Something was coming. Something had called off the draconians. Something was walking into the light of the fire.
Tas tried to cry out a warning, but his throat closed. His mind tumbled over and over. For a moment, too frightened and dizzy to think clearly, he thought someone had mixed up adventures on him.
He saw Lady Crysania rise to her feet, her white robes sweeping the dirt near his head. Slowly, she began backing away from the thing that stalked her. Tas heard her call to Paladine, but the words fell from lips stiff with terror.
Tas himself wanted desperately to close his eyes. Fear and curiosity warred in his small body. Curiosity won out. Peering out of his one good eye, Tas watched the horrible figure draw nearer and nearer to the cleric. The figure was dressed in the armor of a Solamnic Knight, but that armor was burned and blackened. As it drew near Crysania, the figure stretched forth an arm that did not end in a hand. It spoke words that did not come from a mouth. Its eyes flared orange, its transparent legs strode right through the smoldering ashes of the fire. The chill of the regions where it was forced to eternally dwell flowed from its body, freezing the very marrow in Tas's bones.
Fearfully, Tas raised his head. He saw Lady Crysania backing away. He saw the death knight walk toward her with slow, steady steps.
The knight raised its right hand and pointed at Crysania with a pale, shimmering finger.
Tas felt a sudden, uncontrollable terror seize him. "No!" he moaned, shivering, though he had no idea what awful thing was about to happen.
The knight spoke one word.
"Die."
At that moment, Tas saw Lady Crysania raise her hand and grasp the medallion she wore around her neck. He saw a bright flash of pure white light well from her fingers and then she fell to the ground as though stabbed by the fleshless finger.
"No!" Tasslehoff heard himself cry. He saw the orange flaring eyes turn their attention to him, and a chill, dank darkness, like the darkness of a tomb, sealed shut his eyes and closed his mouth . . ..
And yet, deeper than his fear, an undercurrent of excitement pulsed in Dalamar's blood as it always did when he stood before this door. He had seen wonderful things inside this chamber, wonderful . . . fearful . . ..
Raising his right hand, he made a quick sign in the air before the door and muttered a few words in the language of magic. There was no reaction. The door had no spell cast upon it. Dalamar breathed a bit easier, or perhaps it was a sigh of disappointment. His master was not engaged in any potent, powerful magic, otherwise Raistlin would have cast a spell of holding upon the door. Glancing down at the floor, the dark elf saw no flickering, flaring lights beaming from beneath the heavy wooden door. He smelled nothing except the usual smells of spice and decay. Dalamar placed the five fingertips of his left hand upon the door and waited in silence.
Within the space of time it took the dark elf to draw a breath came the softly spoken command, "Enter, Dalamar."
Bracing himself, Dalamar stepped into the chamber as the door swung silently open before him. Raistlin sat at a huge and ancient stone table, so large that one of the tall, broadshouldered race of minotaurs living upon Mithas might have lain down upon it, stretched out his full height, and still had room to spare. The stone table, in fact the entire laboratory, were part of the original furnishings Raistlin had discovered when he claimed the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas as his own.
The great, shadowy chamber seemed much larger than it could possibly have been, yet the dark elf could never determine whether it was the chamber itself that seemed larger or he himself who seemed smaller whenever he entered it. Books lined the walls, here as in the mage's study. Runes and spidery writing glowed through the dust gathered on their spines. Glass bottles and jars of twisted design stood on tables around the sides of the chamber, their bright-colored contents bubbling and boiling with hidden power.
Here, in this laboratory long ago, great and powerful magic had been wrought. Here, the wizards of all three Robes—the White of Good, the Red of Neutrality, and the Black of Evil— joined in alliance to create the Dragon Orbs—one of which was now in Raistlin's possession. Here, the three Robes had come together in a final, desperate battle to save their Towers, the bastions of their strength, from the Kingpriest of Istar and the mobs. Here they had failed, believing it was better to live in defeat than fight, knowing that their magic could destroy the world.
The mages had been forced to abandon this Tower, carrying their spellbooks and other paraphernalia to the Tower of High Sorcery, hidden deep within the magical Forest of Wayreth. It was when they abandoned this Tower that the curse had been cast upon it. The Shoikan Grove had grown to guard it from all comers until—as foretold—"the master of past and present shall return with power."
And the master had returned. Now he sat in the ancient laboratory, crouched over the stone table that had been dragged, long ago, from the bottom of the sea. Carved with runes that ward off all enchantments, it was kept free of any outside influences that might affect the mage's work. The table's surface was ground smooth and polished to an almost mirrorlike finish. Dalamar could see the nightblue bindings of the spellbooks that sat upon it reflected in the candlelight.
Scattered about on its surface were other objects, too— objects hideous and curious, horrible and lovely: the mage's spell components. It was on these Raistlin was working now, scanning a spellbook, murmuring soft words as he crushed something between his delicate fingers, letting it trickle into a phial he held.
"Shalafi," Dalamar said quietly, using the elven word for "master."
Raistlin looked up.
Dalamar felt the stare of those golden eyes pierce his heart with an indefinable pain. A shiver of fear swept over the dark elf, the words, He knows! seethed in his brain. But none of this emotion was outwardly visible. The dark elf's handsome features remained fixed, unchanged, cool. His eyes returned Raistlin's gaze steadily. His hands remained folded within his robes as was proper.
So dangerous was this job that—when They had deemed it necessary to plant a spy inside the mage's household—They had asked for volunteers, none of them willing to take responsibility for cold-bloodedly commanding anyone to accept this deadly assignment. Dalamar had stepped forward immediately.
Magic was Dalamar’s only home.Originally from Silvanesti, he now neither claimed nor was claimed by that noble race of elves. Born to a low caste, he had been taught only the most rudimentary of the magical arts, higher learning being for those of royal blood. But Dalamar had tasted the power, and it became his obsession. Secretly he worked, studying the forbidden, learning wonders reserved for only the highranking elven mages. The dark arts impressed him most, and thus, when he was discovered wearing the Black Robes that no true elf could even bear to look upon, Dalamar was cast out of his home and his nation. And he became known as a "dark elf," one who is outside of the light. This suited Dalamar well for, early on, he had learned that there is power in darkness.
And so Dalamar had accepted the assignment. When asked to give his reasons why he would willingly risk his life performing this task, he had answered coldly, "I would risk my soul for the chance to study with the greatest and most powerful of our order who has ever lived!"
"You may well be doing just that," a sad voice had answered him.
The memory of that voice returned to Dalamar at odd moments, generally in the darkness of the night—which was so very dark inside the Tower. It returned to him now. Dalamar forced it out of his mind.
"What is it?" Raistlin asked gently.
The mage always spoke gently and softly, sometimes not even raising his voice above a whisper. Dalamar had seen fearful storms rage in this chamber. The blazing lightning and crashing thunder had left him partially deaf for days. He had been present when the mage summoned creatures from the planes above and below to do his bidding; their screams and wails and curses still sounded in his dreams at night. Yet, through it all, he had never heard Raistlin raise his voice. Always that soft, sibilant whisper penetrated the chaos and brought it under control.
"Events are transpiring in the outside world, Shalafi, that demand your attention."
"Indeed?" Raistlin looked down again, absorbed inhis work.
"Lady Crysania—”
Raistlin's hooded head lifted quickly. Dalamar, reminded forcibly of a striking snake, involuntarily fell back a step before that intense gaze.
"What? Speak!" Raistlin hissed the word.
"You—you should come, Shalafi," Dalamar faltered. "The Live Ones report . . .."
The dark elf spoke to empty air. Raistlin had vanished.
Heaving a trembling sigh, the dark elf pronounced the words that would take him instantly to his master's side.
Far below the Tower of High Sorcery, deep beneath the ground, was a small round room magically carved from the rock that supported the Tower. This room had not been in the Tower originally. Known as the Chamber of Seeing, it was Raistlin's creation.
Within the center of the small room of cold stone was a perfectly round pool of still, dark water. From the center of the strange, unnatural pond spurted a jet of blue flame. Rising to the ceiling of the chamber, it burned eternally, day and night. And around it, eternally, sat the Live Ones.
Though the most powerful mage living upon Krynn, Raistlin's power was far from complete, and no one realized that more than the mage himself. He was always forcibly reminded of his weaknesses when he came into this room—one reason he avoided it, if possible. For here were the visible, outward symbols of his failures—the Live Ones.
Wretched creatures mistakenly created by magic gone awry, they were held in thrall in this chamber, serving their creator. Here they lived out their tortured lives, writhing in a larva-like, bleeding mass about the flaming pool. Their shining wet bodies made a horrible carpet for the floor, whose stones, made slick with their oozings, could be seen only when they parted to make room for their creator.
Yet, despite their lives of constant, twisted pain, the Live Ones spoke no word of complaint. Far better their lot than those who roamed the Tower, those known as the Dead Ones.
Raistlin materialized within the Chamber of Seeing, a dark shadow emerging out of darkness. The blue flame sparkled off the silver threads that decorated his robes, shimmered within the black cloth. Dalamar appeared beside him, and the two walked over to stand beside the surface of the still, black water.
"Where?" Raistlin asked.
"Here, M-master," blurbled one of the Live Ones, pointing a misshapen appendage.
Raistlin hurried to stand beside it, Dalamar walking by his side, their black robes making a soft, whispering sound upon the slimy stone floor. Staring into the water, Raistlin motioned Dalamar to do the same. The dark elf looked into the still surface, seeing for an instant only the reflection of the jet of blue flame. Then the flame and the water merged, then parted, and he was in a forest. A big human male, clad in ill-fitting armor, stood staring down at the body of a young human female, dressed in white robes. A kender knelt beside the body of the woman, holding her hand in his. Dalamar heard the big man speak as clearly as if he had been standing by his side.
"She's dead . . .."
"I—I'm not sure, Caramon. I think—”
"I've seen death often enough, believe me. She's dead. And it's all my fault . . . my fault . . .."
"Caramon, you imbecile!" Raistlin snarled with a curse. "What happened? What went wrong?"
As the mage spoke, Dalamar saw the kender look up quickly.
"Did you say something?" the kender asked the big human, who was working in the soil.
"No. It was just the wind."
"What are you doing?"
"Digging a grave. We've got to bury her."
"Bury her?" Raistlin gave a brief, bitter laugh. "Oh, of course, you bumbling idiot! That's all you can think of to do!" The mage fumed. " Bury her! I must know what happened!" He turned to the Live One. "What did you see?"
"T-they c-camp in t-trees, M-master." Froth dribbled from the creature's mouth, its speech was practically unrecognizable. "D-draco k-kill—”
"Draconians?" Raistlin repeated in astonishment. "Near Solace? Where did they come from?"
"D-dunno! Dunno!" The Live One cowered in terror. "I-I—”
"Shhh," Dalamar warned, drawing his master's attention back to the pond where the kender was arguing.
"Caramon, you can't bury her! She's—”
"We don't have any choice. I know it's not proper, but Paladine will see that her soul journeys in peace. We don't dare build a funeral pyre, not with those dragonmen around—”
"But, Caramon, I really think you should come look at her! There's not a mark on her body!"
"I don't want to look at her! She's dead! It's my fault! We'll bury her here, then I'll go back to Solace, go back to digging my own grave—”
"Caramon!"
"Go find some flowers and leave me be!"
Dalamar saw the big man tear up the moist dirt with his bare hands, hurling it aside while tears streamed down his face. The kender remained beside the woman's body, irresolute, his face covered with dried blood, his expression a mixture of grief and doubt.
"No mark, no wound, draconians coming out of nowhere . . ." Raistlin frowned thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, he knelt beside the Live One, who shrank away from him. "Speak. Tell me everything. I must know. Why wasn't I summoned earlier?"
"Th-the d-draco k-kill, M-master," the Live One's voice bubbled in agony. "B-but the b-big m-man k-kill, too. T-then b-big d-dark c-come! E-eyes of f-fire. I-I s-scared. I-I f-fraid f-fall in wa-water . . .."
"I found the Live One lying at the edge of the pool," Dalamar reported coolly, "when one of the others told me something strange was going on. I looked into the water. Knowing of your interest in this human female, I thought you—”
"Quite right," Raistlin murmured, cutting off Dalamar's explanation impatiently. The mage's golden eyes narrowed, his thin lips compressed. Feeling his anger, the poor Live One dragged its body as far from the mage as possible. Dalamar held his breath. But Raistlin's anger was not directed at them.
" 'Big dark, eyes of fire'—Lord Soth! So, my sister, you betray me," Raistlin whispered. "I smell your fear, Kitiara! You coward! I could have made you queen of this world. I could have given you wealth immeasurable, power unlimited. But no. You are, after all, a weak and petty-minded worm!"
Raistlin stood quietly, pondering, staring into the still pond. When he spoke next, his voice was soft, lethal. "I will not forget this, my dear sister. You are fortunate that I have more urgent, pressing matters at hand, or you would be residing with the phantom lord who serves you!" Raistlin's thin fist clenched, then—with an obvious effort—he forced himself to relax. "But, now, what to do about this? I must do something before my brother plants the cleric in a flower bed!"