Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (40 page)

Tika put her hand to Berem’s face, pretending to be concerned about him, but in reality to repair the damage, swiftly sticking the beard back into place.

The group passed so close by Raistlin that he could have reached out his hand and touched Caramon’s arm, the strong arm that had so often supported him, held him, comforted him, defended him. Raistlin turned his attention to the man with the false beard.

Raistlin had promised to deliver Berem Everman to Takhisis, and there was the Everman, not an arm’s length away.

Raistlin drew in a soft breath. The idea burst like an exploding star inside his head, dazzling him. His heart leaped with excitement;
his hands shook. He had thought only to see his sister, Kitiara, wear the crown. That had been the extent of his ambition, his desire. He had never dreamed he would be handed the ability to bring down Queen Takhisis. He quickly squelched the thought, mindful of the voice in his head. Fistandantilus was out there, watching, waiting, biding his time.

Two suns cannot travel in the same orbit.

Raistlin dragged his hood over his face and shrank back against a wall. Clerics and soldiers shoved past him, shielding him from sight. The draconians continued on, bullying their way through the crowd, until Raistlin lost sight of them.

“Where are they taking the prisoners?” he asked his guide.

“To the dungeons below the temple,” she replied. Her lip curled in disapproval. “I don’t know why the stupid guards brought that filth into the main level. The dracos should have entered through the proper gate. But what can you expect of those lizard-brains? I always said creating them was a mistake.”

True, thought Raistlin, but not for the reason the guide imagined. The Dark Queen’s draconians, born into the world to help her conquer it, were taking the one man in the world who could cause her to lose it to the one place in the world where he needed to be:

The Foundation Stone.

idday services were held at various locations throughout the temple. Raistlin’s guide led him up twenty-six stairs to a place known simply as the Abbey.

“A place of worship and meditation,” according to his guide, “where no sight or sound intrudes on the senses that might distract one from adoring our Queen.”

Apparently that included light. They entered a winding passageway that was utterly, impenetrably dark. Raistlin had to feel his way along, keeping one hand on the stone wall and shuffling his feet over the floor so as not to trip over something. His guide considered the darkness deeply symbolic.

“We mortals are blind and must rely upon our Queen to guide us. We are deaf and hear only her voice,” the pilgrim told him before they entered the sacred place. “No light is permitted in the Abbey. No one is allowed to speak. Holy spells maintain the darkness and the silence.”

Raistlin thought it all highly annoying.

He knew the passage ended only when he bumped into a wall and bruised his forehead. He could not see anything; he could not hear anything. He could smell and he could feel, however, and both those senses told him that the room was filled with people. Raistlin’s guide pressed her hand on his shoulder, indicating he was to kneel. Raistlin pretended to do so, and the moment she let loose of him, he slipped away from her. Not wanting to become lost, he kept near the door, and remained standing by the entrance, leaning on the Staff of Magius.

At least, he reflected, he had time to think, examine his plan, go over it in his mind. He was settling down to enjoy the silence when he was startled and unnerved to hear voices rising in a chant. A shiver crept over his flesh. The room was silent, yet the voices were loud and dinned in his ears.

“Everything happens for a reason—because Takhisis wants it to happen,” the clerics intoned.

“Everything I do is done by Her Dark Majesty’s grace. Everything I do is at Her Dark Majesty’s behest. Freedom is an illusion.”

As Raistlin listened, the terrible thought came to him. What if they are right? What if everything I am doing is because Takhisis is telling me to do it? What if she is the one who brought me to Neraka? What if she is the one who has protected me, saved me, guided me? She is leading me to my destruction …

He was standing by the door, and he had only to turn and leave. He turned and found himself pressed against a wall. He slid along the wall, hoping he was going the right way, only to find his path blocked by the bodies of devout clerics. He tried another direction, and by that time he was turned around in the blinding, suffocating night. He could not find the way out.

He was sweating. The gold medallion around his neck was like a stone, seeming to weigh him down. He shuffled along the floor, tripping over people. A hand reached out and clutched at his ankle, and his heart nearly stopped beating.

This will be my future if I give in to her, Raistlin realized suddenly. I will be lost in the darkness, disembodied, like Fistandantilus. I will be alone and afraid, always afraid.

“Everything I do is done by Her Dark Majesty’s grace. Everything I do is at Her Dark Majesty’s will.”

Lies … all lies, he thought. Fear, that is her will.

Raistlin came to a halt. He stared fixedly into the darkness. And it seemed to him that the darkness blinked.

When the hour of prayer and meditation finally ended, the dark pilgrims rose stiffly from where they had been kneeling on the floor and began to wend their way out. The darkness spell remained, and they moved slowly, feeling their way. Raistlin found the exit easily. He had been standing right next to it all the time.

He breathed an inward sigh of relief when he once more returned to the main part of the temple. Although the light here was dim, it was light.

“I must attend to my duties now,” his guide told him apologetically. “Will you be all right on your own?”

Raistlin assured her he would be fine. She told him where to find the dining hall and said that he was free to see the wonders of the rest of the temple.

“There are only a few areas which are prohibited,” she said. “The chambers of the Highlords, which are in the tower, and the council chamber.”

“What about the dungeons?” Raistlin asked.

The guide frowned. “Why would you want to go there?”

“I am a servant of Morgion,” said Raistlin in his soft voice. “I am commanded to bring my god new followers. I find that those rotting in prison cells tend to be receptive to his message.”

The guide grimaced in disgust. Most dark pilgrims loathed Morgion and his priests and their methods of preying upon the sick, luring them with false promises of renewed health to draw them into a hideous bargain from which not even death would free them. Raistlin’s guide said caustically that if he wanted to visit the dungeons, he could do so. She cautioned him not to get lost.

“The Nightlord and the other dignitaries will be gathering here an hour prior to the time of the council meeting. You should be here if you want to join them.”

Raistlin said that nothing would make him happier, and he promised to be back two hours before he was wanted. His guide left him, and he found his way down from the upper level of the temple to the
lower. He counted the stairs as he descended and marked his mental map accordingly.

Raistlin found his friends in a holding cell. He did not approach, but observed them from a distance. The passageways in the dungeons were narrow and twisted and shadowy. Torches in iron baskets set at intervals on the walls shed puddles of light on the floor. The stench was frightful, a combination of blood, decaying flesh (corpses were often left chained to the walls for days before being removed), and filth.

A bored hobgoblin jailer sat tilted back in a chair, amusing himself by throwing his knife at rats. He held his knife in his hand, and whenever a rat skittered out of the shadows, he would hurl the knife at it. If he hit the rat, he would scratch a mark upon the stone wall. If he missed, he would scowl and grumble and make another mark in a different place on the wall. His aim was poor and, judging by the number of marks for their side, the rats were winning.

Absorbed in his contest, the hobgoblin paid no attention to his prisoners. There was no reason he should. They were obviously not going anywhere, and even if they managed to escape, they would lose their way in the convoluted tangle of planar-shifting tunnels, or tumble into a pool of acid, or fall victim to one of the other traps placed in the corridors.

In the dim light, Raistlin could see Caramon slumped on a bench at the far end of the holding cell. He was pretending to be asleep and, not being a very good actor, was doing a poor job of it. Tika, at the opposite end, held Tas’s head in her lap. Tas was still unconscious, though, by his moaning, he was at least alive. Berem sat on a bench, his vacant eyes staring into the darkness. His head was cocked, as though he were listening to a loved one’s voice. He spoke softly in reply.

“I’m coming, Jasla. Don’t leave me.”

Raistlin toyed with the idea of freeing Berem. He discarded it almost immediately. Now was not the time. Takhisis was watching. Better to wait until nightfall, when her attention was focused on the battle for power among her Highlords.

The only problem with that plan was that Berem was likely to be discovered long before night fell. The false goat-hair beard he wore
to conceal his features was starting to slip off. His laced shirt front gaped open slightly, and Raistlin could see a faint gleam of green light from the emerald in his chest. If Raistlin could see it, so could the hobgoblin jailer. All he had to do was look away from his contest with the rats …

“You are in danger, Caramon,” Raistlin warned silently. “Open your eyes!”

And that moment, as though Caramon had heard his brother’s voice, he opened his eyes and saw the glint of green. Caramon yawned and heaved himself to his feet, stretching his arms as though stiff from sitting.

He glanced at the jailer. The hobgoblin was watching a rat that was trying to make up its mind if it would be safe enough to emerge from its hole in the wall. Caramon sauntered nonchalantly over to Berem and, keeping one eye on the hobgoblin, swiftly drew the lacings to Berem’s shirt front closed. The glint of light from the emerald vanished. Caramon was about to try to stick the false beard back in place when the hobgoblin hurled his knife, missed, and swore. The knife clanged against the wall. The rat, chittering in glee, made a dash for it. Caramon sat down hurriedly, crossing his arms over his chest and feigning sleep.

Raistlin fixed his gaze, his thoughts on Caramon. “You can do this, my brother. I have often called you a fool, but you are not. You are smarter than you think. Stand on your own. You don’t need me. You don’t need Tanis. I will create the diversion. And you will act.”

Caramon sat bolt upright on the bench.

“Raist?” he called out. “Raist? Where are you?”

Tika had been patting Tas’s cheek, trying to rouse him. Caramon’s shout made her jump. She stared at him reproachfully. “Stop it, Caramon!” she said wearily, her eyes filling with tears. “Raistlin is gone. Get that into your head.”

Caramon flushed. “I must have been dreaming,” he mumbled.

Tika sighed bleakly and went back to trying to rouse Tas.

Caramon slumped down on the bench, but he didn’t close his eyes.

“I guess it’s up to me,” he said with a sigh.

“Jasla’s calling,” said Berem.

“Yeah,” said Caramon. “I know. But you can’t go to her now. We have to wait.” He laid his hand on Berem’s arm, calming, protecting.

Raistlin thought how often he’d been annoyed by that same protective hand. He turned away, retracing his steps along the passage, moving away from the main prison area, deeper into the darkness. He was not certain where he was going, though he had some idea. When he came to the place where the corridor branched off in different directions, he chose the passage that sloped downward, the passage that was darkest, the passage that smelled the worst. The air was dank and fetid. The walls were wet to the touch; the floor, covered with slime.