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  Once she thought of it, Iolanthe realized that she never did have any problem going up and down the stairs, though she had not considered such information important.

  “The distortion makes walking about the temple very disorienting, which is precisely the reason for it,” Raistlin continued. “The casual visitor is immediately lost, which makes him feel afraid and vulnerable, and thus his mind is opened to the power and influence of the Dark Queen. Did you never wonder how the dark clerics come to find their way about?”

  As if on cue, their guide appeared at the end of the hall, an annoyed expression on his face. Spying them, he came marching grimly down the corridor.

  “Not really,” said Iolanthe. “I avoid the place when I can. What does the number of stairs have to do with anything?”

  “The fact that the stairs are not subject to such distortions makes them useful tools for keeping track of one’s whereabouts,” said Raistlin. “I noted that the dark cleric who escorted me to the dungeon level was keeping count of the stairs. I saw him strike the numbers off with the fingers of his hand. I presume, though I do not know for certain, that every staircase has a different number of stairs and that is how they find their way around.”

  “I begin to understand,” said Iolanthe, enlightened. “If I want to get to the Nightlord’s courtroom, I look for the staircase with forty-five stairs.”

  Raistlin nodded and Iolanthe regarded him in wonder. She considered Kitiara a remarkable woman, and she now felt the same about her brother. Brains must run in the family.

  The dark pilgrim took them once more in tow, with a stern admonition to keep up with him. He stalked down the hall ahead of them, moving at a rapid pace toward the nearest exit, obviously eager to be rid of them.

  Iolanthe gave a relieved sigh when they passed through the main gate. She was always happy to escape the temple. She slipped her arm companionably inside Raistlin’s.

  She was startled to feel him flinch and stiffen. He drew back from her.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said coldly, dropping her hand.

  “No, please,” he said in confusion. “I am the one who should beg pardon. It’s just … I don’t like being touched.”

  “Not even by a pretty woman?” she asked with an arch smile.

  “That is not something to which I’m accustomed,” he said wryly.

  “No time like the present,” she said, and she twined her arm through his. “The streets are not safe,” she added more somberly. “It will be better if we stick close together.”

  The streets were deserted for the most part. They passed one man lying in the gutter. He was either dead drunk or just plain dead; Iolanthe never looked too closely. She steered Raistlin to the other side of the street.

  “Do you have a place to stay in Neraka?” she asked.

  Raistlin shook his head. “I am newly arrived in this city. I came to the temple first. I was hoping to find rooms at the Tower. I trust there are some available? A small cell, such as they might give a novice, would suit me. The only possessions I own I carry with me. Or rather, I used to carry them.”

  “I am sorry about the loss of your staff,” said Iolanthe. “I fear you will never see it again. The Nightlord knows magic, and he was quick to recognize its value—”

  “There was no help for it,” said Raistlin with a shrug of his thin shoulders.

  “You do not appear to be overly concerned about its loss,” Iolanthe said, giving him a sharp look.

  “I can buy another staff at any mageware shop,” Raistlin said with a rueful smile. “I cannot buy another life.”

  “I suppose that is true,” Iolanthe conceded. “Still, the loss must be devastating.”

  Raistlin shrugged again.

  He is taking it far too well, Iolanthe thought. Something else is going on here. What a marvelous mystery this young man is proving! She was growing quite fascinated by him.

  “You can stay with me tonight,” she said. “Though you will have to sleep on the floor. Tomorrow we will find you a room.”

  “I am an old campaigner. I can sleep anywhere,” said Raistlin. He seemed disappointed. “You appear to be telling me there is no room for me in the Tower.”

  “You keep mentioning this tower? What tower are you talking about?” Iolanthe asked.

  “The Tower of High Sorcery, of course,” said Raistlin.

  Iolanthe regarded him with amusement. “Ah, that Tower. I will take you there on the morrow. The hour is late—or early, depending on how you look at it.”

  Raistlin glanced up and down the street. No one was around, but he lowered his voice anyway. “What the Nightlord said about Ladonna and Nuitari. Is that true?”

  “I was hoping you would know,” said Iolanthe.

  He started to reply, but she shook her head. “Such dangerous matters should be discussed behind closed doors.”

  Raistlin nodded in understanding.

  “We will talk about it when we reach my home,” Iolanthe said, adding demurely, “over a game of marbles.”

  3

  A Cup Of Tea. Memories. A Dangerous Woman.

  6th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  t was well after Dark Watch. Raistlin hoped they did not have far to go, for his strength was almost gone. They turned into a street outside the temple walls known as Wizard’s Row, and he was relieved to hear Iolanthe say that this was the street on which she lived. The street was narrow and out of the way, little more than a glorified alley. The name came from the various shops that sold goods related to magic. Most of the shops, Raistlin noted, appeared to be empty. Several had To Let signs posted in broken windows.

  Iolanthe’s small apartment was located above one of the few mageware shops still in business. They climbed a long, narrow staircase, and he waited while she removed the wizard lock on her door. Once inside, she provided her guest with a pillow and a blanket and rearranged the furniture in the small room she termed her “library,” so he could make up his bed on the floor. She bade him good night and went to her room, telling him as she left that she was a late riser and did not take kindly to being awakened before noon.

  Exhausted from his experiences in the dungeon, Raistlin lay down on the floor, covered himself with the blanket, and fell immediately asleep. He dreamed of the dungeons, of hanging naked from chains, of a man holding a burning hot rod of iron coming toward him …

  Raistlin woke with a gasp. Sunlight flooded the room. He did not at first remember where he was, and he stared around in confusion until memory brought the events of last night back to him. He sighed and closed his eyes. He reached out his hand, as he normally did of a morning, and felt the staff lying by his side; its smooth wood warm and reassuring.

  Raistlin smiled to think of the discomfiture the Nightlord would feel when he went to gloat over the valuable artifact he had lately acquired, only to discover it had disappeared during the night. One of the staff’s magical powers was that it always returned to its owner. Raistlin had known, when he handed it over, that the staff would come back to him.

  Stiff from sleeping on the hard floor, he sat up, rubbing his back and neck to try to ease the kinks in his muscles. The small apartment was quiet. His hostess was not yet awake. Raistlin was glad for a chance to be alone, to sort out his thoughts.

  He performed his ablutions then boiled water to prepare the herbal tea that eased his cough. The Nightlord had taken his herbs away from him, but they were common enough, and a rummage through Iolanthe’s kitchen produced all he needed. It was only when he was pouring the water into the kettle that he remembered that he didn’t need to drink his tea; his cough was gone. He was well again. Fistandantilus was no longer leeching away half his life.

  Raistlin was accustomed to drinking the tea, and he continued to brew it. Unfortunately, the task brought back memories of his brother. Caramon had always fixed Raistlin’s tea for him, making of it a daily ritual. Their friends, Tanis and the others, had watched Caramon do the menial work for his twin in disappr
oval.

  “Your legs aren’t broke,” Flint had once said to Raistlin. “Fix your own damn tea!”

  Raistlin could have brewed his own tea, of course, but it wouldn’t have been the same. He allowed his brother to prepare his tea not, as his friends thought, to exhibit his ascendancy over Caramon or demean him. The homely act brought back fond memories to both of them, memories of the years they had walked strange and dangerous roads, each watching the other’s back, each dependent on the other for companionship and protection.

  Raistlin sat before the kitchen fire, listening to the water bubble in the teakettle, and he thought of those days alone on the road, their small cooking fire blazing beneath the greater, more glorious fire of the sun. Caramon would sit on a log or a boulder or whatever happened to be handy, holding the clay mug in one big hand that almost engulfed it, sprinkling the herbs from the bag into the water, measuring out the leaves with care and intense concentration.

  Raistlin, sitting nearby, would watch with impatience, telling Caramon that he did not need to be so careful; he could just dump the leaves in the cup.

  Caramon would always say no, it was important to have the proper mixture. Did he or did he not know how to make an excellent cup of tea? Raistlin would always admit that his brother did make wonderful tea; that was true. No matter how hard Raistlin tried, he had never been able to duplicate Caramon’s recipe. No matter how hard he tried, Raistlin’s tea did not taste the same. His scientific mind scoffed at the fact that love and care could make a difference to a cup of tea, but he had to admit he could find no other explanation.

  He poured the boiling water into the mug and shook out the herbs, which floated on the top before sinking. The smell was always slightly unpleasant; the taste was not that bad. He’d grown to like it. He sipped at the tea, a stranger in a strange city, the heart of the forces of darkness, and he thought of himself and Caramon, sitting together in the sunshine, laughing over some silly jest, recalling incidents from their childhood, recounting some of their adventures and the wonders they had seen.

  Raistlin felt a burning in his eyes and a choking sensation in his throat that did not come from his former malady. The choking came from a heart swelling with emotion, from loss and loneliness, guilt and grief and remorse. Raistlin took an unusually large gulp of the tea and burned the roof of his mouth. He swore angrily beneath his breath, and flung the contents of the mug into the fire.

  “Serves me right for being maudlin,” he muttered. He banished all thought of Caramon from his mind and, finding some bread in the pantry, toasted it over the fire and chewed on it as he thought over his situation.

  His arrival in Neraka had not turned out as planned. He had deliberately chosen to appear in the temple by traveling the corridors of magic. His idea had been that he would materialize inside the temple to the awe and astonishment of all who witnessed him. The clerics would be so impressed by his exhibition of magical power, they would escort him straightway to Emperor Ariakas, who would beg Raistlin to join him in conquering the world.

  Things had not turned out as planned. Raistlin had achieved one of his goals; the dark pilgrims had certainly been astonished to see him burst out of thin air inside the abbey, just as they were starting services. One elderly pilgrim had nearly suffered apoplexy, and another had fainted dead away.

  Far from being impressed, the dark pilgrims had been outraged. They had tried to seize him, but he had fended them off with the Staff of Magius, which administered a strong jolt to anyone it touched. As they crowded around him, shouting and threatening, Raistlin had urged everyone to remain calm. He was not here to cause trouble, he explained. He would go with them willingly. He wanted only to pay his respects to his Queen. He had found himself instead paying his respects to the loathsome Nightlord.

  Raistlin had almost immediately seen the man for what he was: a demented man who took physical pleasure and gratification in the suffering of others. Raistlin had realized at once that he was in deadly peril, though he was confused as to why.

  “We are all on the same side,” the mage had tried to tell the Nightlord. “All of us want to see Queen Takhisis victorious. Why, then, do you view me with such enmity? Why threaten me with unspeakable horrors unless I reveal myself to be a spy for the Conclave? Why would the Conclave want to spy on the Dark Queen’s clerics? It makes no sense.”

  Or rather, it had made no sense until he had heard the Nightlord say that Nuitari had turned against his mother.

  The questioning had gone on hour after weary hour. All the while Raistlin could hear the shrieks and howls and screams of other prisoners, the turning of the rack, the snaps of the lash. He could smell the burning flesh.

  The Nightlord had grown frustrated with Raistlin’s denials.

  “You will tell me all you know and more,” the Nightlord had said. “Send for the Adjudicator.”

  Raistlin had tried to use the Staff of Magius, but the guards had rushed him and, at the cost of a few jolts, had knocked the staff out of his hand onto the floor. He had then cast a Circle of Protection around himself. The Nightlord was expert at dealing with uncooperative wizards, however. He had spoken a few words and pointed his bloodstained fingernails at Raistlin, and the protection spell had shattered like a crystal goblet dropped on a marble floor.

  Raistlin had known fear unlike any he’d ever experienced, worse even than the time he’d been lying helpless beneath the claws of a black dragon in Xak Tsaroth. The guards began closing in on him, and he had no way to fight them. Then something strange had happened. He had yet to find an explanation. The guards had not been able to lay their hands on him.

  He had not done anything to defend himself. He had no energy left to cast any more magic. The trip through the corridors of magic, the subsequent fight, the casting of the Circle of Protection spell, had all weakened him. Yet the simple fact was, every time the guards had tried to seize him, they had started to shake so severely, they could not make their fingers work.

  Raistlin sat cross-legged on the floor. He opened the pouch containing the marbles and shook them out. The dragon orb rolled around, indistinguishable from the other marbles except to his eyes. One of the facts he had learned about the dragon orb was that it had an instinct for self-preservation as great or greater than his own.

  He picked up the dragon orb and held it in his palm and gazed at it, pondering, wondering. He had taken a risk bringing the orb to Neraka, to the heart of the Dark Queen’s empire. Made of the essence of evil dragons, the orb might feel emboldened, here among its own kind, so close to its evil Queen. It might turn on him, find a master more important, more powerful.

  Instead, it seemed, the orb had chosen to protect him. Not out of love for him, Raistlin was sure. Raistlin shook his head, bemused at the thought. The orb was interested only in protecting itself. And that was an unsettling thought. The orb sensed danger. The orb believed it was in peril, and that meant he was in peril.

  But from what? From whom? This city, of all places, should be a safe haven for those who walked the paths of darkness.

  “By Nuitari, you really do play with marbles,” exclaimed Iolanthe. She wrinkled her nose and coughed. “What is that ghastly smell?”

  Raistlin had been so lost in his thoughts that he had not heard her stirring. Hastily, he scooped up the marbles along with the dragon orb and dropped them into the pouch.

  “I fixed myself a cup of tea,” he said blandly. “I have been ill, and I find it helps.”

  Iolanthe opened a casement to let in air, though the smell outside was almost as bad as that within. The air was gray with smoke that billowed from the forge fires and reeked from the stench of the garbage-filled alleys and the foul water that ran ankle deep in the gutters.

  “This illness,” said Iolanthe, waving her hand to dissipate the smell. “Was it a result of the Test?”

  “An aftereffect,” Raistlin replied, surprised that she would immediately jump to that conclusion.

  “And was that how you came t
o have gold skin and hourglass eyes?”

  Raistlin nodded.

  “The sacrifices we make for the magic,” Iolanthe said with a sigh. She shut the window and locked it. “I did not come out unscathed. No one does. I bear my scars on the inside.”

  Iolanthe rumpled her dark hair and sighed again. She was dressed in a silken gown known as a caftan by those who lived in the eastern land of Khur. The silk was sumptuous and vividly colored; red and blue birds amid purple and orange flowers, green leaves and twining vines.

  Raistlin found himself disconcerted by the woman. Her frank manner of speaking, her charm, her wit, her humor and vivacity and her beauty—especially her beauty—made him uncomfortable.

  For even with his accursed vision, he could see that Iolanthe was beautiful. Her blue-black hair and violet eyes and olive skin were different from the other women he’d known in his life. Women such as Laurana, the elf maiden, who was blonde, fair, ethereal; or Tika, with her fiery red curls and her generous smile; voluptuous, laughing, wholesome, and loving.

  By contrast, Iolanthe was mystery, danger, intrigue. She made Raistlin nervous. Even her clothing, with its myriad colors, made him uneasy. He disapproved. Those who took the black robes and walked shadowy places should not bring beauty and color with them.

  She was smiling at him, and he realized he’d been staring at her. His skin burned, much to his irritation. He had conquered a dragon orb, imprisoned Fistandantilus inside it, and faced down the Nightlord, but he felt himself blushing like a pimply teenager just because a lovely woman smiled at him.

  “I see the Nightlord returned your staff,” Iolanthe said. “How very kind of him. He is not usually so considerate.”

  Raistlin was startled by her remark; then he saw the glint of laughter in her violet eyes. He realized he should have had devised some explanation for the staff’s reappearance, but he had been too absorbed in wondering about the workings of the dragon orb. He tried to think of something plausible to say, but he was tongue-tied. The woman confused him, turned his brain to gruel. The sooner he was away from her, the better.