"What is it?" Crysania stared at the volume as if it might have been a coiled, poisonous serpent.
"A book, nothing more." Raistlin smiled wearily. "I assure you it will not change into a dragon and carry you off at my command. I repeat—it is a book, an encyclopedia, if you will. A very ancient one, written during the Age of Dreams."
"Why do you want me to see this? What does it have to do with me?" Crysania asked suspiciously. But she had ceased edging her way toward the door. Raistlin's calm demeanor reassured her. She had even ceased to notice, for the moment, the lightning and cracking of the storm outside.
"It is an encyclopedia of magical devices produced during the Age of Dreams," Raistlin continued imperturbably, never taking his eyes from Crysania, seeming to draw her nearer with his gaze as he stood beside the desk. "Read—”
"I cannot read the language of magic," Crysania said, frowning, then her brow cleared. "Or are you going to 'translate' for me?" she inquired haughtily.
Raistlin's eyes flared in swift anger, but the anger was almost instantly replaced by a look of sadness and exhaustion that went straight to Crysania's heart. "It is not written in the language of magic," he said softly. "I would not have asked you here otherwise." Glancing down at the black robes he wore, he smiled the twisted, bitter smile. "Long ago, I willingly paid the penalty. I do not know why I should have hoped you would trust me."
Biting her lip, feeling deeply ashamed, though she had no idea why, Crysania crossed around to the other side of the desk. She stood there, hesitantly. Sitting down, Raistlin beckoned to her, and she took a step forward to stand beside the open book. The mage spoke a word of command, and the staff that leaned up against the wall near Crysania burst into a flood of yellow light, startling her nearly as much as the lightning.
"Read," Raistlin said, indicating the page.
Trying to compose herself, Crysania glanced down, scanning the page, though she had no idea what she sought. Then, her attention was captured. Device of Time Journeying read one of the entries and, beside it, was pictured a device similar to the one the kender had described.
"This is it?" she asked, looking up at Raistlin. "The device Par-Salian gave Caramon to get us back?"
The mage nodded, his eyes reflecting the yellow light of the staff.
"Read," he repeated softly.
Curious, Crysania scanned the text. There was little more than a paragraph, describing the device, the great mage—now long forgotten—who had designed and built it—the requirements for its use. Much of the description was beyond her understanding, dealing with things arcane. She grasped at bits and pieces—
. . . will carry the person already under a time spell forward or backward . . . must be assembled correctly and the facets turned in the prescribed order . . .. will transport one person only, the person to whom it is given at the time the spell is cast . . . device's use is restricted to elves, humans, ogres . . . no spell word required . . .
Crysania came to the end and glanced up at Raistlin uncertainly. He was watching her with a strange, expectant look. There was something there he was waiting for her to find. And, deep within, she felt a disquiet, a fear, a numbness, as if her heart understood the text more quickly than her brain.
"Again," Raistlin said.
Trying to concentrate, though she was now once more aware of the storm outside that seemed to be growing in intensity, Crysania looked back at the text.
And there it was. The words leaped out at her, reaching for her throat, choking her.
Transport one person only . . .
Transport one person only!
Crysania's legs gave way. Fortunately, Raistlin moved a chair behind her or she might have fallen to the floor.
For long moments she stared into the room. Though lit by lightning and the magical light of the staff, it had, for her, grown suddenly dark.
"Does he know?" she asked finally, through numb lips.
"Caramon?" Raistlin snorted. "Of course not. If they had told him, he would have broken his fool neck trying to get it to you and would beg you on his knees to use it and give him the privilege of dying in your stead. I can think of little else that would make him happier.
"No, Lady Crysania, he would have used it confidently, with you standing beside him as well as the kender, no doubt. And he would have been devastated when they explained to him why he returned alone. I wonder how Par-Salian would have managed that," Raistlin added with a grim smile. "Caramon is quite capable of tearing that Tower down around their ears. But that is neither here nor there."
His gaze caught hers, though she would have avoided it. He compelled her, by the force of his will, to look into his eyes. And, once again, she saw herself, but this time alone and terribly frightened.
"They sent you back here to die, Crysania," Raistlin said in a voice that was little more than a breath, yet it penetrated to Crysania's very core, echoing louder in her mind than the thunder. "This is the good you tell me about? Bah! They live in fear, as does the Kingpriest! They fear you as they fear me. The only path to good, Crysania, is my path! Help me defeat the evil. I need you . . ."
Crysania closed her eyes. She could see once again, vividly, Par-Salian's handwriting on the note she had found—your life or your soul—gain one and you will lose the other! There are many ways back for you, one of which is through Caramon. He had purposely misled her! What other way existed, besides Raistlin's? Is this whatthe mage meant? Who could answer her? Was there anyone, anyone in this bleak and desolate world she could trust?
Her muscles twitching, contracting, Crysania pushed herself up from her chair. She did not look at Raistlin, she stared ahead at nothing. "I must go . . ." she muttered brokenly, "I must think . . ."
Raistlin did not try to stop her. He did not even stand. He spoke no word—until she reached the door.
"Tomorrow," he whispered. "Tomorrow . . ."
The fury of the storm was somewhat lessened as he walked among the tall buildings of the city, but it was still difficult going. Water ran a foot deep in some places, swirling about his legs, threatening more than once to sweep him off his feet. The lightning half-blinded him, the thunder was deafening.
Needless to say, he saw few other people. The inhabitants of Istar cowered indoors, alternately cursing or calling upon the gods. The occasional traveler he passed, driven out into the storm by who knows what desperate reason, clung to the sides of the buildings or stood huddled miserably in doorways.
But Caramon trudged on, anxious to get back to the arena. His heart was filled with hope, his spirits were high, despite the storm. Or perhaps because of the storm. Surely now Kiiri and Pheragas would listen to him instead of giving him strange, cold looks when he tried to persuade them to flee Istar.
"I can't tell you how I know, I just know!" he pleaded. "There's disaster coming, I can smell it!"
"And miss the final tournament?" Kiiri said coolly.
"They won't hold it in this weather!" Caramon waved his arms.
"No storm this fierce ever lasts long!" Pheragas said. "It will blow itself out, and we'll have a beautiful day. Besides"—his eyes narrowed—"what would you do without us in the arena?"
"Why, fight alone, if need be," Caramon said, somewhat flustered. He planned to be long gone by that time—he and Tas, Crysania and perhaps . . . perhaps . . ..
"If need be . . . “ Kiiri had repeated in an odd, harsh tone, exchanging glances with Pheragas. "Thanks for thinking of us, friend," she said with a scathing glance at the iron collar Caramon wore, the collar that matched her own, "but no thanks. Our lives would be forfeit—runaway slaves! How long do you think we'd live out there?"
"It won't matter, not after . . . after . . ." Caramon sighed and shook his head miserably. What could he say? How could he make them understand? But they had not given him the chance. They walked off without another word, leaving him sitting alone in the mess hall.
But, surely, now they would listen! They would see that this was no ordinary storm. Would they have time to get away safely? Caramon frowned and wished, for the first time, he had paid more attention to books. He had no idea how wide an area the devastating effect of the fall of the fiery mountain encompassed. He shook his head. Maybe it was already too late.
Well, he had tried, he told himself, slogging along through the water. Wrenching his mind from the plight of his friends, he forced himself to think more cheerful thoughts. Soon he would be gone from this terrible place. Soon this would all seem like a bad dream.
He would be back home with Tika. Maybe with Raistlin! "I'll finish building the new house," he said, thinking regretfully of all the time he had wasted. A picture came into his mind. He could see himself, sitting by the fire in their new home, Tika's head resting in his lap. He'd tell her all about their adventures. Raistlin would sit with them, in the evenings; reading, studying, dressed in white robes . . .
"Tika won't believe a word of this," Caramon said to himself. "But it won't matter. She'll have the man she fell in love with home again. And this time, he won't leave her, ever, for anything!" He sighed, feeling her crisp red curls wrap around his fingers, seeing them shine in the firelight.
These thoughts carried Caramon through the storm and to the arena. Pulling out the block in the wall that was used by all the gladiators on their nocturnal rambles. (Arack was aware of its existence but, by tacit arrangement, turned a blind eye to it as long as the privilege wasn't abused.) No one was in the arena, of course. Practice sessions had all been cancelled. Everyone was huddled inside, cursing the foul weather and making bets on whether or not they would fight tomorrow. ***
Arack was in a mood nearly as foul as the elements, counting over and over the pieces of gold that would slip through his fingers if he had to cancel the Final Bout—the sporting event of the year in Istar. He tried to cheer himself up with the thought that he had promised him fine weather and he, if anyone, should know. Still, the dwarf stared gloomily outside.
From his vantage point, a window high above the grounds in the tower of the arena, he saw Caramon creep through the stone wall. "Raag!" He pointed. Looking down, Raag nodded in understanding and, grabbing the huge club, waited for the dwarf to put away his account books.
Caramon hurried to the cell he shared with the kender, eager to tell him about Crysania and Raistlin. But when he entered, the small room was empty.
"Tas?" he said, glancing around to make certain he hadn't overlooked him in the shadows. But a flash of lightning illuminated the room more brightly than daylight. There was no sign of the kender.
"Tas, come out!This is no time for games!" Caramon ordered sternly. Tasslehoff had nearly frightened him out of six years' growth one day by hiding under the bed, then leaping out when Caramon's back was turned. Lighting a torch, the big man got down, grumbling, on his hands and knees and flashed the light under the bed. No Tas.
"I hope the little fool didn't try to go out in this storm!" Caramon said to himself, his irritation changing to sudden concern. "He'd get blown back to Solace. Or maybe he's in the mess hall, waiting for me. Maybe he's with Kiiri and Pheragas. That's it! I'll just grab the device, then join him—”
Talking to himself, Caramon went over to the small, wooden chest where he kept his armor. Opening it, he took out the fancy, gold costume. Giving it a scornful glance, he tossed the pieces on the floor. "At least I won't have to wear that get-up again," he said thankfully. "Though"—he grinned somewhat shamefacedly—"it'd be fun to see Tika's reaction when I put that on! Wouldn't she laugh? But I'll bet she'd like it, just the same." Whistling cheerfully, Caramon quickly took everything out of the chest and, using the edge of one of the collapsible daggers, carefully prized up the false bottom he had built into it.
The whistle died on his lips.
The chest was empty.
Frantically, Caramon felt all over the inside of the chest, though it was quite obvious that a pendant as large as the magical device wouldn't have been likely to slip through a crack. His heart beating wildly with fear, Caramon scrambled to his feet and began to search the room, flashing the torchlight into every corner, peering once more under the beds. He even ripped up his straw mattress and was starting to work on Tas's when he suddenly noticed something.
Not only was the kender gone, but so were his pouches, all his beloved possessions. And so was his cloak.
And then Caramon knew. Tas had taken the device.
But why? . . . Caramon felt for a moment as if lightning had struck him, the sudden understanding sizzling his way from his brain to his body with a shock that paralyzed him.
Tas had seen Raistlin—he had told Caramon about that. But what had Tas been doing there? Why had he gone to see Raistlin? Caramon suddenly realized that the kender had skillfully steered the conversation away from that point.
Caramon groaned. The curious kender had, of course, questioned him about the device, but Tas had always seemed satisfied with Caramon's answers. Certainly, he had never bothered it. Caramon checked, occasionally, to make sure it was still there—one did that as a matter of habit when living with a kender. But, if Tas had been curious enough about it, he would have taken it to Raistlin . . .. He did that often in the old days, when he found something magical.
Or maybe Raistlin tricked Tas into bringing it to him! Once he had the device, Raistlin could force them to go with him. Had he been plotting this all along? Had he tricked Tas and deceived Crysania? Caramon's mind stumbled about his head in confusion. Or maybe—
"Tas!" Caramon cried, suddenly latching onto firm, positive action. "I have to find Tas! I have to stop him!"
Feverishly, the big man grabbed up his soaking wet cloak. He was barreling out the door when a huge dark shadow blocked his path.
"Out of my way, Raag," Caramon growled, completely forgetting, in his anxiety, where he was.
Raag reminded him instantly, his giant hand closing over Caramon's huge shoulder. "Where go, slave?"
Caramon tried to shake off the ogre's grip, but Raag's hand simply tightened its grip. There was a crunching sound, and Caramon gasped in pain.
"Don't hurt him, Raag," came a voice from somewhere around Caramon's kneecaps. "He's got to fight tomorrow. What's more, he's got to win!"
Raag pushed Caramon back into the cell with as little effort as a grown man playfully tosses a child. The big warrior stumbled backward, falling heavily on the stone floor.
"You sure are busy today," Arack said conversationally, entering the cell and plopping down on the bed.
Sitting up, Caramon rubbed his bruised shoulder. He cast a quick glance at Raag, who was still standing, blocking the door. Arack continued.
"You've already been out once in this foul weather, and now you're heading out again?" The dwarf shook his head. "No, no. I can't allow it. You might catch cold . . ."
"Hey," Caramon said, grinning weakly and licking his dry lips. "I was just going to the mess hall to find Tas—” He cringed involuntarily as a bolt of lightning exploded outside. There was a cracking sound and a sudden odor of burning wood.
"Forget it. The kender left," Arack said, shrugging, "and it looked to me like he left for good—had his stuff all packed."
Caramon swallowed, clearing his throat. "Let me go find him then—” he began.
Arack's grin twisted suddenly into a vicious scowl. "I don't give a damn about the little bastard! I got my money's worth outta him, I figure, in what he stole for me already. But you— I've got quite an investment in you. Your little escape plan's failed, slave."
"Escape?" Caramon laughed hollowly. "I never—You don't understand—”
"So I don't understrand?" Arack snarled. "I don't understand that you've been trying to get two of my best fighters to leave? Trying to ruin me, are you?" The dwarf's voice rose to a shrill shriek above the howl of the wind outside. "Who put you up to this?" Arack’s expression became suddenly shrewd and cunning. "It wasn't your master, so don't lie. He's been to see me."
"Raist—er—Fist-Fistandantil—” Caramon stammered, his jaw dropping.
The dwarf smiled smugly. "Yeah. And Fistandantilus warned me you might try something like this. Said I should watch you carefully. He even suggested a fitting punishment for you. The final fight tomorrow will not be between your team and the minotaurs. It will be you against Kiiri and Pheragas and the Red Minotaur!" The dwarf leaned over, leering into Caramon's face. "And their weapons will be real!"
Caramon stared at Arack uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then, "Why?" he murmured bleakly. "Why does he want to kill me?"
"Kill you?" The dwarf cackled. "He doesn't want to kill you! He thinks you'll win! 'It's a test,' he says to me, 'I don't want a slave who isn't the best! And this will prove it. Caramon showed me what he could do against the Barbarian. That was his first test. Let's make this test harder on him,' he says. Oh, he's a rare one, your master!"
The dwarf chuckled, slapping his knees at the thought, and even Raag gave a grunt that might have been indicative of amusement.
"I won't fight," Caramon said, his face hardening into firm, grim lines. "Kill me! I won't fight my friends. And they won't fight me!"
"He said you'd say that!" The dwarf roared. "Didn't he, Raag! The very words. By gar, he knows you! You'd think you two was kin! 'So,' he says to me, 'if he refuses to fight, and he will, I have no doubt, then you tell him that his friends will fight in his stead, only they will fight the Red Minotaur and it will be the minotaur who has the real weapons.' "
Caramon remembered vividly the young man writhing in agony on the stone floor as the poison from the minotaur's trident coursed through his body.
"As for your friends fighting you"—the dwarf sneered— "Fistandantilus took care of that, too. After what he told them, I think they're gonna be real eager to get in the arena!"
Caramon's head sank to his chest. He began to shake. His body convulsed with chills, his stomach wrenched. The enormity of his brother's evil overwhelmed him, his mind filled with darkness and despair.
Raistlin has deceived us all, deceived Crysania, Tas, me! It was Raistlin who made me kill the Barbarian. He lied to me! And he's lied to Crysania, too. He's no more capable of loving her than the dark moon is capable of lighting the night skies. He's using her! And Tas? Tas! Caramon closed his eyes. He remembered Raistlin's look when he discovered the kender, his words—"kender can alter time . . .. is this how they plan to stop me?" Tas was a danger to him, a threat! He had no doubt, now, where Tas had gone . . ..
The wind outside howled and shrieked, but not as loudly as the pain and anguish in Caramon's soul. Sick and nauseous, wracked by icy spasms of needle-sharp pain, the big warrior completely lost any comprehension of what was going on around him. He didn't see Arack's gesture, nor feel Raag's huge hands grab hold of him. He didn't even feel the bindings on his wrists . . .