The warrior’s throat constricted as if the skeletal hands had clutched his windpipe. He tried to move, to keep near his brother to protect him, but he felt invisible ropes and coils wrap around his limbs.
Raistlin walked toward the wizard, holding the black staff in front of him. Reaching out, the wizard touched Raistlin’s forehead with a spectral finger. The mage went flying violently backward, his body crashing into the model of Mereklar.
Caramon strained against his prison, using all his strength and will to break free. But his legs were held by great chains, his arms pinioned to his sides by heavy weights. The warrior looked to Bast, pleading with him to help, but the black-skinned man stood motionless-a seemingly disinterested spectator.
Raistlin struggled to his feet from the wreckage of the model. Leaning on his staff, gazing at the wraith with narrowed eyes, he gritted his teeth and started again to walk toward him.
“You are brave, Red Robes. I admire that. We could have understood one another, I think. Look. Look behind you.”
Raistlin turned. The model was perfectly whole again. Three glowing white lines stretched from each gate to the center of the city, where a domed building stood, also glowing with power. Lines extended along the walls of the city, creating a triangle divided into three sections.
A loud moaning sound rose in the cave, writhing in the air as if it were something alive, dying down to a voice filled with wrath.
“Hear my words! You wear the mask of gold, but another wears a mask of flesh. Do not be deceived, for you have seen its true complexion. It was my downfall. If you falter, it will be yours.”
The wraith vanished. Raistlin collapsed, falling unconscious. Caramon saw Bast bending over his brother, and the warrior-freed from enchantment-lurched forward.
Something small and furry leaped at him from out of the shadows. Startled, Caramon staggered backward and hit his head on a rock. Pain shot through his head. He fell and lay, stunned, unable to move. Dimly, he heard voices.…
“Do I get rid of them, my lord?”
“No, they may yet be of some use. We can always destroy them later. The kender?”
“We lost him, my lord.”
“I told you to guard him carefully!”
“He appeared harmless.…”
“He is. The ring is not.”
“Your orders, my lord?”
“Let these two go. I have business elsewhere. Time runs short, and there are still seven left. Keep your eyes on these two.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Caramon shook his head to clear it. Putting a hand up, he tried to rub away the pain. “Raist?” he called, sitting.
His brother lay unconscious on the ground. Near him, curled up by his side, purring loudly, was a large tabby cat.
Chapter 20
“Raist!” Caramon glancing askance at the tabby cat, bent over his brother. “Raist, are you all right?” he asked helplessly. If his twin was suffering from some sort of magical affliction, Caramon had no idea what he would do.
Raistlin’s eyelids fluttered. He opened them and gazed around as if trying to recall where he was. Suddenly remembering, he sat bolt upright.
“How long was I unconscious?”
“Not long. Only a few moments.”
The mage looked sharply around. “Where’s Bast?”
“Gone, I guess,” said Caramon uneasily, remembering the dimly heard conversation, wondering if he’d dreamed it.
Raistlin gripped his brother’s arm. “Help me up.”
“Should you? What happened? That wizard-”
“No time for questions! Help me up! We must return to the city!”
“The city? How? They won’t let us in the gate!”
“It may be easier than you suppose, my brother,” said Raistlin grimly. “It may be far too easy.”
Raistlin was right. The gate was deserted. The guards had fled their posts.
“Listen, do you hear it?” Raistlin asked, tilting his head.
Caramon shook his head. “No, I don’t hear a thing.”
“Exactly. There is no sound in the city.”
Caramon drew the bastard sword from his back with a single motion, feeling ‘warrior’s fear’ creep into his limbs. He listened more closely now, and did hear something, something that was moving closer to their present location with great speed.
“Raist, come on!” he yelled, grabbing his brother and pulling him through the gate, into an alley, ducking behind old barrels and boxes. He recognized the sound now, the sound of terror and hatred, the need to destroy the misunderstood.
“We’ll find ’em! First Lord Manion. Now Lord Brunswick!”
“The wizard wears long red robes!”
“The big one’s got more muscles than a horse!”
The mob surged past them. Raistlin frowned in irritation. “I don’t have time for this. I must see Councillor Shavas.”
Caramon stared at him. “But- You think she tried to kill you!”
“No, my brother. Not kill me. You see, Caramon,” Raistlin said, with a soft sigh, “I think that I am at last beginning to understand.”
“I’m glad you are. I don’t understand a damn thing! Well, we better get started, before they come back.”
“No, my brother. Not we. I must go alone.”
“But-”
“Return to Barnstoke Hall. There may be news of the kender. If what you say you overheard is true, he has probably escaped. Caramon”-Raistlin looked at him intently-“beware the ring he wears!”
And then, before Caramon could say a word, the mage was gone, slipping into the shadows of late afternoon, gliding down the street like a wraith.
Lady Masak closed the record book, shuddering slightly at what she’d read. With an unsteady hand, she placed the text back on the shelf among the others of its kind, the rows and rows of gold-inlaid dates shining brightly in the afternoon sunlight. She sat down in her white chair, sipping at a cup of steaming tea.
The room was very long, colored gray by stains and paints, and dominated by a single table that stretched its expanse. The only chair was the one the Director of Records occupied. Over a thousand books filled the hall-the legacy of the citizens and council members of Mereklar since the city was discovered.
The woman cocked her head suddenly and turned her gaze out the window to the city below. She’d heard something, or thought she had. It sounded like a scream.
Lady Masak placed the cup of tea onto its saucer and reached under the table, pulling out a triangular roll of cloth, black and worn with age. Unfolding the wrap, she lifted a wand from its coverings, balancing the object with a finger. One end of it bent down from the line of its construction and was covered with sigla burned into the dark wood. The other end was surrounded by a band of metal, seamless and perfect-a ring that left the tip exposed, revealing a deep, circular gouge. The lady looked down the object’s length and smiled.
A loud noise came from downstairs. She pushed the chair back from the table, then crossed in silence to the door. Lady Masak put her ear to the wood.
A hand smashed through, reaching for her throat. The woman brought the end of the wand down onto the clutching black fingers, cracking bone and ripping tendons. The hand withdrew, seemingly injured from the blow, pulling out of the hole it had created.
Lady Masak backed up, behind the chair. No sound came from the other side of the door. The woman raised the wand, pointed the metal-shod tip toward the portal, and concentrated. A bright red beam flashed out from the gouge, struck the door, and disintegrated the wood, sending smoke and dust through the air in a choking cloud.
Lady Masak remained standing where she was, listening intently for the intruder. Glass shattered behind her. Too late, she tried to turn. A blow sent her sprawling against the table, her back rent open by tearing claws. She twisted around, bringing the wand up. Another bolt of crimson arced out from the gouge, but the panther had leaped lightly to one side. The red flame hit the city’s records, setting them ablaze.