem—”

“Look at the date.”

Astinus glared furiously at Caramon for a second, then shifted his angry gaze to the book. He looked at the date upon the volume, prepared to shout for Bertrem again. But the shout rattled in his throat and died. He stared at the date, his eyes widening. Sinking down into his chair, he looked from the volume to Caramon, then back to the volume again.

“It is the future I see in your eyes!”

“The future that is this book,” Caramon said, regarding it with grave solemnity.

“We were there!” said Tas, bouncing up eagerly. “Would you like to hear about it? It’s the most wonderful story. You see, we came back to Solace, only it didn’t look like Solace. I thought it was a moon, in fact, because I’d been thinking about a moon when we used the magical device and—”

“Hush, Tas,” Caramon said gently. Standing up, he put his hand on the kender’s shoulder and quietly left the room. Tas—being steered firmly out the door—glanced backward. “Goodbye!” he called, waving his hand. “Nice seeing you again, er, before, uh, after, well, whatever.”

But Astinus neither heard nor noticed. The day he received the book from Caramon Majere was the only day that passed in the entire history of Palanthas that had nothing recorded for it but one entry:

This day, as above Afterwatch rising 14, Caramon Majere brought me the Chronicles of Krynn, Volume 2000. A volume written by me that I will never write.

The funeral of Elistan represented, to the people of Palanthas, the funeral of their beloved city as well. The ceremony was held at daybreak as Elistan had requested, and everyone in Palanthas attended—old, young, rich, poor. The injured who were able to be moved were carried from their homes, their pallets laid upon the scorched and blackened grass of the once-beautiful lawns of the Temple.

Among these was Dalamar. No one murmured as the dark elf was helped across the lawn by Tanis and Caramon to take his place beneath a grove of charred, burned aspens. For rumor had it that the young apprentice magic-user had fought the Dark Lady—as Kitiara was known—and defeated her, thereby bringing about the destruction of her forces.

Elistan had wanted to be buried in his Temple, but that was impossible now—the Temple being nothing but a gutted shell of marble. Lord Amothus had offered his family’s tomb, but Crysania had declined. Remembering that Elistan had found his faith in the slave mines of Pax Tharkas, the Revered Daughter—now head of the church—decreed that he be laid to rest beneath the Temple in one of the underground caverns that had formerly been used for storage. Though some were shocked, no one questioned Crysania’s commands. The caverns were cleaned and sanctified, a marble bier was built from the remains of the Temple. And hereafter, even in the grand days of the church that were to come, all of the priests were laid to rest in this humble place that became known as one of the most holy places on Krynn. The people settled down on the lawn in silence. The birds, knowing nothing of death or war or grief, but knowing only that the sun was rising and that they were alive in the bright morning, filled the air with song. The suns rays tipped the mountains with gold, driving away the darkness of the night, bringing light to hearts heavy with sorrow.

One person only rose to speak Elistan’s eulogy, and it was deemed fitting by everyone that she do so. Not only because she was now taking his place—as he had requested—as head of the church, but because she seemed to the people of Palanthas to epitomize their loss and their pain. That morning, they said, was the first time she had risen from her bed since Tanis Half-Elven brought her down from the Temple of High Sorcery to the steps of the Great Library, where the clerics worked among the injured and the dying. She had been near death herself. But her faith and the prayers of the clerics restored her to life. They could not, however, restore her sight. Crysania stood before them that morning, her eyes looking straight into the sun she would never see again. Its rays glistened in her black hair that framed a face made beautiful by a look of deep, abiding compassion and faith.

“As I stand in darkness,” she said, her clear voice rising sweet and pure among the songs of the larks, “I feel the warmth of the light upon my skin and I know my face is turned toward the sun. I can look into the sun, for my eyes are forever shrouded by darkness. But if you who can see look too long in the sun, you will lose your sight, just as those who live too long in the darkness will gradually lose theirs.

“This Elistan taught—that mortals were not meant to live solely in sun or in shadow, but in both. Both have their perils, if misused, both have their rewards. We have come through our trials of blood, of darkness, of fire—” Her voice quavered and broke at this point. Those nearest her saw tears upon her cheeks. But, when she continued, her voice was strong. Her tears glistened in the sunlight. “We have come through these trials as Huma came through his, with great loss, with great sacrifice, but strong in the knowledge that our spirit shines and that we, perhaps, gleam brightest among all the stars of the heavens.

“For though some might choose to walk the paths of night, looking to the black moon to guide them, while others walk the paths of day, the rough and rock-strewn trails of both can be made easier by the touch of a hand, the voice of a friend. The capacity to love, to care, is given to us all—the greatest gift of the gods to all the races.

“Our beautiful city has perished in flame.” Her voice softened. “We have lost many whom we loved, and it seems perhaps that life is too difficult a burden for us to bear. But reach out your hand, and it will touch the hand of someone reaching out to you, and—together—you will find the strength and hope you need to go on.”

After the ceremonies, when the clerics had borne the body of Elistan to its final resting place, Caramon and Tas sought out Lady Crysania. They found her among the clerics, her arm resting upon the arm of the young woman who was her guide.

“Here are two who would speak with you, Revered Daughter,” said the young cleric.

Lady Crysania turned, holding out her hand. “Let me touch you,” she said.

“It’s Caramon,” the big man began awkwardly, “and—”

“Me,” said Tas in a meek, subdued voice.

“You have come to say good-bye,” Lady Crysania smiled.

“Yes. We’re leaving today,” Caramon said, holding her hand in his.

“Do you go straight home to Solace?”

“No, not—not quite yet,” Caramon said, his voice low. “We’re going back to Solanthas with Tanis. Then, when—when I feel a little more myself, I’ll use the magical device to get back to Solace.”

Crysania gripped his hand tightly, drawing him near to her.

“Raistlin is at peace, Caramon,” she said softly. “Are you?”

“Yes, my lady,” Caramon said, his voice firm and resolute. “I am at peace. At last.” He sighed. “I just need to talk to Tanis and get things sorted out in my life, put back in order. For one thing,” he added with a blush and a shame-faced grin, “I need to know how to build a house! I was dead drunk most of the time I worked on ours, and I haven’t the faintest notion what I was doing.”

He looked at her, and she—aware of his scrutiny though she could not see it—smiled, her pale skin tinged with the faintest rose. Seeing that smile, and seeing the tears that fell around it, Caramon drew her close, in turn. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have spared you this—”

“No, Caramon,” she said softly. “For now I see. I see clearly, as Loralon promised.” She kissed his hand, pressing it to her cheek. “Farewell, Caramon. May Paladine go with you.” Tasslehoff snuffled.

“Good-bye, Crysani—I mean, Rev-revered Daughter,” said Tas in a small voice, feeling suddenly lonely and short. “I-I’m sorry about the mess I made of things—”

But Lady Crysania interrupted him. Turning from Caramon, she reached out her hand and smoothed back his topknot of hair. “Most of us walk in the light and the shadow, Tasslehoff,” she said, “but there are the chosen few who walk this world, carrying their own light to brighten both day and night.”

“Really? They must get awfully tired, hauling around a light like that? Is it a torch? It cant be a candle. The wax would melt all over and drip down into their shoes and say—do you suppose I could meet someone like that?” Tas asked with interest.

“You are someone like that,” Lady Crysania replied. “And I do not think you ever need worry about your wax dripping into your shoes. Farewell, Tasslehoff Burrfoot. I need not ask Paladine’s blessing on you, for I know you are one of his close, personal friends... .”

“Well,” asked Caramon abruptly as he and Tas made their way through the crowd. “Have you decided what you’re going to do yet? You’ve got the flying citadel, Lord Amothus gave it to you. You can go anywhere on Krynn. Maybe even a moon, if you want.”

“Oh, that.” Tas, looking a little awestruck after his talk with Lady Crysania, seemed to have trouble remembering what Caramon was referring to. “I don’t have the citadel anymore. It was awfully big and boring once I got around to exploring it. And it wouldn’t go to the moon. I tried. Do you know,” he said, looking at Caramon with wide eyes, “that if you go up high enough, your nose starts to bleed? Plus it’s extremely cold and uncomfortable. Besides, the moons seem to be a lot farther away than I’d imagined. Now, if I had the magical device—” He glanced at Caramon out of the corner of his eye.

“No,” said Caramon sternly. “Absolutely not. That’s going back to Par-Salian.”

“I could take it to him,” Tas offered helpfully. “That would give me a chance to explain about Gnimsh fixing it and my disrupting the spell and—No?” He heaved a sigh. “I guess not. Well, anyway, I’ve decided to stick with you and Tanis, if you want me, that is?” He looked at Caramon a bit wistfully.

Caramon replied by reaching out and giving the kender a hug that crushed several objects of interest and uncertain value in his pouches.

“By the way,” Caramon added as an afterthought, “what did you do with the flying citadel?”

“Oh”—Tas waved his hand nonchalantly—“I gave it to Rounce.”

“The gully dwarf!” Caramon stopped, appalled.

“He cant fly it, not by himself!” Tas assured him. “Although,” he added after a moment’s profound thought, “I suppose he could if he got a few more gully dwarves to help. I never thought of that—”

Caramon groaned. “Where is it?”

“I set it down for him in a nice place. A very nice place. It was a really wealthy part of some city we flew over. Rounce took a liking to it—the citadel, not the city. Well, I guess he took a liking to the city, too, come to think of it. Anyway, he was a big help and all, so I asked him if he wanted the citadel and he said he did so I just plunked the thing down in this vacant lot.

“It caused quite a sensation,” Tas added happily. “A man came running out of this really big castle that sat on a hill right next to where I dropped the citadel, and he started yelling about that being his property and what right did we have to drop a castle on it, and creating a wonderful row. I pointed out that his castle certainly didn’t cover the entire property and I mentioned a few things about sharing that would have helped him quite a bit, I’m certain, if he’d only listened. Then Rounce starting saying how he was going to bring all the Burp clan or something like that and they were going to come live in the citadel and the man had a fit of some sort and they carried him away and pretty soon the whole town was there. It was real exciting for a while, but it finally got boring. I was glad Fireflash had decided to come along. He brought me back.”

“You didn’t tell me any of this!” Caramon said, glaring at the kender and trying hard to look grim.

“I-I guess it just slipped my mind,” Tas mumbled. “I’ve had an awful lot to think about these days, you know.”

“I know you have, Tas,” Caramon said. “I’ve been worried about you. I saw you talking to some other kender yesterday. You could go home, you know. You told me once how you’ve thought about it, about going back to Kendermore.”

Tas’s face took on an unusually serious expression. Slipping his hand into Caramon’s, he drew nearer, looking up at him earnestly. “No, Caramon,” he said softly. “It isn’t the same. I-I can’t seem to talk to other kender anymore.” He shook his head, his topknot swishing back and forth. “I tried to tell them about Fizban and his hat, and Flint and his tree and... and Raistlin and poor Gnimsh.” Tas swallowed and, fishing out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes. “They don’t seem to understand. They just don’t... well... care. It’s hard—caring—isn’t it, Caramon? It hurts sometimes.”

“Yes, Tas,” Caramon said quietly. They had entered a shady grove of trees. Tanis was waiting for them, standing beneath a tall, graceful aspen whose new spring leaves glittered golden in the morning sun. “It hurts a lot of the time. But the hurt is better than being empty inside.”

Walking over to them, Tanis put one arm around Caramon’s broad shoulders, the other arm around Tas. “Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” Caramon replied.

“Good. The horses are over here. I thought we’d ride. We could have taken the carriage, but—to be perfectly honest I hate being cooped up in the blasted thing. So does Laurana, though she’ll never admit it. The countryside’s beautiful this time of year. We’ll take our time, and enjoy it.”

“You live in Solanthas, don’t you, Tanis?” Tas said as they mounted their horses and rode down the blackened, ruined street. Those people leaving the funeral, returning to pick up the pieces of their lives, heard the kender’s cheerful voice echo through the streets long after he had gone.

“I was in Solanthas once. They have an awfully fine prison there. One of the nicest I was ever in. I was sent there by mistake, of course. A misunderstanding over a silver teapot that had tumbled, quite by accident, into one my pouches...

Dalamar climbed the steep, winding stairs leading up to the laboratory at the top of the Tower of High Sorcery. He climbed the stairs, instead of magically transporting himself, because he had a long journey ahead of him that night. Though the clerics of Elistan had healed his wounds, he was still weak and he did not want to tax his strength.

Later, when the black moon was in the sky, he would travel through the ethers to the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, there to attend a Wizard’s Conclave—one of the most important to be held in this era. Par-Salian was stepping down as Head of the Conclave. His successor must be chosen. It would probably be the Red Robe, Justarius. Dalamar didn’t mind that. He knew he was not yet powerful enough to become the new archmage. Not yet, at any rate. But there was some feeling that a new Head of the Order of the Black Robes should be chosen, too. Dalamar smiled. He had no doubt who that would be.

He had made all his preparations for leaving. The guardians had their instructions: no one—living or dead was to be admitted to the Tower in his absence. Not that this was likely. The Shoikan Grove maintained its own grim vigil, unharmed by the flames that had swept through the rest of Palanthas. But the dark loneliness that the Tower had known for so long would soon be coming to an end.

On Dalamar’s order, several rooms in the Tower had been cleaned out and refurbished. He planned to bring back with him several apprentices of his own—Black Robes, certainly, but maybe a Red Robe or two if he found any who might be suitable. He looked forward to passing on the skills he had acquired, the knowledge he had learned. And—he admitted to himself—he looked forward to the companionship. But, first, there was something he must do.

Entering the laboratory, he paused on the doorstep. He had not been back to this room since Caramon had carried him from it that last, fateful day. Now, it was nighttime. The room was dark. At a word, candles flickered into flame, warming the room with a soft light. But the shadows remained, hovering in the corners like living things.

Lifting the candlestand in his hand, Dalamar made a slow circuit of the room, selecting various items—scrolls, a magic wand, several rings—and sending them below to his own study with a word of command.

He passed the dark corner where Kitiara had died. Her blood stained the floor still. That spot in the room was cold, chill, and Dalamar did not linger. He passed the stone table with its beakers and bottles, the eyes still staring out at him pleadingly. With a word, he caused them to close—forever.

Finally, he came to the Portal. The five heads of the dragon, facing eternally into the void, still shouted their silent, frozen open to the Dark Queen. The only light that gleamed from the dark, lifeless metallic heads was the reflected light of Dalamar’s candles. He looked within the Portal. There was nothing. For long moments, Dalamar stared into it. Then, reaching out his hand, he pulled on a golden, silken cord that hung from the ceiling. A thick curtain dropped down, shrouding the Portal in heavy, purple velvet.

Turning away, Dalamar found himself facing the bookshelves that stood in the very back of the laboratory. The candlelight shone on rows of nightblue-bound volumes decorated with silver runes. A cold chill flowed from them.

The spellbooks of Fistandantilus—now his.

And where these rows of books ended, a new row of books began—volumes bound in black decorated with silver runes. Each of these volumes, Dalamar noticed, his hand going to touch one, burned with an inner heat that made the books seem strangely alive to the touch.

The spellbooks of Raistlin—now his.

Dalamar looked intently at each book. Each held its own wonders, its own mysteries, each held power. The dark elf walked the length of the bookshelves. When he reached the end—near the door—he sent the candlestand back to rest upon the great stone table. His hand upon the door handle, his gaze went to one, last object.

In a dark corner stood the Staff of Magius, leaning up against the wall. For a moment, Dalamar caught his breath, thinking perhaps he saw light gleaming from the crystal on top of the staff—the crystal that had remained cold and dark since that day. But then he realized, with a sense of relief, that it was only reflected candlelight. With a word, he extinguished the flame, plunging the room into darkness.

He looked closely at the corner where the staff stood. It was lost in the night, no sign of light glimmered.

Drawing a deep breath, then letting it out with a sigh, Dalamar walked from the laboratory. Firmly, he shut the door behind him. Reaching into a wooden box set with powerful runes, he withdrew a silver key and inserted it into an ornate silver doorlock—a doorlock that was new, a doorlock that had not been made by any locksmith on Krynn. Whispering words of magic, Dalamar turned the key in the lock. It clicked. Another click echoed it. The deadly trap was set.

Turning, Dalamar summoned one of the guardians. The disembodied eyes floated over at his command.

“Take this key,” Dalamar said, “and keep it with you for all eternity. Give it up to no one—not even myself. And, from this moment on, your place is to guard this door. No one is to enter. Let death be swift for those who try.”

The guardian’s eyes closed in acquiescence. As Dalamar walked back down the stairs, he saw the eyes—open again framed by the doorway, their cold glow staring out into the night. The dark elf nodded to himself, satisfied, and went upon his way.