Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

"I can tell you," said Ladonna. "If Takhisis finds Berem, she will be victorious. She will enter the world in all her might and power. No one, not even the gods, will be able to withstand her."

She related the Everman's tragic story to her audience. The two men listened in astonishment and grief to the tale of Jasla and Berem, a tale of murder and forgiveness, hope and redemption. †

Par-Salian and Justarius were silent, each turning over what he heard in his mind. Ladonna slumped in her chair and closed her eyes. Par-Salian offered to pour her another glass of wine.

"Thank you, my dear friend, but if I drink any more, I will fall asleep where I sit. Well, what do you think?"

"I think we must act," said Par-Salian.

"I would like to do some investigating on my own," said Justarius crisply. "Madam Ladonna will forgive me when I say that I do not entirely trust her."

"Investigate all you like," said Ladonna. "You will find that I have spoken the truth. I am too exhausted to lie. And now if you will excuse me-"

As she rose, she staggered with weariness and had to put her hand on the arm of the chair to steady herself. "I cannot travel this night. If I could have a blanket in the corner of some novice's cell-"

"Nonsense," said Par-Salian. "You will sleep in your chamber, as usual. Everything is as it was when you left. Nothing was moved or altered. You will even find a fire in the grate."

Ladonna lowered her proud head, then extended her hand to Par-Salian. "My old friend, thank you. I made a mistake. I admit it freely. If it is any consolation, I have paid dearly for it."

Justarius rose with some difficulty, leveraging himself up out of the chair. Sitting for any length of time caused his crippled leg to stiffen.

"Will you also spend the night with us, my friend?" Par-Salian asked.

Justarius shook his head. "I am needed back in Palanthas. I bring more news. If you could wait one moment, madam, this will be of interest to you. On the twenty-sixth day of Rannmont, Raistlin Majere was found, half dead, on the steps of the Great Library. One of my pupils happened to be passing and witnessed the incident. My pupil did not know who the man was, only that he was a wizard who wore the red robes of my order.

"That said, I do not think Raistlin will be of my order much longer," Justarius added. "Today one of the local cloth dyers brought me word that a young man came to his establishment with a request to dye red robes black. It seems your 'sword' has a flaw in it, my friend."

Par-Salian looked deeply troubled. "You are certain it was Raistlin Majere?"

"The young man gave a false name, but there cannot be many men in this world with golden-tinged skin and eyes with pupils like hourglasses. But to make sure, I spoke to Astinus. He assures me the young man is Raistlin. He is taking the Black Robes, and he is doing so without bothering to consult the Conclave, as is required."

"He's turning renegade." Ladonna shrugged. "You have lost him, Par-Salian. It seems I am not the only one to make mistakes."

"I never like to say I told you so," said Justarius grimly. "But I told you so."

Ladonna left for her chambers. Justarius returned to Palanthas via the corridors of magic. Par-Salian was alone again.

He resumed his seat in his chair by the dying fire, pondering all he had heard. He tried to concentrate on the dire news Ladonna had brought, but he found his thoughts straying to Raistlin Majere.

"Perhaps I did make a mistake when I chose him to be my sword to fight evil," Par-Salian mused. "But given what I have heard this night and what I know of Raistlin Majere, perhaps I did not."

Par-Salian drank the last of the elven wine; then tossing the lees onto the glowing embers, dousing them, he went to his bed. † The story of Berem and Jasla can be found at the beginning of this book in the Prologue.

It wasn't the physical pain that clouded my mind. It was the old inner pain clawing at me, tearing at me with poisoned talons. Caramon, strong and cheerful, good and kind, open and honest. Caramon, everyone's friend.

Not like Raistlin-the runt, the Sly One.

"All I ever had was my magic," I said, speaking clearly, thinking clearly for the first time in my life. "And now you have that too."

Using the wall for support, I raised both my hands, put my thumbs together. I began speaking the words, the words that would summon the magic.

"Raist!" Caramon started to back away. "Raist, what are you doing? C'mon! You need me! I'll take care of you-just like always. Raist! I'm your brother!"

"I have no brother."

Beneath the layer of cold, hard rock, jealousy bubbled and seethed. Tremors split the rock. Jealousy, red and molten, coursed through my body and flared out of my hands. The fire flared, billowed, and engulfed Caramon-

A knocking on the door brought Raistlin back, abruptly, to reality.

He stirred in his chair and let go of the memory slowly and reluctantly, not because he enjoyed reliving that moment in time-far from it. The memory of his Test in the Tower of High Sorcery was horrible, for it brought back the bitter pangs of jealous fury, the sight of Caramon being burned to death, the sound of his twin's screams, the stench of charred flesh.

Then, after that, having to face Caramon, who had been witness to his own death at his brother's hands. To see the pain in his eyes, far worse in some ways than the pain of dying. For it had all been illusion, a part of the Test, to teach Raistlin to know himself. He would not have brought it all back to mind, would have kept the memory locked away, but he was trying to learn something from it, so he had to endure it.

The time was early morning, and he was in the small cell that he'd been given in the Great Library. The monks had carried him to the cell when they had thought he was dying. In the cell he had at last dared to look into the darkness of his own soul and dared meet the eyes that stared back at him. He had remembered the Test, remembered the bargain he'd made with Fistandilus in order to pass it.

"I said I was not to be bothered," Raistlin called out, annoyed.

"Bothered! I'll bother him," a deep voice grumbled. "I'll give him a good smack up the side of his head!"

"You have a visitor, Master Majere," called out Bertrem in apologetic tones. "He says he is an old friend of yours. He is concerned about your health."

"Of course he is," Raistlin said sourly.

He'd been expecting the visit. Ever since he'd watched Flint start to cross the street to the library, only to change his mind. Flint would have spent the night brooding, but he would finally come. Not with Tas. He would come alone.

Tell him to go away. Tell him you are busy. You have a great deal of work to do to prepare for your journey to Neraka. But even as Raistlin was thinking these things, he was removing the magical spell that kept the door locked.

"He may enter," Raistlin said.

Bertrem, his bald head glistening with sweat, cautiously shoved open the door and peered inside. At the sight of Raistlin sitting in the chair, wearing gray robes, Bertrem's eyes widened.

"But those are… you are… those are…"

Raistlin glared at him. "Say what you came to say and be gone."

"A… visitor…" Bertrem repeated faintly then hastened off, his sandals flapping on the stone floor.

Flint thumped inside. The old dwarf stood glowering at Raistlin from beneath his shaggy, gray eyebrows. He crossed his arms over his chest beneath his long, flowing beard. He was wearing the studded leather armor the dwarf preferred over steel. The armor was new and was embossed with a rose, the symbol of the Solamnic Knights.

Flint wore the same helm as always. He'd found the helm during one of their early adventures; Raistlin could not remember where. The helm was decorated with a tail made of horsehair. Flint always held that it was the mane of a griffon, and nothing would disabuse him of that notion, not even the fact that griffons did not have manes.