Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (39 page)

The Nightlord was furious and laid all the blame on Ariakas, who, whispers said, had been so stupid as to nearly get himself done in by his own trollop. The Nightlord ordered every dark pilgrim in the city and surrounding environs to assemble at the temple to assist with security.

Raistlin was up before dawn. He had spent the night in the tunnels beneath Lute’s shop. That morning, he took off his dyed
black robes. He ran his hand over the cloth. The dyer had not lied; the black color had not faded, had not turned green. They had served him well. He folded them and laid them neatly on the chair.

He tied the pouches containing his spell components and the dragon orb onto a strip of leather and hung the pouches around his neck. He attached the thong with the silver knife onto the wrist of his hand and tested it to make certain the knife would fall into his palm at a flick of his wrist. Finally, he dressed himself in the black velvet robes and golden medallion of a Spiritor, a high-ranking cleric of the gods of Darkness. Kitiara had given Raistlin the disguise, telling him how she had encountered the Spiritor during her escape from Ariakas’s prison.

The soft cloth slid down Raistlin’s neck and shoulders. He arranged the bulky fabric so his pouches were underneath, concealed from sight. Clerics drew their holy magic from prayers to their gods, not from rose petals and bat guano.

That done, he set the dragon orb on the table and placed his hands upon it.

“Show me my brother,” he commanded.

The colors of the orb shimmered and swirled. Hands appeared in the orb, but they were not the familiar hands. They were skeletal hands, fleshless with bony fingers and the long, hideous nails of a corpse …

Raistlin gasped, abruptly breaking the spell. He snatched his hands away. He heard the sound of laughter and the hated voice.

“If your armor is made of dross, I will find a crack in it.”

“We both want the same thing,” Raistlin said to Fistandantilus. “I have the means to achieve it. Interfere, and we both lose.”

Raistlin waited tensely for the reply. When it did not come, he hesitated; then, not seeing any hands, he grabbed the orb and thrust it into the pouch. He did not use the orb again, but made his way through the tunnels that took him underneath the city wall and into Neraka.

A large crowd of dark clerics was gathered in front of the temple by the time Raistlin arrived. The line extended down the street and wrapped around the building.

Raistlin was about to take his place at the end when it occurred to him that a Spiritor such as he was pretending to be would not wait in line with lowly pilgrims. To do so might look suspicious. Raistlin rapped the shins of those in front of him with the end of the Staff of Magius, ordering them to get out of the way.

Several rounded on him angrily, only to shut their mouths and swallow their ire when they saw the sunlight flash on his medallion. Sullenly, the dark pilgrims drew aside to allow Raistlin to bully his way through to the front of the line.

Raistlin kept his hood pulled low over his head. He was wearing black leather gloves to conceal his golden skin as well as his knife. He feigned a limp, giving him a plausible reason for leaning on a staff. And though the Staff of Magius garnered some curious glances, the staff had a way of appearing nondescript as circumstances required.

Arriving at the temple entrance, Raistlin presented his pass, also provided by Kit, and waited with unconcealed impatience as the draconian guard studied it. The draconian finally waved a clawed hand.

“You have leave to enter, Spiritor.”

Raistlin started to walk through the ornate double doors, which were adorned with the representation of Takhisis as the five-headed dragon, when another guard, a human, halted him.

“I want to see your face. Remove your hood.”

“I wear my cowl for a reason,” said Raistlin.

“And you’ll take it off for a reason,” said the guard, and he reached out his hand.

“Very well,” said Raistlin. “But be warned. I am a follower of Morgion.”

He drew back his hood.

The guard’s face twisted in fear and revulsion. He wiped his hand on his uniform to remove any possible contamination. Several clerics waiting their turn in line behind Raistlin shoved each other aside in their haste to move away from him. Of all the gods in the dark pantheon, Morgion, god of disease and corruption, was the most loathsome.

“Would you like to see my hands?” Raistlin asked and started to pull off the black gloves.

The guard muttered something unintelligible and jerked his thumb toward the doors. Raistlin drew his hood over his head, and no one stopped him. As he entered the temple, he could hear, behind him, the shocked comments from the onlookers.

“Chunks of flesh falling off …”

“… lips rotted away! You could see the tendons and the bone …”

“… living skull …”

Raistlin was pleased. His illusion spell had worked. He considered maintaining the illusion, but keeping the spell going all day would be draining. He would simply keep his hood over his face.

Raistlin joined a black mass of clerics milling around in the entryway. He asked one how to find the council chamber.

“I have traveled from the east. This is my first time visiting Her Dark Majesty’s temple,” Raistlin said by way of explanation. “I do not know my way around.”

The dark pilgrim was pleased to be singled out by a cleric of such high office, and she offered to personally escort the Spiritor. As she led him through the convoluted corridors to the council hall, she described the events planned for the war council, or the “High Conclave,” as Ariakas termed it.

“The meeting of the Highlords will commence with the setting of the sun. An hour after”—the pilgrim’s voice grew soft with awe—“our Dark Queen, Takhisis, will join her Highlords to declare victory in the war.”

A trifle premature, Raistlin thought.

“What happens during the High Conclave?” he asked.

“First the Emperor’s troops will take their places at the foot of his throne. Then the troops of the Highlords will enter and, after that, the Highlords themselves. Last to come will be the Emperor. When all are assembled, the Highlords will swear their loyalty to the Emperor and Her Dark Majesty. The Highlords will present the Emperor with gifts to the goddess as a mark of their devotion.

“We hear,” the dark pilgrim added in a confidential tone, “that one of the gifts will be the elf woman known as the Golden General. She will be sacrificed to Takhisis in the Dark Watch rites. I hope you will be able to attend, Spiritor. We would be honored by your presence.”

Raistlin said he looked forward to it.

“This is the council chamber,” announced the pilgrim, bringing him to the main door. “We are not permitted to go in, but you can see inside. It is most impressive!”

As with all other chambers in the temple, the circular council hall existed half on the ethereal plane and half in the real world and was designed to unsettle all who looked upon it. Everything was as it appeared to be, and nothing was what it appeared. The black granite floor was solid and shifted underfoot. The walls were made of the same black granite, making the observer feel the dark rising all around him in a tidal wave meant to drown the world.

Raistlin, peering upward to the domed ceiling, was astonished and displeased to see several dragons perched among the eaves. He was staring at the dragons and wondering how they might affect his plans, when he suddenly had the horrible impression that the ceiling was falling on him. He ducked involuntarily, then heard the dark pilgrim give a dry chuckle. Raistlin stared at the ceiling until the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach subsided.

“On those four platforms,” said the guide, gesturing, “are the sacred thrones of the Dragon Highlords. The white is for Lord Toede, the green for Salah-Kahn, the black for Lucien of Takar, and the blue is for the Blue Lady, Kitiara uth Matar.”

“The platforms are rather small,” said Raistlin.

The guide bristled, taking offense. “They are most imposing.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Raistlin. “What I meant was that the platforms are not large enough to hold the Highlord and all his bodyguards. Don’t you fear assassins?”

“Ah, I see what you mean,” said the guide stiffly. “No one other than the Highlord is permitted on the platform. The bodyguards stand on the stairs that lead up to the platform, and they encircle the platform itself. No assassin could possibly get by.”

“I assume the large, ornate throne with all the jewels at the front of the hall is for the Emperor?”

“Yes, that is where His Imperial Majesty will sit. And you see the dark alcove above his throne?”

Raistlin had found it difficult to look at anything else. His eyes were constantly drawn to that shadowy area, and he had known what
the alcove housed before the guide told him.

“That is where our Queen will make her triumphant entrance into the world. You are fortunate, Spiritor. You will be there with her.”

“I will?” Raistlin asked, startled.

“The Emperor has his throne beneath her. Our Nightlord stands close to Her Dark Majesty, and dignitaries such as yourself, Spiritor, will be standing alongside her.”

The guide sighed with envy. “You are very lucky to be so close to Her Dark Majesty.”

“Indeed,” said Raistlin.

He and Kit had planned that he would join her on her own platform. He could work his magic from there. There were risks in that. He would be in full view of everyone in the council hall, including Ariakas. And though Raistlin was disguised as a cleric, the moment he started to cast his spell, everyone in the hall would know he was a wizard. The longer he thought about it, the more he realized that the Nightlord’s platform would serve him far better.

I will be standing above Ariakas, he reflected. The Emperor will have his back to me. True, I will be close to Takhisis, but she will not be paying attention to me. Her attention will be focused on her Highlords.

“We should be going,” the guide said abruptly. “It is almost time for midday rituals. You can accompany me.”

“I do not want to be a burden,” said Raistlin, who had been wondering how to get rid of the woman so he could go exploring on his own. “I will find my own way around.”

“Attendance is mandatory,” said the guide sternly.

Raistlin swore beneath his breath, but there was no help for it. His guide steered him away from the hall and into the maze that was the temple, where they immediately got caught up in a confused mass of dark clerics and soldiers, all attempting to enter the council hall. The heat from the hundreds of bodies was intense. Raistlin was sweating in his velvet robes. His palms in the black, leather gloves were itchy and wet. He disliked the feeling, and he longed to rip the gloves off. He dared not do so. His golden skin would have caused comment; he feared he would be recognized from the time when he’d been imprisoned here.

Just as the crowd seemed about to thin out, a large baaz draconian appeared out of nowhere and barged into them.

“Make way!” the draconian was yelling. “Dangerous prisoners. Make way! Make way!”

People fell back as ordered. The prisoners came into view. One of them was Tika, walking directly behind the guard. Her red curls were limp and bedraggled, and she had long, bloody scratches on her arms. Whenever she slowed down, a baaz draconian gave her a shove from behind.

Caramon came next, carrying Tasslehoff, slung over his shoulder. Caramon was protesting loudly that they had no reason to arrest him, he was a commander in the dragonarmy, they’d made a big mistake. So what if he didn’t have the right papers? He demanded to see whoever was in charge.

Tas’s face was bloody and bruised, and he must have been unconscious because he was quiet. And Tasslehoff Burrfoot, in such an interesting situation, would have never been quiet.

Where is Tanis? Raistlin wondered. Caramon—insecure and self-doubting—would never abandon his leader. Perhaps Tanis was dead. The fact that Tasslehoff was injured suggested a fight had taken place. Kender never did know when to keep their mouths shut.

There was one other person in the group, a tall man with a long, white beard. Raistlin didn’t recognize him at first, not until Tika stumbled. The baaz draconian shoved her, and she fell against the bearded man. His false beard slipped and Raistlin knew him—Berem.