Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

Mostly people, absorbed in their arguments, ignored him as he fought his way through the crowded streets. But occasionally some citizen would stop him to ask what Astinus thought about the arrival of the metallic dragons, the dragons of Light.

Raistlin didn't know what Astinus thought and he didn't care. Keeping his cowl pulled low to conceal the fact that his skin shimmered gold in the sunlight and that the pupils of his eyes were the shape of hourglasses, he would mutter an excuse and hurry on. He hoped sourly that the workers at his destination were actually doing some work, that they were not out gossiping in the street.

He regretted thinking of Tasslehoff. The memory of the kender brought back memories of his friends and his brother. He should say his deceased friends, deceased brother: Tanis Half-Elven, Tika, Riverwind and Goldmoon, and Caramon. All of them dead. He alone had survived, and that was because he had been smart enough to have foreseen disaster and planned a way out. He had to face the fact that Caramon and the others were dead and quit obsessing over it. But even as he told himself he should stop thinking about them, he thought about them.

Fleeing the dragonarmies in Flotsam, he and his brother and their friends had sought to escape by taking passage aboard a pirate ship, the Perechon. They had been pursued by a Dragon Highlord-his half-sister, Kitiara, as it turned out. The crazed helmsman had steered the ship deliberately into the Blood Sea's feared Maelstrom. The ship was being ripped apart, spars falling, sails being torn to tatters. The wild water was breaking over the decks. Raistlin had a choice. Either he could die with the rest of them or he could leave. The choice was obvious to anyone with a brain-which excluded his brother. Raistlin had in his possession the magical dragon orb that had once belonged to the ill-fated King Lorac. Raistlin had used the magic of the orb to escape. True, he might have taken his friends with him. He might have saved all of them. He might at least have saved his brother.

But Raistlin was only just learning about the powers of the dragon orb. He was not certain the orb had the ability to save the rest, and therefore, he had saved himself-and the other. The other who was always with him, who was with him even as he pushed his way through the streets of Palanthas. Once this "other" had been a whispered voice in Raistlin's head, unknown and mysterious and maddening. But the mystery had been solved. Raistlin could put a hideous face to the disembodied voice, give the speaker a name.

"Your decision was logical, young magus," Fistandantilus said, adding with a sneer, "Your twin is dead. Good riddance. Caramon weakened you, diminished you. Now that you are free of him, you will go far. I will see to that."

"You won't see to anything!" Raistlin retorted.

"I beg your pardon?" said a passerby, halting. "Were you speaking to me, sir?"

Raistlin muttered something and, ignoring the man's offended stare, kept on walking. He had been forced to listen to the yammering voice all morning. He had even fancied he could see the black-robed, soul-sucking specter of the archmage dogging his footsteps. Raistlin wondered bitterly if the bargain he had made with the evil wizard had been worth it.

"Without me, you would have died taking the Test in the Tower at Wayreth," said Fistandantilus. "You came out of our deal well enough. A bit of your life in exchange for my knowledge and power.

Raistlin had not been afraid he would die. He had been afraid he would fail. That was the true reason he had made the bargain with the old man. Raistlin could not have borne failure. He could not have endured his brother's pity or the fact that he would have been dependent on his stronger twin for the rest of his days.

Just thinking about the undead leech of a wizard sucking the life out of him as one sucks the juice from a peach brought on a coughing fit. Raistlin had always been frail and sickly, but the bargain he had struck with Fistandantilus, which allowed the spirit of the archmagus to remain alive on his dark plane of tortured existence in return for Raistlin's escape, had exacted its toll. His lungs seemed to be always filled with wool. He felt as though he were being smothered. He was subject to fits of coughing that almost doubled him over, as happened at that moment.

He had to pause and lean against a building for support, wiping the blood from his lips with the gray sleeve of the purloined robe. He felt weaker than usual. Using the magic of the dragon orb to transport him across a continent had taken far more out of him than he had anticipated. He had been half dead when he had arrived in Palanthas four days earlier, so weak that he had collapsed on the steps of the Great Library. The monks had taken pity on him and carried him inside. He was recovered somewhat, but he was still not well. He would not be well ever… not until he ended his bargain.

Fistandantilus seemed to think that Raistlin's soul was to be his reward. The archmagus was going to be disappointed. Since Raistlin's soul was finally his own, he was not going to meekly hand it over to Fistandantilus.

Raistlin considered that the archmagus had done well out of the deal he'd made with Raistlin in the Tower. Fistandantilus was, after all, leeching part of Raistlin's life-force in order to cling to his miserable existence. But as far as Raistlin was concerned, the two of them were even. It was time to end their bargain. Except Raistlin couldn't figure out how to do that without Fistandantilus knowing about it and stopping him. The old man was constantly lurking about, eavesdropping on Raistlin's thoughts. There had to be a way to shut the door and lock the windows of his mind.

Raistlin finally recovered enough to be able to resume his errand. He continued through the streets, following directions that were given to him by people he met along the way, and soon left the central part of Old City behind and, with it, the crowds. He entered the working part of the city, where streets were known by their trade. He passed Iron-Mongers Avenue and Butchers' Row and the Horse Fair and Goldsmith Lane on his way to the street where wool merchants plied their trade. He was searching for a particular business when he glanced down an alleyway and saw a sign marked with the symbols of three moons: a red moon, a silver, and a black. It was a mageware shop.

The shop was small, a mere hole in the wall. Raistlin was surprised to find such a shop at all, surprised that someone had even bothered to open a shop dealing in objects related to the use of magic in a city that despised those who wielded magic. He knew of only one wizard who resided in the city and that was Justarius, head of Raistlin's own order, the Red Robes. Raistlin supposed there must be others. He'd never given the matter much thought.

His steps slowed. The mageware shop would have what he sought. It would be costly. He could not afford it. He had only a small sum of steel, hoarded up and hidden away over months. He had to save his steel for lodging and food in Neraka, his destination, once his health was restored and his business in Palanthas was finished.

Besides, the owner of the mageware shop would be bound to report Raistlin's purchase to the Conclave, the body of wizards that enforced the laws of magic. The Conclave could not stop him, but he would be summoned to Wayreth and called upon to explain himself. Raistlin didn't have time for all that. Events were happening-momentous, world-shaking events. The end was coming. The Dark Queen would soon be celebrating her victory. Raistlin did not plan to be standing on the street corner cheering as she rode past in triumph. He planned to be leading the parade.

Raistlin walked past the mageware shop and came at last to the place he'd been seeking. The stench alone should have guided him, he thought, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. The business was located in a large, open-air yard filled with stacks of wood to stoke the fires. Smoke mingled with steam rising from the huge kettles and vats and reeked with the odors of the various ingredients used in the process, some of which were not at all pleasant.