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  Bertrem, his bald head glistening with sweat, cautiously shoved open the door and peered inside. At the sight of Raistlin sitting in the chair, wearing gray robes, Bertrem’s eyes widened.

  “But those are … you are … those are …”

  Raistlin glared at him. “Say what you came to say and be gone.”

  “A … visitor …” Bertrem repeated faintly then hastened off, his sandals flapping on the stone floor.

  Flint thumped inside. The old dwarf stood glowering at Raistlin from beneath his shaggy, gray eyebrows. He crossed his arms over his chest beneath his long, flowing beard. He was wearing the studded leather armor the dwarf preferred over steel. The armor was new and was embossed with a rose, the symbol of the Solamnic Knights.

  Flint wore the same helm as always. He’d found the helm during one of their early adventures; Raistlin could not remember where. The helm was decorated with a tail made of horsehair. Flint always held that it was the mane of a griffon, and nothing would disabuse him of that notion, not even the fact that griffons did not have manes.

  Only a few months had passed since they had last seen each other, but Raistlin was shocked at the change in the dwarf. Flint had lost weight. His skin had a chalky tinge to it. His breathing was labored, and his face was marred by new lines of sorrow and loss, weariness and worry. The old dwarf’s eyes, glaring at Raistlin, flared with the same gruff spirit.

  Neither spoke. Flint harrumphed, clearing his throat, as he cast sharp, swift glances around the cell, taking in the spellbooks lying on the desk, the Staff of Magius standing in the corner, the empty cup that had held his tea. All Raistlin’s possessions, nothing of Caramon.

  Flint frowned and scratched his nose, glancing from beneath lowered brows at Raistlin and shifting uncomfortably.

  How much more uncomfortable he would be if he knew the truth, Raistlin thought. That I left Caramon and Tanis and the others to die. He wished Flint had not come.

  “The kender said he saw you,” Flint said, breaking the silence at last. “He said you were dying.”

  “As you see, I am very much alive,” Raistlin said.

  “Yes, well.” Flint stroked his beard. “You’re wearing gray robes. What is that supposed to mean?”

  “That I sent my red ones to be washed,” Raistlin said, adding caustically, “I am not so wealthy that I can afford an extensive wardrobe.” He made an impatient gesture. “Did you come here to stare at me and comment on my clothes, or did you have some purpose?”

  “I came because I was worried about you,” Flint said, frowning.

  Raistlin gave a sardonic smile. “You did not come because you were worried about me. You came because you are worried about Tanis and Caramon.”

  “Well, and I have a right to be, don’t I? What has become of them?” Flint demanded, his face flushing, bringing some color into his gray cheeks.

  Raistlin did not immediately respond. He could tell the truth. There was no reason he shouldn’t. After all, he didn’t give a damn what Flint thought of him, what any of them thought of him. He could tell the truth, that he had left them to die in the Maelstrom. But Flint would be outraged. He might even attack Raistlin in his fury. The old dwarf was no threat, but Raistlin would be forced to defend himself. Flint could get hurt, and there would be a scene. The Aesthetics would be in an uproar. They would throw him out, and he was not ready to leave.

  “Laurana and Tas and I know you and the others escaped Tarsis,” Flint said. “We shared the dream.” He looked extremely uncomfortable at admitting that.

  Raistlin was intrigued. “The dream in the nightmare land of Silvanesti? King Lorac’s dream? Did you? How very interesting.” He thought back, considering how that might be possible. “I knew that the rest of us shared it, but that was because we were in the dream. I wonder how the rest of you came to experience it?”

  “Gilthanas said it was the starjewel, the one Alhana gave Sturm in Tarsis.”

  “Alhana said something about that. Yes, it could be a starjewel. They are powerful magical artifacts. Does Sturm still have it?”

  “It was buried with him,” said Flint gruffly. “Sturm’s dead. He was killed at the Battle of the High Clerist’s Tower.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Raistlin said, and he was surprised to realize he truly was.

  “Sturm died a hero,” said Flint. “He fought a blue dragon alone.”

  “Then he died a fool,” Raistlin remarked.

  Flint’s face flushed. “What about Caramon? Why isn’t he here? He would never leave you! He’d die first!”

  “He may be dead now,” said Raistlin. “Perhaps they all are. I do not know.”

  “Did you kill him?” Flint asked, his flush deepening. Yes, I killed him, Raistlin thought. He was engulfed in flames …

  Instead he said, “The door is behind you. Please shut it on your way out.”

  Flint tried to speak, but he could only sputter with rage. Finally he managed to blurt out, “I don’t know why I came! I said ‘good riddance’ when I heard you were dying. And I say ‘good riddance’ now!”

  He turned on his heel and stomped angrily across the floor. He had reached the door and flung it open and was about to walk out when Raistlin spoke.

  “You’re having problems with your heart,” Raistlin said, talking to Flint’s back. “You are not well. You are experiencing pain, dizziness, shortness of breath. You tire easily. Am I right?”

  Flint stopped where he stood in the doorway to the small cell, his hand on the handle.

  “If you do not take it easy,” Raistlin continued, “your heart will burst.”

  Flint glanced around, over his shoulder. “How long do I have?” “Death could come at any moment,” Raistlin said. “You must rest—”

  “Rest! There’s a war on!” Flint said loudly. Then he coughed and wheezed and pressed his hand to chest. Seeing Raistlin watching him, he muttered, “We can’t all die heroes,” and stumped off, forgetting, as he left, to shut the door.

  Raistlin, sighing, rose to his feet and shut it for him.

  Caramon screamed, tried to beat out the flames, but there was no escaping the magic. His body withered, dwindled in the fire, became the body of a wizened, old man—an old man wearing black robes, whose hair and beard were trailing wisps of fire.

  Fistandantilus, his hand outstretched, walked toward me.

  “If your armor is dross,” said the old man softly, “I will find the crack.”

  I could not move, could not defend myself. The magic had sapped the last of my strength.

  Fistandantilus stood before me. The old man’s black robes were tattered shreds of night; his flesh was rotting and decayed; the bones were visible through the skin. His nails were long and pointed, as long as those of a corpse; his eyes gleamed with the radiant heat that had been in my soul, the warmth that had brought the dead to life. A bloodstone hung from a pendant around the fleshless neck.

  The old man’s hand touched my breast, caressed my flesh, teasing and tormenting. Fistandantilus plunged his hand into my chest and seized hold of my heart.

  As the dying soldier clasps his hands around the haft of the spear that has torn through his body, I seized hold of the old man’s wrist, clamped my fingers in a grip that death would not have relaxed.

  Caught, trapped, Fistandantilus fought to break my grip, but he could not free himself and retain his hold on my heart.

  The white light of Solinari; the red light of Lunitari; and the black, empty light of Nuitari—light that I could see—merged in my fainting vision, stared down at me, an unwinking eye.

  “You may take my life,” I said, keeping fast hold of the old man’s wrist, as Fistandantilus kept hold of my heart. “But you will serve me in return.”

  The eye winked and blinked out.

  Raistlin removed a soft leather pouch from the belt he wore around his waist. He reached his hand into the pouch and drew out what appeared to be a small ball made of colored glass, very like a child’s marble. He
rolled the glass ball around in the palm of his hand, watching the colors writhe and swirl inside.

  “You grow to be a nuisance, old man,” Raistlin said softly, and he didn’t give a damn if Fistandantilus heard him or not.

  He had a plan and there was nothing the undead wizard could do to stop him.

  4

  The Cursed Tower. The Dragon Orb. Silence.

  4th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  he new black robes were still slightly damp around the seams and they smelled faintly of almond. The scent came from the indigo, the dyer told him. Raistlin was also convinced he could detect the odor of urine, which was used to set the dye, despite the dyer’s assurance that the robes had been rinsed a great many times and that the smell was all in his imagination. The dyer offered to keep the robes and rinse them again, but Raistlin could not afford to take the time.

  His biggest fear was that the Dark Queen would win her war before he had a chance to join her, impress her with his skill, and acquire her help in furthering his career. He pictured in his mind becoming a leader among the Black Robes of the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka, her capital city. He pictured the Tower itself; it must be magnificent. He supposed the wizard Ladonna lived there, if she were still head of the Order of Black. He grimaced at the thought of having to abase himself before the old crone, treat her as his superior. He’d have to explain why he had taken the black robes without seeking her permission.

  Ah, well. His servitude would not last long. With the support of the Dark Queen, Raistlin would be able to rise above them all. He would have no more need of them. His ambitious dreams would be fulfilled.

  “Your dreams?” Fistandantilus snarled, his voice pounding like blood in Raistlin’s ears. “Your dreams are my dreams! I spent a lifetime—many lifetimes—working toward my goal, becoming the Master of Past and Present. No sniveling, hacking upstart will steal it!”

  Raistlin kept his own thoughts in check, refusing to be drawn into battle before he was ready. He walked rapidly, unerringly through the night toward his destination, toward his destiny. The Staff of Magius lit his way, the orb held in the dragon’s claw shining softly, illuminating the dark streets that, in this part of the city, were very dark and very empty. No lights shone in the windows, most of which were broken. No laughter rang from within the tumble-down buildings. The streets were deserted. No one, not even the fearless kender, dared venture into the shadow of the Tower of High Sorcery—not by day and especially not by night.

  The Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas had once been the most beautiful of all the Towers of High Sorcery. Named the Lorespire, the Tower was to be dedicated to the search of wisdom and knowledge. The Tower graced Palanthas, its wizards assisting the knights to fight Queen Takhisis in the Third Dragon War. The wizards of all three orders came together to create the fabled dragon orbs and used them to lure the evil dragons into a trap. Takhisis was driven into the Abyss and the white Tower of the wizards and the High Clerist’s Tower of the Knights were both proud guardians of Solamnia.

  Then came the rise of the Kingpriests, who dictated that sorcery was evil. The Knights were strong supporters of the Kingpriests, and they came to view the wizards with distrust and finally demanded that the wizards abandon the Tower. Two Towers of High Sorcery had already been attacked, and the wizards had destroyed them, with devastating results to the populaces of those cities. The wizards of Palanthas decided to surrender their Tower. The Lord of Palanthas had intended to take over the Tower for his own use, as the Kingpriest had taken over the Tower of Istar, but before the lord could turn the key in the lock, a black robe wizard named Andras Rannoch cast a curse upon it.

  The crowd who had gathered to rejoice in the eviction of the wizards watched in horror as Rannoch cried out, “The gates will remain closed and the halls empty until the day comes when the Master of Past and Present returns with power.” Then he had leaped from the Tower and was impaled upon the barbs of the fence. As his blood flowed over the iron, he spoke a curse with his dying breath.

  The beautiful tower was transformed into a thing of evil, horrible to look upon. Almost four hundred years had passed, and no one had dared come too near it. Many had tried, but few could summon up the courage to come within sight of the dread Shoikan Grove, a forest of oak trees that stood guard around the Tower. No one knew what went on in the grove. No one who entered the grove ever returned to tell.

  Raistlin was here in this part of Palanthas because he had magic to perform, and it was vital that he be left alone. Any interruption—such as Bertrem knocking on his door—might well be fatal.

  The Tower’s twisted remains came into view, blotting out the stars, blotting out the light of the two moons, Solinari and Lunitari. Nuitari, the dark moon, was still visible, though only to the eyes of those who had been initiated into the dark god’s secrets. Raistlin kept his eyes upon the dark moon and drew courage from it.

  He pressed steadily on, even though he could feel the terror that flowed in a bone-chilling river from the Tower. Fear lapped at his feet. He shivered and drew his robes closer around him and went on. Fear grew deeper. He began to sweat. His hands trembled, his breath came fast, and he was afraid he would have a coughing fit. He gripped the Staff of Magius tightly, and though the shadow of the Tower snuffed out every other light in the world, the staff’s light did not fail him.

  The river of terror grew so deep that he could barely find the courage to put one foot in front of the other. Death awaited him. The next step would be his doom. Still he took that next step. Gritting his teeth, he took another.

  “Turn back!” Fistandantilus urged him, his voice hammering inside Raistlin’s brain. “You are mad to think of trying to destroy me. You need me.”

  You need me, Raist! Caramon’s voice said, pleading. I can protect you.

  “Shut up!” Raistlin said. “Both of you.”

  He came within sight of the Shoikan Grove, and he shuddered and closed his eyes. He could not go on, not without risking dying of the terror. He was far from the populated part of the city. It would do. He searched around for a suitable place to cast his spell. Nearby was an empty building with three gables and leaded pane windows. According to the sign that dangled at a crazy angle from a hook, the building had once been a tavern known as the Wizard’s Hat, a name suitable for a tavern located near the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas.

  The painted sign was extremely faded, but by the light of the staff, Raistlin could see a laughing wizard quaffing ale from a pointed hat. Raistlin was reminded of the senile old wizard, Fizban, who had worn (and continually mislaid) a hat that looked very much like the one portrayed on the sign.

  The memory of Fizban made Raistlin uncomfortable, and he quickly banished it. He walked over to the door and shoved on it. The door creaked on rusty hinges and swung slowly open. Raistlin was about to enter when he had the feeling he was being watched. He told himself that was nonsense; no one in his right mind came to this part of the city. Just to reassure himself, he cast a glance around the street. He saw no one, and he was about to enter the tavern when he happened to look up at the sign. The painted eyes of the wizard were fixed on him. As he stared, one eye winked.

  Raistlin shivered. The thought came to him that if he failed, he would die there and no one would ever know what had happened to him. His body would not be found. He would die and be forgotten, a pebble washed away in the River of Time.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Raistlin chided himself. He stared hard at the sign. “It was a trick of the light.”

  He walked swiftly into the abandoned tavern and shut the door behind himself. All that time, Fistandantilus was berating him.

  “I cast the Curse of Rannoch! I am the Master of Past and Present. You are nothing, a nobody. Without me, you would have failed your Test in the Tower.”

  “Without me,” Raistlin returned, “you would be lost and adrift in the vastness of the universe, a voice without a mouth, a scream no one can hear.”

&nbs
p; “You have used my knowledge,” Fistandantilus said. “I have fed you my power!”

  “I spoke the words that mastered the dragon orb,” said Raistlin.

  “I tell you the words to speak!” Fistandantilus retorted.

  “You do,” Raistlin agreed, “and all the while you mean to destroy me. You will wait until my life-force gives you strength, and then you will use it to kill me. You plan to become me. I won’t let that happen.”

  Fistandantilus laughed. “My hand holds your heart! We are bound together. If you kill me, you will die.”

  “I am not convinced of that. Still, I will not take a chance,” said Raistlin. “I do not intend to kill you.”

  He sat down upon a dust-covered bench. The tavern’s interior was much as it had been centuries before, when the tavern had been a popular place for the wizards and their pupils to congregate. There was no bar, but there were tables surrounded by comfortable chairs. Raistlin would have expected the room to be filled with cobwebs and overrun by rats, but apparently even spiders and rodents were loath to live within the shadow of the Tower, for the dust lay thick and smooth and undisturbed. A mural on the wall portrayed the three gods of magic toasting each with mugs of foaming ale.

  Raistlin looked around the empty tables and chairs, and he imagined wizards sitting there, laughing, telling tales, discussing their work. Raistlin saw himself seated there, discoursing, studying, arguing with his fellows. He would have been accepted for what he was, not reviled. He would have been loved, admired, respected.

  Instead he was alone in the darkness with the specter of evil.

  Raistlin leaned the Staff of Magius against the table, propping it with a chair so it would shed its pure, white light on the table. A cloud of dust rose as he sat down, and he sneezed and coughed. When the coughing fit ended, he took the orb from its pouch and placed it on the table.

  Fistandantilus had gone quiet. Raistlin could no longer mask his thoughts from the old man, for he had to concentrate his entire being on taking control of the dragon orb. Fistandantilus saw the danger he was in, and he was trying to find a way to save himself.