"I think not," he said. "I will not, of course, be attending the Yule party."
"Oh, but I don't want to go either—” Crysania began.
"You will be expected," Raistlin said abruptly. "Besides, I have too long neglected my studies in the pleasure of your company."
"I see," Crysania said. Her own voice was cool and distant and, Tasslehoff could tell, hurt and disappointed.
"Farewell, gentlemen," she said after a moment, when it was apparent Raistlin wasn't going to add anything further. Bowing slightly, she turned and walked down the dark hall, her white robes seeming to take the light away as she left.
"I'll tell Caramon you send your regards," Tas called after her helpfully, but Crysania didn't turn around. The kender turned to Raistlin with a sigh. "I'm afraid Caramon didn't make much of an impression on her. But, then, he was all fuddled because of the dwarf spirits—”
Raistlin coughed."Did you come here to discuss my brother?" he interrupted coldly, "because, if so, you can leave—”
"Oh, no!" Tas said hastily. Then he grinned up at the mage. "I came to stop the Cataclysm!"
For the first time in his life, the kender had the satisfaction of seeing his words absolutely stun Raistlin. It was not a satisfaction he enjoyed long, however. The mage's face went white and stiff, his mirrorlike eyes seemed to shatter, allowing Tas to see inside, into those dark, burning depths the mage kept hidden. Hands as strong as the claws of a predatory bird sank into the kender's shoulders, hurting him. Within seconds, Tas found himself thrown inside Raistlin's room. The door slammed shut with a shattering bang.
"What gave you this idea?" Raistlin demanded.
Tas shrank backward, startled, and glanced around the room uneasily, his kender instincts telling him he better look for someplace to hide.
"Uh—you d-did," Tas stammered. "Well, n-not exactly. But you said something about m-my coming back here and being able to alter time. And, I thought, st-stopping the Cataclysm would be a sort of good thing—”
"How did you plan to do it?" Raistlin asked, and his eyes burned with a hot fire that made Tas sweat just looking into it.
"Well, I planned to discuss it with you first, of course," the kender said, hoping Raistlin was still subject to flattery, "and then I thought—if you said it was all right—that I would just go and talk to the Kingpriest and tell him he was making a really big mistake—one of the All Time Big Mistakes, if you take my meaning. And, I'm sure, once I explained, that he'd listen—”
"I'm sure," Raistlin said, and his voice was cool and controlled. But Tas thought he detected, oddly, a note of vast relief. "So"—the mage turned away—"you intend to talk to the Kingpriest. And what if he refuses to listen? What then?"
Tas paused, his mouth open. "I guess I hadn't considered that," the kender said, after a moment. He sighed, then shrugged. "We'll go home."
"There's another way," Raistlin said softly, sitting down in his chair and regarding the kender with his mirrorlike eyes. "A sure way! A way you could stop the Cataclysm without fail."
"There is?" Tas said eagerly. "What?"
"The magical device," Raistlin answered, spreading his slender hands. "Its powers are great, far beyond what Par-Salian told that idiot brother of mine. Activate it on the Day of the Cataclysm, and its magic will destroy the fiery mountain high above the world, so that it harms no one."
"Really?" Tas gasped. "That's wonderful." Then he frowned. "But, how can I be sure. Suppose it doesn't work—”
"What have you got to lose?" Raistlin asked. "If, for some reason, it fails, and I truly doubt it." The mage smiled at the kender's naivete. "It was, after all, created by the highest level magic-users—”
"Like dragon orbs?" Tas interrupted.
"Like dragon orbs," Raistlin snapped, irritated at the interruption. "But if it did fail, you could always use it to escape at the last moment."
"With Caramon and Crysania," Tas added.
Raistlin did not answer, but the kender didn't notice in his excitement. Then he thought of something.
"What if Caramon decides to leave before then?" he asked fearfully.
"He won't," Raistlin answered softly. "Trust me," he added, seeing Tas about to argue.
The kender pondered again, then sighed. "I just thought of something. I don't think Caramon will let me have the device. Par-Salian told him to guard it with his life. He never lets it out of his sight and locks it up in a chest when he has to leave. And I'm sure he wouldn't believe me if I tried to explain why I wanted it."
"Don't tell him. The day of the Cataclysm is the day of the Final Bout," Raistlin said, shrugging. "If it is gone for a short time, he'll never miss it."
"But, that would be stealing!" Tas said, shocked.
Raistlin's lips twitched. "Let us say—borrowing," the mage amended soothingly. "It's for such a worthy cause! Caramon won't be angry. I know my brother. Think how proud he will be of you!"
"You're right," Tas said, his eyes shining. "I'd be a true hero, greater than Kronin Thistleknot himself! How do I find out how to work it?"
"I'll give you instructions," Raistlin said, rising. He began to cough again. "Come back . . . in three days' time. And now . . . I must rest."
"Sure," Tas said cheerfully, getting to his feet. "I hope you feel better." He started for the door. Once there, however, he hesitated. "Oh, say, I don't have a gift for you. I'm sorry—”
"You have given me a gift," Raistlin said, "a gift of inestimable value. Thank you."
"I have?" Tas said, astonished. "Oh, you must mean stopping the Cataclysm. Well, don't mention it. I—”
Tas suddenly found himself in the middle of the garden, staring at the rosebushes and an extremely surprised cleric who had seen the kender apparently materialize out of nowhere, right in the middle of the path.
"Great Reorx's beard! I wish I knew how to do that," Tasslehoff said wistfully.
The day dawned hot and breathless. It was the hottest Yule day anyone—even the elves—could remember. In the Temple, the Yule roses drooped and withered, the everbloom wreaths smelled as if they had been baked in an oven, the snow that cooled the wine in silver bowls melted so rapidly that the servants did nothing all day but run back and forth from the depths of the rock cellars to the party rooms, carrying buckets of slush.
Raistlin woke on that morning, in the dark hour before the dawn, so ill he could not rise from his bed. He lay naked, bathed in sweat, a prey to the fevered hallucinations that had caused him to rip off his robes and the bedcovers. The gods were indeed near, but it was the closeness of one god in particular—his goddess, the Queen of Darkness—that was affecting him. He could feel her anger, as he could sense the anger of all the gods at the Kingpriest's attempt to destroy the balance they sought to achieve in the world.
Thus he had dreamed of his Queen, but she had chosen not to appear to him in her anger as might have been expected. He had not dreamed of the terrible five-headed dragon, the Dragon of All Colors and of None that would try to enslave the world in the Wars of the Lance. He had not seen her as the Dark Warrior, leading her legions to death and destruction. No, she had appeared to him as the Dark Temptress, the most beautiful of all women, the most seductive, and thus she had spent the night with him, tantalizing him with the weakness, the glory of the flesh.
Closing his eyes, shivering in the room that was cool despite the heat outdoors, Raistlin pictured to himself once again the fragrant dark hair hanging over him; he felt her touch, her warmth. Reaching up his hands, letting himself sink beneath her spell, he had parted the tangled hair—and seen Crysania's face!
The dream ended, shattered as his mind took control once more. And now he lay awake, exultant in his victory, yet knowing the price it had cost. As if to remind him, a wrenching coughing fit seized him.
"I will not give in," he muttered when he could breathe. "You will not win me over so easily, my Queen." Staggering out of bed, so weak he had to pause more than once to rest, he put on the black robes and made his way to his desk. Cursing the pain in his chest, he opened an ancient text on magical paraphernalia and began his laborious search.
Crysania, too, had slept poorly. Like Raistlin, she felt the nearness of all the gods, but of her god—Paladine—most of all. She felt his anger, but it was tinged with a sorrow so deep and devastating that Crysania could not bear it. Overwhelmed with guilt, she turned away from that gentle face and began to run. She ran and ran, weeping, unable to see where she was going. She stumbled and was falling into nothingness, her soul torn with fear. Then strong arms caught her. She was enfolded in soft black robes, held near a muscular body. Slender fingers stroked her hair, soothing her. She looked into a face—
Bells. Bells broke the stillness. Startled, Crysania sat up in bed, looking around wildly. Then, remembering the face she had seen, remembering the warmth of his body and the comfort she had found there, she put her aching head in her hands and wept.
Tasslehoff, on waking, at first felt disappointment. Today was Yule, he remembered, and also the day Raistlin said Dire Things would begin to happen. Looking around in the gray light that filtered through their window, the only dire thing Tas saw was Caramon, down on the floor, huffing and puffing his way grimly through morning exercises.
Although Caramon's days were filled with weapons’ practice, working out with his team members, developing new parts of their routine, the big man still fought a never-ending battle with his weight. He had been taken off his diet and allowed to eat the same food as the others. But the sharp-eyed dwarf soon noticed that Caramon was eating about five times more than anyone else!
Once, the big man had eaten for pleasure. Now, nervous and unhappy and obsessed by thoughts of his brother, Caramon sought consolation in food as another might seek consolation in drink. (Caramon had, in fact, tried that once, ordering Tas to sneak a bottle of dwarf spirits in to him. But, unused to the strong alcohol, it had made him violently sick—much to the kender's secret relief.)
Arack decreed, therefore, that Caramon could eat only if he performed a series of strenuous exercises each day. Caramon often wondered how the dwarf knew if he missed a day, since he did them early in the morning before anyone else was up. But Arack did know, somehow. The one morning Caramon had skipped the exercises, he had been denied access to the mess hall by a grinning, club-wielding Raag.
Growing bored with listening to Caramon grunt and groan and swear, Tas climbed up on a chair, peering out the window to see if there was anything dire happening outside. He felt cheered immediately.
"Caramon! Come look!" he called in excitement. "Have you ever seen a sky that peculiar shade before?"
"Ninety-nine, one hundred," puffed the big man. Then Tas heard a large "ooof." With a thud that shook the room, Caramon flopped down on his now rock-hard belly to rest. Then the big man heaved himself up off the stone floor and came to look out the barred window, mopping the sweat from his body with a towel.
Casting a bored glance outside, expecting nothing but an ordinary sunrise, the big man blinked, then his eyes opened wide.
"No," he murmured, draping the towel around his neck and coming to stand behind Tas, "I never did. And I've seen some strange things in my time, too."
"Oh, Caramon!" Tas cried, "Raistlin was right. He said—”
"Raistlin!"
Tas gulped. He hadn't meant to bring that up.
"Where did you see Raistlin?" Caramon demanded, his voice deep and stern.
"In the Temple, of course," Tas answered as if it were the most common thing in the world. "Didn't I mention I went there yesterday?"
"Yes, but you—”
"Well, why else would I go except to see our friends?"
"You never—”
"I saw Lady Crysania and Raistlin. I'm sure I mentioned that. You never do listen to me, you know,” Tas complained, wounded. "You sit there on that bed, every night, brooding and sulking and talking to yourself. 'Caramon,' I could say, 'the roof's caving in,' and you'd say, 'That's nice, Tas.' "
"Look, kender, I know that if I had heard you mention—”
"Lady Crysania, Raistlin, and I had a wonderful little chat," Tas hurried on, "all about Yule—by the way, Caramon, you should see how beautifully they've decorated the Temple! It's filled with roses and everbloom and, say, did I remember to give you that candy? Wait, it's right over there in my pouch. Just a minute"—the kender tried to jump off the chair, but Caramon had him cornered—"well, I guess it can wait. Where was I? Oh, yes"—seeing Caramon scowl—"Raistlin and Lady Crysania and I were talking and, oh, Caramon! It's so exciting. Tika was right, she's in love with your brother."
Caramon blinked, having completely lost the thread of the conversation, which Tas, being rather careless with his pronouns, didn't help.
"No, I don't mean Tika's in love with your brother," Tas amended, seeing Caraman's confusion. "I mean Lady Crysania's in love with your brother! It was great fun. I was sort of leaning against Raistlin's closed door, resting, waiting for them to finish their conversation, and I happened to glance in the keyhole and he almost kissed her, Caramon! Your brother! Can you imagine! But he didn't." The kender sighed. "He practically yelled at her to leave. She did, but she didn't want to, I could tell. She was all dressed up and looked really pretty."
Seeing Caramon's face darken and the preoccupied look steal over it, Tas began to breathe a bit easier. "We got to talking about the Cataclysm, and Raistlin mentioned how Dire Things would begin happening today—Yule—as the gods tried to warn the people to change."
"In love with him?" Caramon muttered. Frowning, he turned away, letting Tas slip off the chair.
"Right. Unmistakably," the kender said glibly, hurrying over to his pouch and digging through it until he came to the batch of sweetmeats he had brought back. They were half-melted, sticking together in a gooey mass, and they had also acquired an outer coating of various bits and pieces from the kender's pouch, but Tas was fairly certain Caramon would never notice. He was right. The big man accepted the treat and began to eat without even glancing at it.
"He needs a cleric, they said," Caramon-mumbled, his mouth full. "Were they right, after all? Is he going to go through with it? Should I let him? Should I try to stop him? Do I have the right to stop him? If she chooses to go with him, isn't that her choice? Maybe that would be the best thing for him," Caramon said softly, licking his sticky fingers. "Maybe, if she loves him enough . . ."
Tasslehoff sighed in relief and sank down on his bed to wait for the breakfast call. Caramon hadn't thought to ask the kender why he'd gone to see Raistlin in the first place. And Tas was certain now, that he'd never remember he hadn't. His secret was safe . . ..
The sky was clear that Yule day, so clear it seemed one could look up into the vast dome that covered the world and see realms beyond. But, though everyone glanced up, few cared to fix their gazes upon it long enough to see anything. For the sky was indeed "a peculiar shade," as Tas said—it was green.
A strange, noxious, ugly green that, combined with the stifling heat and the heavy, hard-to-breathe air, effectively sucked the joy and merriment out of Yule. Those forced to go outside to attend parties hurried through the sweltering streets, talking about the odd weather irritably, viewing it as a personal insult. But they spoke in hushed voices, each feeling a tiny sliver of fear prick their holiday spirit.
The party inside the Temple was somewhat more cheerful, being held in the Kingpriest's chambers that were shut away from the outside world. None could see the strange sky, and all those who came within the presence of the Kingpriest felt their irritation and fear melt away. Away from Raistlin, Crysania was once again under the Kingpriest's spell and sat near him a long time. She did not speak, she simply let his shining presence comfort her and banish the dark, nighttime thoughts. But she, too, had seen the green sky. Remembering Raistlin's words, she tried to recall what she had heard of the Thirteen Days.
But it was all children's tales that were muddled together with the dreams she had had last night. Surely, she thought, the Kingpriest will notice! He will heed the warnings . . . She willed time to change or, if that were not possible, she willed the Kingpriest innocent. Sitting within his light, she banished from her mind the picture she had seen of the frightened mortal with his pale blue, darting eyes. She saw a strong man, denouncing the ministers who had deceived him, an innocent victim of their treachery . . ..
The crowd at the arena that day was sparse, most not caring to sit out beneath the green sky, whose color deepened and darkened more and more fearfully as the day wore on.
The gladiators themselves were uneasy, nervous, and performed their acts half-heartedly. Those spectators who came were sullen, refusing to cheer, cat-calling and hurling gibes at even their favorites.
"Do you often have such skies?" Kiiri asked, glancing up with a shudder as she and Caramon and Pheragas stood in the corridors, awaiting their turn in the arena. "If so, I know why my people choose to live beneath the sea!"
"My father sailed the sea," growled Pheragas, "as did my grandfather before him, as did I, before I tried to knock some sense into the first mate's head with a belaying pin and got sent here for my pains. And I've never seen a sky this color. Or heard of one either. It bodes ill, I’ll wager."
"No doubt," Caramon said uncomfortably. It had suddenly begun to sink into the big man that the Cataclysm was thirteen days away! Thirteen days . . . and these two friends, who had grown as dear to him as Sturm and Tanis, these two friends would perish! The rest of the inhabitants of Istar meant little to him. From what he had seen, they were a selfish lot, living mainly for pleasure and money (though he found he could not look upon the children without a pang of sorrow), but these two—He had to warn them, somehow. If they left the city, they might escape.
Lost in his thoughts, he had paid little attention to the fight in the arena. It was between the Red Minotaur, so called because the fur that covered his bestial face had a distinctly reddishbrown cast to it, and a young fighter—a new man, who had arrived only a few weeks before. Caramon had watched the young man's training with patronizing amusement.
But then he felt Pheragas, who was standing next to him, stiffen. Caramon's gaze went immediately to the ring. "What is it?"
"That trident," Pheragas said quietly, "have you ever seen one like it in the prop room?"
Caramon stared hard at the Red Minotaur’s weapon, squinting against the harsh sun blazing in the green-glazed sky. Slowly, he shook his head, feeling anger stir inside of him. The young man was completely outclassed by the minotaur, who had fought in the arena for months and who, in fact, was rivaling Caramon's team for the championship. The only reason the young man had lasted as long as he had was the skilled showmanship of the minotaur, who blundered around in a pretended battle rage that actually won a few laughs from the audience.
"A real trident. Arack intends to blood the young man, no doubt," Caramon muttered. "Look there, I was right," pointing to three bleeding scratches that suddenly appeared on the young man's chest.