Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

He looked up at the arch. A strange feeling came over him. His flesh crawled, as when someone steps on your grave. He could not figure out why, except that he had the oddest impression he had seen the archway before.

The stonework of the arch was ancient, far older than the guard room, which appeared to have been recently built. Raistlin could discern the faint outlines of carvings on the marble blocks that formed the arch, and though the carvings were faded and damaged, he recognized them. Each marble block was engraved with a symbol for the gods. Raistlin looked to the keystone, the center point of the arch, and though the lines were faint he could see the symbol of Paladine.

He closed his eyes, and the Temple of Istar filled his vision, beautiful and graceful, white marble shining in the sunlight. He opened his eyes and looked into the twisted darkness of the Temple of Takhisis, and he knew with unerring certainty what lay beyond:

The past and the present.

"What's taking you so damn long?" the bozak demanded.

"I cannot figure out what type of spell Mistress Iolanthe has cast," said Raistlin, frowning in seeming puzzlement. "Tell me, what would happen if someone were to pass through the arch?"

"All holy hell breaks loose," said the bozak with a relish. "Trumpets sound the alarm, or so I hear. I wouldn't know myself. It's never happened. No one has ever gone through that arch."

"These trumpets," said Raistlin. "Can they be heard in all parts of the temple? Even in the council hall?"

The draconian grunted. "From what I'm told, the dead can hear them. The noise will sound like the end of the world."

Raistlin cast a rudimentary spell on the cobwebs, then started to leave. He paused and said as an afterthought, "Do any of you know by chance where they have taken the elf woman they call the Golden General? I am supposed to interrogate her. I thought she would be in the dungeons, but I cannot locate her."

The draconians had no idea. Raistlin sighed and shrugged. Well, he had tried. He climbed back up the stairs, thinking as he went that the trap he had set was so obvious, only a complete moron would stumble into it.

Temple bells rang the hour. The time of the council meeting was drawing near, and Raistlin still had to make his way back to the upper level. Once he was out of sight of the guards, he removed his pouches and concealed them once more beneath his robes. He put on the golden chain and the medallion of faith, transforming himself from wizard to cleric and left the dungeons, counting the stairs to find his way to the upper regions of the temple where the Nightlord's entourage was gathering.

Raistlin joined the group of Spiritors in an antechamber outside the council hall. He kept apart from the others, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He did not speak to anyone, but stood in the shadows, his head bowed, his hood over his face. His limp was pronounced. He leaned heavily on his staff. A few of the Spiritors glanced at him, and one started to approach him.

"He's a follower of Morgion," said another, and the cleric changed his mind.

After that, everyone left Raistlin severely alone.

The Nightlord made his appearance, accompanied by an aide. The Nightlord was clad in a black velvet robe over which he wore vestments shimmering with the five colors of the five heads of the dragon, Takhisis. The Spiritors, dressed in their own ceremonial garb, clustered around him. The Nightlord was in an excellent humor. He greeted each Spiritor in turn; then his flat and empty eyes turned upon Raistlin.

"I am told you are a worshiper of Morgion," said the Nightlord. "It is not often we have one of his followers among us, especially one of such high rank. You are welcome, Spiritor-"

The Nightlord stopped talking. His eyes narrowed. He studied Raistlin.

"Have we met, Spiritor?" the Nightlord asked, and though his tone was pleasant, the expression in his eyes was not. "Something about you seems familiar. Put back your hood. Let me see your face."

"My face is not pleasant to look upon, Nightlord," said Raistlin in a harsh voice, as different from his own as he could make it.

"I am not easily shocked. This very morning I cut off a man's nose and gouged out his eyes," said the Nightlord, smiling. "He was a spy, and that is what I do to spies. Let me see your face, Spiritor."

Raistlin tensed, cursing his luck. He should not have come up here. He should have foreseen the danger that the Nightlord would recognize him. They would not bother taking him to the dungeons. The Nightlord would kill him here, where he stood.

"Take off the hood! Show him your face," said Fistandantilus.

"Shut up!" Raistlin hissed under his breath. Aloud he said, "My lord, I have sworn an oath to Morgion-"

"Show your face!" The Nightlord took hold of his medallion of faith and began to chant, "Takhisis, hear my prayer…"

"He will kill you where you stand! Take off the hood! As you said, we are both in this together. For the moment…"

Slowly, reluctantly, Raistlin took hold of the hood and drew it from his head.

One of the Spiritors covered her mouth with her hand and gagged. The others averted their eyes and shrank back from him. The Nightlord looked away not from disgust, but because he had lost interest. He had not unmasked a spy, merely a diseased follower of a loathsome god.

"Cover your face," said the Nightlord, waving his hand. "My apologies to Morgion if I have offended him."

Raistlin drew his hood over his head.

"Once again, I have saved you, young one."

Raistlin pressed his hand against his temple, longing to reach into his skull and rip the voice out of his head.

Fistandantilus chuckled. "You owe me. And you pride yourself on paying your debts."

A hand squeezed Raistlin's heart. His chest hurt. He struggled to breathe and was seized by a fit of coughing that doubled him over. He pressed his hand to his mouth. His fingers were covered in blood. Raistlin cursed inwardly, impotently. He cursed and coughed until he was dizzy, and he sagged back against a wall.

The Spiritors eyed him in alarm. The word contagion was on everyone's lips, and they nearly came to blows trying to get away from him. Then the sound of a gong reverberated throughout the temple. The Spiritors forgot Raistlin in their excitement.

"The bell summons us, my lord," said the aide, and he opened the double doors that led from the chamber into the council hall.

The Spiritors crowded around the door, eager to witness the procession of Highlords and the arrival of the Emperor.

"Must you gawk like peasants?" the Nightlord said angrily.

The Spiritors, looking chastened, left the door and returned to the antechamber.

"The Emperor's troops are gathering around his throne," reported the aide from his position at the door. "They are making ready for the Emperor."

"We enter after Ariakas," said the Nightlord. "Line up."

The aide bustled around, forming the Spiritors into two lines. The Nightlord took his place at the end. No one paid attention to Raistlin, who was leaning on his staff, gasping for breath and trying to clear his mind. The thunder of tramping feet, marching in time to the rhythmic thumping of a drum and shouted commands of officers, caused the floor to shake.

"First will come the Procession of Pilgrims," the Nightlord told his Spiritors. "When all of you have assembled on the platform, I will enter and take the place of honor beside Her Dark Majesty."

The soldiers in the hall began to cheer.

"See what is going on," the Nightlord commanded his aide.

"The Emperor has entered the hall," the aide reported.

"Is he wearing the Crown of Power?" the Nightlord asked tersely.