Маргарет Уэйс - Dragons of Spring Dawning

The buildings were constructed in the ancient style; delicate spires rose into the crystal sky, light sparkled off the white domes. Stone archways spanned garden boulevards. The streets were laid out like a great spider web, leading directly into the heart of the city itself.

Tanis felt Berem pluck nervously at his sleeve, gesturing that they should leave. Even though he could talk, it was obvious that the man had grown accustomed to, and perhaps even preferred, silence.

“Yes, just a moment,” Tanis said, reluctant to go. He had heard nothing from Riverwind and there was every possibility this map might lead them out of this place.

Bending over the glass, he stared at the miniature more closely. Around the center of the city stood great pavilions and columned palaces. Domes made of glass cradled summer flowers amid the winter snows. In the exact center of the city itself rose a building that seemed familiar to Tanis, though he knew he had never been in this city in his life. Still, he recognized it. Even as he studied it, searching his memory, the hair prickled on the back of his neck.

It seemed to be a temple to the gods. And it was the most beautiful structure he had ever seen, more beautiful than the Towers of the Sun and the Stars in the elven kingdoms. Seven towers rose to the heavens as if praising the gods for their creation. The center tower soared into the skies far above the rest, as if it did not praise the gods, but rivaled them. Confused memories of his elven teachers came back to him, telling him stories of the Cataclysm, stories of the Kingpriest—

Tanis drew back from the miniature, his breath catching in his throat. Berem stared at him in alarm, the man’s face going white.

“What is it?” he croaked in fear, clutching at Tanis.

The half-elf shook his head. He could not speak. The terrible implications of where they were and what was going on were breaking over him like red waters of the Blood Sea.

In confusion, Berem looked at the center of the map. The man’s eyes widened, then he shrieked, a scream unlike any Tanis had heard before. Suddenly Berem threw himself bodily upon the crystal dome, beating at it as if he would tear it apart.

“The City of Damnation!” Berem moaned. “The City of Damnation.”

Tanis started forward to calm him, then he heard Riverwind’s shrill whistle. Grabbing Berem, Tanis hauled him away from the crystal. “I know,” he said. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

But how? How did you get out of a city that was supposed to have been blasted off the face of Krynn? How did you get out of a city that must lie at the very bottom of the Blood Sea?

As he shoved Berem through the door of the map room. Tanis glanced above the doorway. Words were carved in its crumbling marble. Words that had once spoken of one of the wonders of the world. Words whose letters were now cracked and covered with moss. But he could read them.

Welcome, O noble visitor, to our beautiful city.

Welcome to the city beloved of the gods.

Welcome, honored guest, to

Istar.

“I’ve seen what you’re doing to him! You’re trying to murder him!” Caramon shouted at Par-Salian. Head of the Tower of High Sorcery—the last Tower of High Sorcery, located in the weird, alien forests of Wayreth—Par-Salian was the highest ranking in the Order of magic-users currently living on Krynn.

To the twenty-year-old warrior, the withered old man in the snowy white robes was a thing he might have broken with his bare hands. The young warrior had put up with a good deal the last two days, but now his patience had run out.

“We are not in the business of murder,” Par-Salian said in his soft voice. “Your brother knew what he faced when he agreed to undergo these Trials. He knew death was the penalty for failure.”

“He didn’t, not really,” Caramon mumbled, brushing his hand across his eyes, “Or if he did, he didn’t care. Sometimes his. . . his love for his magic clouds his thinking.”

“Love? No.” Par-Salian smiled sadly. “I do not think we could call it love.”

“Well, whatever,” Caramon muttered. “He didn’t realize what you were going to do to him! It’s all so damn serious—”

“Of course,” Par-Salian said mildly. “What would happen to you, warrior, if you went into battle without knowing how to use your sword?”

Caramon scowled. “Don’t try to weasel out—”

“What would happen?” Par-Salian persisted.

“I’d be killed,” Caramon said with the elaborate patience one uses when speaking to an elderly person who is growing a bit childish. “Now—”

“Not only would you die,” Par-Salian continued, “but your comrades, those who depend on you, might they also die because of your incompetence?”

“Yes,” Caramon said impatiently, starting to continue his tirade. Then, pausing, he fell silent.

“You see my point,” Par-Salian said gently. “We do not require this Test of all who would use magic. There are many with the gift who go through life, content with using the first elementary spells taught by the schools. These are enough to help them in their day-to-day lives, and that is all they want. But sometimes there comes a person like your brother. To him, the gift is more than a tool to help him through life. To him, the gift is life. He aspires higher. He seeks knowledge and power that can be dangerous—not only to the user but to those around him as well. Therefore we force all magic-users who would enter into those realms where true power can be attained to take the Test, to submit themselves to the Trials. Thus we weed out the incompetent...”

“You’ve done your best to weed out Raistlin!” Caramon snarled. “He’s not incompetent, but he’s frail and now he’s hurt, maybe dying!”

“No, he isn’t incompetent. Quite the contrary. Your brother has done very well, warrior. He has defeated all of his enemies. He has handled himself like a true professional. Almost too professional.” Par-Salian appeared thoughtful. “I wonder if someone hasn’t taken an interest in your brother.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Caramon’s voice hardened with resolve. “And I don’t care. All I know is that I am putting a stop to it. Right now.”

“You cannot. You will not be permitted. He isn’t dying—”

“You can’t stop me!” Caramon stated coldly. “Magic! Tricks to keep kids amused! True power! Bah! It’s not worth getting killed over—”

“Your brother believes it is,” Par-Salian said softly. “Shall I show you how much he believes in his magic? Shall I show you true power?”

Ignoring Par-Salian, Caramon took a step forward, determined to end his brother’s suffering. That step was his last—at least for some time. He found himself immobilized, frozen in place as surely as if his feet were encased in ice. Fear gripped Caramon. It was the first time he had ever been spellbound, and the helpless feeling of being totally under another’s control was more terrifying than facing six axe-wielding goblins.

“Watch.” Par-Salian began to chant strange words. “I am going to show you a vision of what might have been...”

Suddenly Caramon saw himself entering the Tower of High Sorcery! He blinked in astonishment. He was walking through the doors and down the eerie corridors! The image was so real that Caramon looked down at his own body in alarm, half-afraid he might find he wasn’t really there. But he was. He seemed to be in two places at the same time. True power. The warrior began to sweat, then shivered with a chill.

Caramon—the Caramon in the Tower—was searching for his brother. Up and down empty corridors he wandered, calling Raistlin’s name. And finally he found him.