Caramon, looking into the woman’s eyes, felt that if she had asked him to go to the Abyss and find a five-headed dragon, he would have left immediately.
“Sure. Glad to, my lady,” he said. He walked out of the room by the side door, closing it loudly behind him.
Raistlin stood from his chair, using the Staff of Magius for support, though he felt no more tired than he had earlier that afternoon. Walking to a bookshelf, he leaned against it, stealing surreptitious glances at the texts. Perhaps whatever was troubling him emanated from the books.
“There is something I need to ask you, my lady.”
“Call me Shavas, please,” she said, moving nearer to him.
The mage ran a golden hand along the spines of several books. Dust collected on his fingers, and he regarded the fine gray powder with a frown, disliking the treatment the texts received. He rubbed his fingers together, letting the dust fall onto the carpet. “What is our success worth to you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question,” Shavas replied, shaking her head slightly and furrowing her arched brows.
“It is very simple, Councillor,” Raistlin said, moving, unconsciously, nearer to her. “What value do you place on our success?”
“It would mean saving the city and the entire world, of course. It means everything to me, because unless you succeed, there will be nothing left but darkness and despair.” Shavas said this casually, without undue excitement. She even smiled slightly, as if darkness and despair weren’t anything she couldn’t handle. “What do you expect me to say? That your success is worth the wealth of the entire city? That you could take anything you wanted, Master Wizard?” She glanced at Raistlin alluringly.
He felt his body react to her presence and immediately angrily raised his defenses. “I am not a Master Wizard. I have not attained that high level,” he said with mocking humility. “Forgive me, I was only asking on principle. I am sorry if you feel offended,” he added, pulling the cowl of his red robes over his head.
The councillor stepped away from him. “Then you agree to our terms?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t say that at all. I will have to take time to consider,” the mage said from the depths of his robes.
“You will tell me tomorrow?” Shavas inquired, with a touch of impatience.
“Perhaps.” Raistlin turned back to the fire and was startled to feel Shavas moving again to stand near him. Gold mask in place, he asked harshly, “Is there something wrong, Councillor?”
“No,” she said, pulling back slightly and placing a hand over the necklace she wore at her throat. “It’s just that I’ve never been this close to a mage before.”
“You have no mystics in Mereklar?” Raistlin asked with a rise in his voice.
“Yes, that is correct. No mage has entered the city for a very long time.”
“And why is that, I wonder?”
“I don’t know.” Shavas shrugged white shoulders. After a moment’s consideration, she added, “There was a wizard who lived in the mountains. But I hear he was killed long ago by some … evil force.”
“Spooks,” said Raistlin, half-smiling.
“What?” The woman looked startled.
“Nothing, just some inanity of my brother’s. What kind of force killed him?”
“I’m not sure. It’s only a legend which began long before I was born. What you said about ‘spooks,’ though. I have heard that he was killed by ghosts. Is that common among wizards?”
“That type of magic is not in the realm of my studies, Councillor. I am no necromancer.”
Shavas leaned forward slightly. “Have you ever considered becoming one?”
She was almost touching him. Raistlin stared at her. “Why, Councillor?” he asked softly. “Are you offering to teach me?”
The woman laughed merrily. “How droll you are! As if I could teach you anything! I know nothing of magic and magicians.”
Yes, my lady, that is what you claim, but why do you ask a question like that? And why do you keep a library filled with magical books if you can’t read them? the mage wondered, but he said nothing.
A moment of silence passed between councillor and magician. Raistlin looked slowly around the library. Shavas stood motionless, her head angled slightly back to observe the mage’s movements. The braid of her hair shone a rich reddish brown. No light from the fire reached her deep green eyes, but they glittered like emeralds.
“Where were you going before you decided to come to Mereklar?” she asked.
Raistlin ran his fingers along the volumes, reading some of their titles and the names of the authors who wrote them.
“You have an excellent collection of books, Councillor,” he said, finding a particularly interesting manuscript, History of Modern Philosophies.
“Thank you, but you still haven’t answered my question.”
Raistlin turned to face his hostess, letting the book fall back into place. “My companions and I were on our way across New Sea on personal business.” His voice was cold, almost insulting.
“Now it is my turn to say that I am sorry if I have offended,” the councillor said, gliding back to her seat.
Raistlin took advantage of the opportunity to dip his finger slightly into the glass he had set on a nearby table. When he was sure the councillor was not looking at him, he drew his finger across his eyes, causing them to tear from the alcohol. The mage scanned the room quickly, staring up at the ceiling and to the walls.
The line-the stream of age and untold power-did not appear. Where is it? It must lead here from Southgate Street and cut through the house!
Raistlin moved to look out a window to the road that led from the gate, hoping he would find the line there, but the pane of glass was opaque.
“Are you looking for something, Raistlin?” Shavas asked in concern.
“I have a cinder in my eyes,” he said, rubbing them. Then the knowledge struck him. He knew what had been bothering him.
His hourglass eyes saw the effects of time on everything upon which his gaze fell. The Masters of the Tower had cast this curse upon him, hoping to teach him compassion for others, hoping to remind him that all men were alike, all men dying. He saw the books on the shelves rotting away, their leather bindings cracking and fading. He saw the tables lose their lacquered sheens and grow old, their timbers and slats fall in scattered stacks. But when he looked at Shavas, he saw her young, beautiful, unchanging.
This can’t be! he railed, massaging his eyes with his hand. When he opened his eyes again, he felt his body grow cold. The councillor’s form was now nothing but a rotting corpse, struck down by the passage of untold eons, an abomination to life, something unspeakable and unnatural, a travesty that must be destroyed.
What new joke have the masters played on me now? Raistlin demanded silently. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, attempting to shut out the horrible sight he had just witnessed.
“What is wrong?” Shavas asked, rising to her feet. She moved closer, and Raistlin felt her hands touch his golden flesh. He felt the touch of a woman, the fatal touch of something he never expected to feel.
“As I have said, I am fine,” Raistlin replied tersely. He snatched his arm away from the woman’s grasp.
She gazed at him, hurt, reminding him of Caramon.
Raistlin sighed. His hand reached for the staff, but he had left it standing beside the bookshelves.
“Please forgive me, Councillor. I’m not used to anyone … touching me. I apologize if I seem rude.”
“No apologies are necessary, Raistlin. I think I understand. You have been misused, ill-treated. You raise your defenses swiftly.” The councillor lifted her hand and placed it on the mage’s arm. “I assure you, sir,” she murmured, drawing nearer until he could smell the fragrance of her hair, “that you need no defenses around me!”
Raistlin caught his breath, feeling as if he were smothering. But the sensation, unlike his illness, was a pleasant one. She was beautiful to his eyes, the only thing of beauty he’d seen in a long, long time. His arm glided around the woman’s slender body, and he pulled her near.