Caramon watched her, his desire a physical pain. “ ‘I long to hear the epiphany of your woman’s crown, and play upon its shining strands,’ ” he whispered.
The councillor bent down, kneeling in front of her guest. Bringing her cheek close to Caramon’s mouth, she nestled near him. “That’s beautiful. Did you make it up?”
“No,” the fighter replied, clasping her in his arms, drawing her down to lie beside him in the cool grass. “It’s something Raist used to say. I think he read it in a book. He’s always … reading … books.”
Shavas brought her hands up to caress his face, brushing the backs of her long, perfect fingernails against his rough skin.
“Say it to me again, Caramon,” she whispered.
But he knew she didn’t really want to hear the quote.
Which was good, because he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember it.
Raistlin sat on the couch in Shavas’s library, flipping absently through the book Caramon had glanced over two evenings ago. Noting the blank pages, he tossed it aside in contempt.
The councillor had left the door to her estate open, allowing the mage access. Her note did not say when she would return. Raistlin, knowing Caramon’s prowess, decided that the lady probably wouldn’t be back until morning. The mage stifled a small flame of jealous desire that threatened to engulf him in a raging fire.
“The magic,” he said to himself. “Never forget what is important.”
Raistlin rose to his feet, preparing to cast a spell. His chant began as a low murmuring, a song that filled the room with indescribable music. His left hand opened wide, then closed, fingers opening again in patterns of power, drawing strength from Krynn and the unseen planes. He raised the black staff high into the air, arm straight, bringing it slowly back against his robed body, curving it in an arc to his side.
In answer to his command, three books began to glow.
Knowing the spell wouldn’t last long, Raistlin marked in his memory their location and sat back down on the couch. He drew a deep, shivering breath. Staring at his treasure, his body, too, ached with desire.
Gathering and calming his thoughts, he moved slowly to the bookshelf, reached up a trembling hand, and pulled down the first text. It was entitled, Mereklar. Below that was inscribed, The Lord of the Cats.
“What’s this?” Raistlin studied the brown cover, frowning. It appeared that the second half of the title had been added on in haste, as if the binder had been given a last-minute instruction. He placed it on the table near the fire, sitting down in the wooden chair, opening the book to the first page. Among the illuminations of red, blue, and gold were scrawling letters, written by an unknown, unnamed scholar of ages past.
The origins of Mereklar are unknown, and will remain unknown until such time as it needs to be discovered. The purpose of the city is clear and final, and those within know its reasons. The cats must live here, for their purpose will be known when the time is come.
“What nonsense!” the mage snarled. “I expected magical spells, not a tour guide!”
He turned to another page and found a picture of a black-skinned man dressed in black clothes standing in front of a blasted cityscape. Lightning cracked against an orange sky, and three moons formed a Great Eye in the unnatural air. The street looked familiar to Raistlin, but he couldn’t immediately place it. Underneath the painting was the caption: The Lord of Cats in his realm of despair, waiting, stealthy and black, for the gate to open.
“Interesting. Very interesting,” said Raistlin, his anger gone. He began to carefully turn the ancient parchments, one by one, until he reached the end of the book. “This certainly puts matters in a different light than the prophecies would have it.”
The Lord of Cats brings his demons … will lead the cats against the world … destroys the city that stands before the first gods … slays those who bring harm to his dominion … agent of evil.
Reaching the end, Raistlin brought his index fingers to his lips. It was of interest, certainly, but it wasn’t in the least magical. What had caused it to respond to his spell? “I have never come across anything like this before. And what am I to believe? The legends of the city or the facts in this book?”
He replaced the text on the shelf, going to the next of the three he had discovered. Lifting his hand to the top shelf, he noticed another book on the ledge.
The title was Tanis Half-Elven.
“Fascinating, but, unfortunately, not important,” Raistlin remarked.
Taking the text he originally wanted back to the table, he lifted the black, fraying cover and turned to the opening page.
The Accounts of the Mage Ali Azra of the Shining Planes-The City of the White Stone.
“Ah!” Raistlin breathed in excitement. The tales of the supposedly mad wizard Ali Azra of the mythical Shining Planes were among his favorites, combining magical text with entertaining stories. He had read them against the commands of his masters, who maintained that the information was too advanced and dangerous for a young mage’s comprehension. But that had never stopped Raistlin, who found Azra’s techniques fascinating, though his style was rather irritating.
Long have I studied the stones of Mereklar, longer even than when I studied the Pillars of Isclangaard.
Raistlin smiled at the mention of Isclangaard. The chronicle was the first he had ever read.
And like the pillars, many fantastic things have I learned, which I now lay down upon these pages for my children to know. Among my children I list- Raistlin skipped ahead. Ali Azra never failed to list every one of his pupils. The mage flipped pages until he found the first chapter heading.
The Walls: Symbols of Purity. The walls of the fantastic and wonderful city of Mereklar surround the land with three great barriers against evil. The white marble is a warning to those who would bring harm upon the inhabitants. Inscribed on the Walls of the Fantastic and Wonderful City of Mereklar are the legends and tales of the world, Krynn, and other places that even I, the Great and Powerful Mage Ali Azra, must confess I have only glimpsed briefly, hardly long enough to give full and accurate accountings, as I am sure you, gentle reader, would desire.
Raistlin scowled. “Gentle reader” was a term he detested.
When you follow in my illustrious footsteps, as I am sure you shall, wanting to become more familiar with my greatness, desiring to taste of the power which I now freely command, you will find that the Walls of the Fantastic and Wonderful the City of Mereklar cannot be scratched by any force, and no spell, of good intent or evil, can affect it. “Why is this” you ask, and ask you should, for in the knowing there is power. Let it be known that I, the Great and Powerful Mage Ali Azra, know the origins of the City of Mereklar, and they are that the Incomparable Gods of Good, among them numbered Paladine, Majere, and Mishakal, with whom I have had the pleasure of conversing, sent the city to the land, commanding that it not be harmed by element or man.
“All right, all right!” Raistlin muttered impatiently. “If the gods of good did create Mereklar, what was their purpose?” The magician read further into the book, hoping to discover an answer to his question. However, he learned nothing of interest, merely accounts of Azra’s journeys and wanderings, occasionally mentioning the city, though without giving any useful information. The wizard hadn’t even bothered to include a useful spell.
Slamming shut the account of the mad mage, Raistlin placed it back on the shelf. Going to the third and final text, he pulled out a volume covered in red velvet, darkened by age. The title was simple, Arcanus, a name found on many magical treatises. Walking back to the table, Raistlin opened to the first page, and his eyes widened as he beheld a spiral of runes, burned into the page, the sigla surrounded by the yellow discolorations of heat.