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  “Yes, madam,” said the sivak with a grin and a gallant flick of his wings.

  Iolanthe found the Temple of Takhisis to be an unnerving place even during the daylight hours. Not that much daylight ever managed to beat its way inside, but at least the knowledge that the sun was shining somewhere made her feel better. Iolanthe had sometimes been forced to walk the halls of the temple after dark, and she had not liked it. The dark pilgrims, those clerics who were dedicated to the worship of the Dark Queen, performed their unhallowed rites in the hours of darkness. Iolanthe’s own hands were far from clean, but at least she washed the blood of victims from her fingers; she did not drink it.

  Iolanthe had another reason for wanting an armed escort. The Nightlord hated her, and he would have rejoiced to see her buried in sand up to her neck with buzzards pecking out her eyes and ants devouring her flesh. She was safe, at least for the moment. Ariakas held his strong hand over her.

  At least for the moment.

  Iolanthe knew quite well that he would eventually tire of her. Then his strong hand would either be clenched to a fist or, worse, wave dismissively. She did not think the time had yet come for him to want to get rid of her. Even if he did, Ariakas would not hand her over to the dark clerics. He disliked and distrusted the Nightlord as much as the Nightlord disliked and distrusted him. Ariakas was the type to simply strangle her.

  “What brings you to the temple at this hour, madam?” Slith asked. “Not here for the Dark Watch service, are you?”

  “Gods, no!” said Iolanthe with a shiver. “The Nightlord sent someone to fetch me.”

  She was wakened in the middle of the night by one of the dark pilgrims shouting outside the window of her dwelling, which was located above a mageware shop. The cleric would not risk contaminating himself by actually knocking on a wizard’s door, and so he yelled from the street, waking the neighbors, who opened their windows, prepared to fling the contents of their chamber pots on whoever was making that ungodly racket. Seeing the black robes of a cleric of Takhisis and hearing him invoke the name of the Nightlord, the neighbors slammed shut their windows and probably went to hide under their beds.

  The dark pilgrim did not wait to escort her. His task done, he hastened off before Iolanthe could dress and find out what was going on. She had never before been summoned to the Temple of Takhisis by the Nightlord, and she didn’t like it. She had been forced to traverse the dangerous streets of Neraka after dark by herself. She had conjured a ball of bright, glowing light and held it, crackling, in the palm of her hand. It was not a difficult spell, but it was showy and would mark her as a user of magic. The outlaws who roamed the streets would know immediately that she was not an easy mark, and they would steer clear of her.

  The streets had been sparsely populated; most of the troops were off fighting the Dark Queen’s war. Unfortunately those soldiers who remained in Neraka were in a surly mood. Rumor had it that Takhisis’s war, which had been as good as won, was not going so well after all.

  A group of five human soldiers wearing the insignia of the Red Army had eyed her as she walked past the alley in which they were sharing a jug of dwarven spirits. They had called to her to come join them. When she had haughtily ignored them, two of the soldiers were inclined to take their chances and accost her. One, less drunk than the others, had recognized her as Ariakas’s Witch, and after some heated discussion, they had let her alone.

  The very fact that they had insulted Ariakas’s mistress boded ill. In the early, glory days of the war, those soldiers would have never dared speak of Ariakas by name, much less make crude remarks about his prowess or offer to show her “what a real man” was like in bed. Iolanthe had not been in any danger from them. The soldiers would have been five greasy piles of ash in the street if they had attacked her. But she found it instructive to note the volatile mood of the troops. Dragon Highlord Kitiara would be interested to hear what she had to report. Iolanthe wondered if Kit had returned yet from Flotsam.

  As Iolanthe and her draconian escort proceeded to enter the temple, Iolanthe told Commander Slith she had no idea where the Nightlord was to be found. The sivak said he would ask. Iolanthe liked the sivak. Oddly enough, she liked the draconian soldiers, whom most humans reviled as “lizardmen,” due to the fact that they had been created from the eggs of the good dragons. The draconians were far more disciplined than their human counterparts. They were far more intelligent than goblins and ogres and hobgoblins. They were excellent fighters. Some of them were skilled magic-users and would have made good commanders, but most humans looked down on them and refused to serve under them.

  Slith was a sivak draconian. Born from the murdered young of a silver dragon, Slith had scales that were shining silver with black tips. He had silver-gray wings, which would carry him short distances, and he was a talented magic-user. He offered to remove the magical traps that Iolanthe herself had laid upon the hall; traps that emulated the various breath weapons of each of the five dragons to which each gate was dedicated. The trap she had placed on the Red Gate filled the hall with blazing fire that would immediately incinerate any being caught trespassing.

  Iolanthe accepted. She could have removed the magic herself, but dispersing the spell required effort, and she wanted to reserve her strength to deal with whatever lay behind the mysterious summons.

  Accompanied by the draconian, Iolanthe swept through the halls of the Dark Queen’s temple, her black cloak trimmed with black bear fur sweeping majestically behind her. She was wearing sumptuous, black velvet robes—a gift for passing her Test in the Tower from her mentor and teacher, Ladonna. The robes looked plain, but if one looked closely in certain lights (and knew what to look for), one could see runes traced in the fabric’s nap. The runes overlapped like chain mail with much the same effect; they would protect her from harm, either spell-based or an assassin’s dagger. The clerics of Takhisis were forbidden to use bladed weapons, but they were not forbidden from hiring those who could.

  A dark pilgrim told the sivak that the Nightlord was in the Court of the Inquisitor, located in the dungeon level of the temple. Iolanthe had been in the dungeons, and they were not high on her list of places in Krynn to visit. The temple itself was horrid enough.

  Built partially on the physical plane and partly within the Dark Queen’s realm of the Abyss, the temple was here and not there, there but not here. Unreality was real. Existence was nonexistent. One hesitated to sit in a chair for fear it wasn’t a chair or that it would move to the other side of the room or simply vanish. Halls that appeared to be short went on forever. Long corridors ended way too soon. Rooms seemed to move so nothing was where it had been previously.

  Ariakas maintained chambers there, as did all the Dragon Highlords. None of them liked residing in the temple and rarely set foot in their apartments. Ariakas had once said he always heard Takhisis’s voice, hissing in his ear, Don’t grow too comfortable. You may be powerful, but don’t ever forget that I am your Queen.

  It was no surprise that the Highlords preferred to sleep in the crude tents of their military camps or in a small room in the city’s inns, rather than the luxurious bedrooms in the Dark Queen’s temple. Ariakas had actually acquired his own mansion, the Red Mansion, in order to avoid having to entertain high-ranking guests in the temple.

  Iolanthe wondered, not for the first time, how the clerics of Takhisis who resided there did not succumb to madness. Perhaps it was because they were all lunatics to begin with.

  She was glad she had brought Commander Slith along, for she soon became hopelessly lost. The temple was busy at night. Iolanthe tried to shut her ears to the horrible sounds. The commander, being new to the temple himself, had to ask a dark pilgrim to escort them to the dungeon level. The pilgrim inclined her head. She did not speak and was silent and sepulchral as a wraith.

  “I have been summoned by the Nightlord,” Iolanthe explained.

  The dark pilgrim looked Iolanthe up and down. The pilgrim pursed her lips in disapproval but at
last decided to deign to escort her.

  “I heard there was trouble,” the woman said grimly.

  She was tall and gaunt. All the dark pilgrims seemed to be either tall and gaunt or short and gaunt. Perhaps serving in the temple took away one’s appetite. Iolanthe knew it certainly did hers.

  “What kind of trouble?” Iolanthe asked, startled. If there was trouble in the temple, why should the Nightlord summon her? Judging from the agonized screams of the tortured, he was quite capable of dealing with trouble on his own. “Why should it involve me?”

  The pilgrim appeared to feel that she had said too much already. She clamped her lips shut.

  “Creepy bastards, these pilgrims. Make my scales crawl,” said Slith.

  “You should keep your voice down, Commander,” Iolanthe said quietly. “The walls have ears.”

  “The walls have feet too. Have you noticed the spooky way they jump around?” said Slith. “I’ll be glad to get out of this place.”

  Iolanthe heartily agreed.

  The pilgrim led them to the Court of the Inquisitor. The pilgrim would not permit Slith to enter. He offered to wait outside for Iolanthe, but the pilgrim shook her head at even that, and he was forced to depart.

  Iolanthe hated this place. She hated the dreadful sounds and awful sights and noxious smells that always filled her with a nameless terror. The dark pilgrim eyed her with a smug expression, hoping and expecting to see her give way to her fear. Iolanthe gathered up the skirt of her robes and swept past the woman and entered the Court of the Inquisitor.

  The room was large and dark save for a shaft of harsh light that beamed down from some unknown source, forming a pool of light in the center. At the far end, the Nightlord sat on a raised, judicial-looking bench. The executioner, known as the Adjudicator, stood off to one side. Responsible for inflicting torture and performing executions, the Adjudicator was short and stocky and powerfully built. He had no neck to speak of and bulging arm muscles, which he was enormously proud of and liked to show off. Though he wore long, black robes, the same as the other clerics, he had removed the sleeves, the better to exhibit his biceps. Dark pilgrims, acting as guards, ranged around the room, keeping in the shadows.

  Iolanthe entered cautiously, unable to see her way clearly, for the bright pool of light made the surrounding darkness that much darker.

  The Nightlord could have prayed to his Queen and been given the power to fill the room with unholy light if he had chosen. He preferred to hold his court in the shadows. By placing the victim in the harsh light and leaving the rest of the room in darkness, he made his victim feel isolated, alone, exposed.

  Iolanthe remained standing near the door more by instinct than because she would have any hope of escape if something went wrong. She bowed to the Nightlord. He was an elderly human, somewhere in his seventies; of medium height, thin and wiry. With his long, gray hair, which was always neatly combed, and his kindly and benevolent face, the Nightlord had the appearance of a benign, old gentleman.

  Until you looked into his eyes.

  The Nightlord saw the darkest depths of evil to which the soul of man can sink, and he reveled in the sight. He took joy in the pain and suffering of others. The Adjudicator inflicted the torture as the Nightlord watched, reacting to the screams and torment in perverse ways that caused even those who served him to regard him with fear and loathing. The Nightlord’s eyes were as dispassionate as those of a shark, as empty as those of a snake. The only time anyone ever saw his eyes gleam was when he was in the throes of his horrid pleasures.

  He made Iolanthe’s gorge rise, and she was not one to give way easily to fear. She was, after all, the mistress to Ariakas, the second most dangerous man in Ansalon. Even the Emperor grudgingly acknowledged that the Nightlord was the first.

  With those horrid eyes fixed on her, Iolanthe would not give the man the satisfaction of seeing her cower. She made him a slight bow; then, as if bored by the sight of him, she shifted her gaze to his prisoner. She saw, to her vast astonishment, that the prisoner was a mage, that he was young, and that he was wearing the black robes. Her heart sank. No wonder the Nightlord had summoned her.

  “You are in a great deal of trouble, Mistress Iolanthe,” said the Nightlord in his mild voice. “As you see, we have captured your spy.”

  The Adjudicator smiled, and flexed his biceps.

  “My spy?” Iolanthe repeated, astounded. “I never saw this man before in my life!”

  The Nightlord regarded her intently. He had the goddess-given ability to tell when people were lying to him, though he did not often use it. Generally he did not care whether people were lying or not; he tortured them anyway.

  “And yet,” he said, “you two are birds of feather, so to speak.”

  “We both wear the black robes, if that’s what you mean,” Iolanthe replied disdainfully. “There are a great many of us who do. I don’t suppose your lordship knows every servant of Takhisis in the world.”

  “You’d be surprised,” the Nightlord returned dryly. “But if you two really do not know each other, allow me to introduce you. Iolanthe, meet Raistlin Majere.”

  Raistlin Majere, Iolanthe repeated to herself. I’ve heard that name before. …

  Then she remembered.

  By Nuitari! Iolanthe stared at the young man.

  Raistlin Majere was Kitiara’s brother!

  2

  The Mage. The Witch. And the Maniac.

  5th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  he harsh light glared down on Raistlin, on him alone, making him seem the only person in the room. Iolanthe drew nearer to see him better.

  He was leaning for support on a staff made of wood topped by a dragon’s claw holding a crystal globe. Iolanthe recognized at once that the staff was magical and guessed that it was extremely powerful. The young man’s other hand fiddled nervously with a leather pouch he wore attached to his belt. The pouch was nondescript, the sort any wizard might use to hold components necessary to the casting of spells. She noted that the mage wore several pouches, all of them undoubtedly containing various components. He kept his hand near only one.

  And though she wondered immediately why that pouch was singled out for special treatment, she did not give the matter much thought. She was far more interested in the hand than the pouch. The skin of it glistened with a golden sheen, as though the mage had been dipped in the precious metal. The odd color was the result of some magical spell, no doubt, but what and why?

  She shifted her gaze from the mage’s hand to his face. He had removed his black cowl, leaving his face exposed, and Iolanthe searched for a resemblance to his sister. She did not find it in his features. His face was handsome, or would have been if it had not been thin and drawn and pale with exhaustion. The skin of his face was the same golden hue as that of his hands.

  His eyes were astonishing. They were large and intense, the black pupils the shape of hourglasses. He turned to look at her with his strange eyes, and Iolanthe saw no admiration in them, no desire, as she saw in the eyes of almost every other man who looked at her. Then she knew the reason.

  The eyes were cursed; it was known as the “curse of Realanna,” for the fabled sorceress who had developed the spell. Every living being Raistlin looked upon would appear to age and wither and die. He saw her as she would look years in the future, perhaps an ugly, toothless, old hag.

  Iolanthe shivered.

  The resemblance to his sister appeared to be more in spirit than in body. Iolanthe saw Kitiara’s ruthless ambition in her brother’s firm, strong jaw; her fierce determination in the young man’s fixed expression; and her pride and self-confidence in his thrust-back shoulders. By contrast, there were qualities Kitiara lacked. Iolanthe saw sensitivity in the long, slender fingers of Raistlin’s hands and a shadowed look in his eyes. He had suffered in life. He had known pain, both physical and spiritual, and he had overcome both by the sheer force of his indomitable will.

  She also noticed, as a point of interest, t
hat there was no mark on him. He had not been beaten. His golden skin had not been flayed and fed to the dogs. His bones had not been broken on the rack, nor had the Adjudicator gouged out those interesting eyes. Somehow Raistlin had managed to thwart the Nightlord. Iolanthe found that fascinating.

  She looked back at the Nightlord and saw that he was, in fact, annoyed and frustrated.

  “I have never seen this person before,” Iolanthe reiterated. “I do not know who he is or where he came from.”

  That was a lie. Kitiara had told Iolanthe all about her “baby” brother and their childhood in Solace. Raistlin had a twin brother, she recalled, a big, hulking, simple-minded fellow named Caringman or something odd like that. Supposedly the two were never apart. Iolanthe wondered what had become of Raistlin’s twin.

  The Nightlord regarded her grimly. “I fail to believe you, madam.”

  “I fail to understand any of this, your lordship,” said Iolanthe in exasperation. “If you are so worried that this young mage is a spy, why did you permit him to enter the temple?”

  “We didn’t,” said the Nightlord coldly.

  “Well, then, the draconian guards at one of the gates must have cleared him—”

  “They didn’t,” said the Nightlord.

  Iolanthe’s lashes fluttered in confusion. “Then how—?”

  The Nightlord leaped upon the word. “How! That is the question I want answered! How did this mage come to be here? He did not enter by the front gate. The dark pilgrims would not have permitted it.”

  Iolanthe knew that to be true. They never allowed her to pass without harassment, and she carried the Emperor’s authorization.

  “He did not enter by any of the five dragonarmy gates. I have questioned the draconian commanders, and they all swear to me by the five heads of Takhisis that they did not allow him to pass. What is more”—the Nightlord gestured at the young man—”he himself admits that he did not come through any of the entrances. He appeared out of nowhere. And he will not say how he managed to evade all our warding spells.”