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  “Are you well?” Par-Salian asked with concern.

  “I have not slept in many nights,” Justarius replied. “And I traveled the corridors of magic to come here. Such a journey is always wearing.”

  “Did the Lord of Palanthas ask for your help in defending the city?” Par-Salian was astonished.

  “No, of course not,” said Justarius with some bitterness. “I was prepared to do my part, however. I have my home, my family to protect, as well as my city, which I love.”

  He lifted his goblet again, but he did not drink. He stared morosely into the dark, plum-colored wine.

  “Come, out with it,” said Par-Salian grimly. “I hope your bad news does not offset the good.”

  Justarius gave a heavy sigh. “You and I have often wondered why the good dragons refused to heed our pleas for help. Why they did not enter the war when Takhisis sent her evil dragons to burn cities and slaughter innocents. Now I know the answer. And it is a terrible one.”

  He was silent again. Par-Salian took a drink of his wine, as though to brace himself.

  “A silver dragon who calls herself Silvara made the horrible discovery,” Justarius said. “It seems that years ago, sometime around 287 AC, Takhisis ordered the evil dragons to secretly creep into the lairs of the good dragons as they slept the Long Sleep and steal their eggs.

  “Once their young were in her possession, Takhisis awakened the good dragons to tell them that she intended to launch a war upon the world. If the good dragons intervened, Takhisis threatened to destroy their eggs. Afraid for their young, the good dragons took an oath, promising that they would not fight her.”

  “And that oath is now broken,” said Par-Salian.

  “The good dragons discovered that Takhisis had broken her oath first,” Justarius replied. “The wise have speculated as to the origin of the so-called lizardmen, the draconians …”

  Par-Salian stared at his friend in horror. “You don’t mean to tell me …” He clenched his fist. “That is not possible!”

  “It is, I am afraid. Silvara and a friend, an elf warrior named Gilthanas, discovered the terrible truth. Through the use of dark and unholy magic, the eggs of the metallic dragons were perverted, changed from dragons into the creatures we know as draconians. Silvara and Gilthanas attest to this. They witnessed the ceremony. They barely escaped with their lives.”

  Par-Salian was stricken. “A terrible loss. A tragic loss. Beauty and wisdom and nobility transformed into hideous monstrosities.”

  He fell silent. Both men knew the question that must be asked next. Both knew the answer. Neither wanted to speak it aloud. Par-Salian was Master of the Conclave, however. The discovery of the truth, however unpleasant, was his responsibility.

  “I notice you said that the eggs were perverted through the use of unholy magic and dark magic. Are you saying that one of our order performed this monstrous act?”

  “I am afraid so,” Justarius said quietly. “A Black Robe named Dracart in conjunction with a cleric of Takhisis and a red dragon devised the spells. You must take swift action, Par-Salian. That is why I came here in all haste tonight. You must dissolve the Conclave, denounce the Black Robes, cast them out of the Tower, and forbid them from ever coming here again.”

  Par-Salian said nothing. His right fist unclenched, clenched again. He stared into the fire.

  “We are already suspect in the eyes of the world,” Justarius said. “If people find out that a wizard was complicit in this heinous act, they would rise against us! This could well destroy us.”

  Still, Par-Salian was silent.

  “Sir,” said Justarius, his voice hardening, “the god Nuitari was involved in this. He had to be. He sided with his mother, Takhisis, years ago, which means that as head of the Black Robes, Ladonna must be involved, as well.”

  “You don’t know that for certain,” said Par-Salian sternly. “You have no proof.”

  He and Ladonna had been lovers, back in the past, back in their youth, back in the days when passion overthrows reason. Justarius was aware of their history and he was careful not mention it, but Par-Salian knew his friend was thinking it.

  “None of us have seen Ladonna or her followers for over a year,” Justarius continued. “Our gods, Solinari and Lunitari, have made no secret of the fact that they were dismayed and angered when Nuitari broke with them to serve his mother. We must face facts, sir. The Three Cousins are estranged. Our sacred brotherhood of wizards, the ties that bind us—white, black, and red—are severed. Already, Ladonna and her Black Robes may be poised to launch an assault against the Tower—”

  “No!” Par-Salian said, slamming his fist on the arm of the chair, spilling the wine.

  Par-Salian, with his long, white beard and quiet demeanor, was sometimes taken for a weak and benign old man, even by those who knew him best. The head of the Conclave had not attained his high position through lack of fire in his blood and belly, however. The heat of that fire could be astonishing.

  “I will not dissolve the Conclave! I do not for one moment believe that Ladonna was involved in this crime. Nor do I blame Nuitari—”

  Justarius frowned. “A Black Robe, Dracart, was seen in the act.” “What of it?” Par-Salian glowered at his friend. “He may have been a renegade—”

  “He was,” said a voice.

  Justarius twisted around in his chair. When he saw who had spoken, he cast an accusing glance at Par-Salian.

  “I did not know you had company,” Justarius said coldly.

  “I did not know myself,” said Par-Salian. “You should have made yourself known, Ladonna. It is rude to eavesdrop, especially on friends.”

  “I had to make certain you still were my friends,” she said.

  A human woman in her middle-years, Ladonna scorned to try to conceal her age, as did some, using the artifices of nature and magic to bring plump youth to wrinkled cheeks. She wore her long, thick, gray hair as proudly as a queen wears a crown, coifing her hair in elaborate styles. Her black robes were generally made of the finest velvet, soft and sumptuous, and decorated with runes stitched in gold and silver thread.

  But when she emerged from the shadowed corner where she had been secretly watching, the two men were shocked by the change in her appearance. Ladonna was haggard, pale, and seemed to have aged years. Her long, gray hair straggled out from two hastily plaited braids that hung down her back. Her elegant, black robes were dirty and bedraggled, tattered and frayed. She looked exhausted, almost to the point of collapsing.

  Par-Salian hurriedly brought forth a chair and poured her a goblet of wine. She drank it gratefully. Her dark eyes went to Justarius.

  “You are very quick to judge me, sir,” she said acidly.

  “The last time I saw you, madam,” he returned in kind, “you were loudly proclaiming devotion to Queen Takhisis. Are we to believe you did not commit this crime?”

  Ladonna took a sip of wine, then said quietly, “If being a fool is a crime, then I am guilty as charged.”

  She raised her eyes, casting both men a flashing glance. “But I swear to you that I had nothing to do with the corruption of the dragon eggs! I did not know of this despicable act until only a short time ago. And when I found out, I did what I could to make amends. You can ask Silvara and Gilthanas. They would not be alive now if it were not for my help and the help of Nuitari.”

  Justarius remained very grim. Par-Salian regarded her with grave solemnity.

  Ladonna rose to her feet and raised her hand to heaven. “I call upon Solinari, God of the Silver Moon. I call upon Lunitari, Goddess of the Red Moon. I call upon Nuitari, God of the Dark Moon. Witness my oath. I swear by the magic we hold sacred, I am speaking the truth. Withdraw your blessings from me, all the gods, if I am lying. Let the words of magic slip from my mind! Let my spell components turn to dust. Let my scrolls burn. Let my hand be stricken from my wrist.”

  She waited a moment then resumed her seat. “It is cold in here,” she said, staring hard at Justarius. “Should
I build up the fire?”

  She pointed her hand at the fireplace, where the fire was dying, and spoke a word of magic. Flames danced on the iron grate. The fire grew so hot, the three had to draw back their chairs. Ladonna lifted her goblet and took a gulp.

  “Nuitari has broken with Takhisis?” Par-Salian asked in astonishment.

  “He was seduced by sweet words and lavish promises. As was I,” Ladonna said bitterly. “The Queen’s sweet words were lies. Her promises false.”

  “What did you expect?” Justarius asked with a sneer. “The Dark Queen has thwarted your ambition and hurt your pride. So now you come crawling back to us. I suppose you are in danger. You know the Queen’s secrets. Has she set the hounds upon you? Is that why you’ve come to Wayreth? To hide behind our robes?”

  “I did discover her secrets,” Ladonna said softly. She sat for long moments, staring at her hands; her fingers were long and supple still, though the skin was reddened and drawn tightly over the fine bones. “And yes, I am in danger. We are all in danger. That is why I have come back. Risked my life to come back to warn you.”

  Par-Salian exchanged alarmed glances with Justarius. Both men had known Ladonna for many years. They had seen her in the magnificence of her power. They had seen her raging in anger. One of them had seen her soft and tender with love. Ladonna was a fighter. She had battled her way to the top of the ranks of the Black Robes by defeating and sometimes slaying in magical combat those who challenged her. She was courageous, a formidable foe. Neither man had ever seen the strong and powerful woman show weakness. Neither had ever seen her as they saw her at that moment: shaken … afraid.

  “There is a building in Neraka called the Red Mansion. Ariakas sometimes lives there when he returns to Neraka. In this mansion is a shrine to Takhisis. The shrine is not as grand as the one in her temple; it is far more secret and private, open only to Ariakas and his favorites, such as Kitiara and my former pupil, and his mistress, the wizardess Iolanthe.

  “To make a long story short, several of my colleagues were most horribly murdered. I feared I was next. I went to the shrine to talk to Queen Takhisis directly—”

  Justarius muttered something.

  “I know,” said Ladonna. Her hand shook, spilling the wine. “I know. But I was alone, and I was desperate.”

  Par-Salian reached over and laid his hand on her hand. She smiled tremulously and clasped her fingers over his. He was startled and shocked to see tears glimmer in her eyes. He had never before seen her cry.

  “I was about to enter the shrine when I realized that someone was already there. It was Highlord Kitiara, talking to Ariakas. I used my magic to make myself invisible and listened to their conversation. You have heard of the Dark Queen’s search for a man called Berem? He is known as the Everman or the Green Gemstone man.”

  “The dragonarmies are all taxed with finding this man. We have been trying to discover why,” said Par-Salian. “What makes him so important to Takhisis?”

  “I can tell you,” said Ladonna. “If Takhisis finds Berem, she will be victorious. She will enter the world in all her might and power. No one, not even the gods, will be able to withstand her.”

  She related the Everman’s tragic story to her audience. The two men listened in astonishment and grief to the tale of Jasla and Berem, a tale of murder and forgiveness, hope and redemption. †

  Par-Salian and Justarius were silent, each turning over what he heard in his mind. Ladonna slumped in her chair and closed her eyes. Par-Salian offered to pour her another glass of wine.

  “Thank you, my dear friend, but if I drink any more, I will fall asleep where I sit. Well, what do you think?”

  “I think we must act,” said Par-Salian.

  “I would like to do some investigating on my own,” said Justarius crisply. “Madam Ladonna will forgive me when I say that I do not entirely trust her.”

  “Investigate all you like,” said Ladonna. “You will find that I have spoken the truth. I am too exhausted to lie. And now if you will excuse me—”

  As she rose, she staggered with weariness and had to put her hand on the arm of the chair to steady herself. “I cannot travel this night. If I could have a blanket in the corner of some novice’s cell—”

  “Nonsense,” said Par-Salian. “You will sleep in your chamber, as usual. Everything is as it was when you left. Nothing was moved or altered. You will even find a fire in the grate.”

  Ladonna lowered her proud head, then extended her hand to Par-Salian. “My old friend, thank you. I made a mistake. I admit it freely. If it is any consolation, I have paid dearly for it.”

  Justarius rose with some difficulty, leveraging himself up out of the chair. Sitting for any length of time caused his crippled leg to stiffen.

  “Will you also spend the night with us, my friend?” Par-Salian asked.

  Justarius shook his head. “I am needed back in Palanthas. I bring more news. If you could wait one moment, madam, this will be of interest to you. On the twenty-sixth day of Rannmont, Raistlin Majere was found, half dead, on the steps of the Great Library. One of my pupils happened to be passing and witnessed the incident. My pupil did not know who the man was, only that he was a wizard who wore the red robes of my order.

  “That said, I do not think Raistlin will be of my order much longer,” Justarius added. “Today one of the local cloth dyers brought me word that a young man came to his establishment with a request to dye red robes black. It seems your ‘sword’ has a flaw in it, my friend.”

  Par-Salian looked deeply troubled. “You are certain it was Raistlin Majere?”

  “The young man gave a false name, but there cannot be many men in this world with golden-tinged skin and eyes with pupils like hourglasses. But to make sure, I spoke to Astinus. He assures me the young man is Raistlin. He is taking the Black Robes, and he is doing so without bothering to consult the Conclave, as is required.”

  “He’s turning renegade.” Ladonna shrugged. “You have lost him, Par-Salian. It seems I am not the only one to make mistakes.”

  “I never like to say I told you so,” said Justarius grimly. “But I told you so.”

  Ladonna left for her chambers. Justarius returned to Palanthas via the corridors of magic. Par-Salian was alone again.

  He resumed his seat in his chair by the dying fire, pondering all he had heard. He tried to concentrate on the dire news Ladonna had brought, but he found his thoughts straying to Raistlin Majere.

  “Perhaps I did make a mistake when I chose him to be my sword to fight evil,” Par-Salian mused. “But given what I have heard this night and what I know of Raistlin Majere, perhaps I did not.”

  Par-Salian drank the last of the elven wine; then tossing the lees onto the glowing embers, dousing them, he went to his bed.

  † The story of Berem and Jasla can be found at the beginning of this book in the Prologue.

  3

  Memories. An Old Friend.

  3rd Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  t wasn’t the physical pain that clouded my mind. It was the old inner pain clawing at me, tearing at me with poisoned talons. Caramon, strong and cheerful, good and kind, open and honest. Caramon, everyone’s friend.

  Not like Raistlin—the runt, the Sly One.

  “All I ever had was my magic,” I said, speaking clearly, thinking clearly for the first time in my life. “And now you have that too.”

  Using the wall for support, I raised both my hands, put my thumbs together. I began speaking the words, the words that would summon the magic.

  “Raist!” Caramon started to back away. “Raist, what are you doing? C’mon! You need me! I’ll take care of you—just like always. Raist! I’m your brother!”

  “I have no brother.”

  Beneath the layer of cold, hard rock, jealousy bubbled and seethed. Tremors split the rock. Jealousy, red and molten, coursed through my body and flared out of my hands. The fire flared, billowed, and engulfed Caramon—

  A knocking on the d
oor brought Raistlin back, abruptly, to reality.

  He stirred in his chair and let go of the memory slowly and reluctantly, not because he enjoyed reliving that moment in time—far from it. The memory of his Test in the Tower of High Sorcery was horrible, for it brought back the bitter pangs of jealous fury, the sight of Caramon being burned to death, the sound of his twin’s screams, the stench of charred flesh.

  Then, after that, having to face Caramon, who had been witness to his own death at his brother’s hands. To see the pain in his eyes, far worse in some ways than the pain of dying. For it had all been illusion, a part of the Test, to teach Raistlin to know himself. He would not have brought it all back to mind, would have kept the memory locked away, but he was trying to learn something from it, so he had to endure it.

  The time was early morning, and he was in the small cell that he’d been given in the Great Library. The monks had carried him to the cell when they had thought he was dying. In the cell he had at last dared to look into the darkness of his own soul and dared meet the eyes that stared back at him. He had remembered the Test, remembered the bargain he’d made with Fistandilus in order to pass it.

  “I said I was not to be bothered,” Raistlin called out, annoyed.

  “Bothered! I’ll bother him,” a deep voice grumbled. “I’ll give him a good smack up the side of his head!”

  “You have a visitor, Master Majere,” called out Bertrem in apologetic tones. “He says he is an old friend of yours. He is concerned about your health.”

  “Of course he is,” Raistlin said sourly.

  He’d been expecting the visit. Ever since he’d watched Flint start to cross the street to the library, only to change his mind. Flint would have spent the night brooding, but he would finally come. Not with Tas. He would come alone.

  Tell him to go away. Tell him you are busy. You have a great deal of work to do to prepare for your journey to Neraka. But even as Raistlin was thinking these things, he was removing the magical spell that kept the door locked.

  “He may enter,” Raistlin said.