“You grow to be a nuisance, old man,” Raistlin said softly, and he didn’t give a damn if Fistandantilus heard him or not.
He had a plan and there was nothing the undead wizard could do to stop him.
4
The Cursed Tower. The Dragon Orb. Silence.
The new black robes were still slightly damp around the seams and they smelled faintly of almond. The scent came from the indigo, the dyer told him. Raistlin was also convinced he could detect the odor of urine, which was used to set the dye, despite the dyer’s assurance that the robes had been rinsed a great many times and that the smell was all in his imagination. The dyer offered to keep the robes and rinse them again, but Raistlin could not afford to take the time.
His biggest fear was that the Dark Queen would win her war before he had a chance to join her, impress her with his skill, and acquire her help in furthering his career. He pictured in his mind becoming a leader among the Black Robes of the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka, her capital city. He pictured the Tower itself; it must be magnificent. He supposed the wizard Ladonna lived there, if she were still head of the Order of Black. He grimaced at the thought of having to abase himself before the old crone, treat her as his superior. He’d have to explain why he had taken the black robes without seeking her permission.
Ah, well. His servitude would not last long. With the support of the Dark Queen, Raistlin would be able to rise above them all. He would have no more need of them. His ambitious dreams would be fulfilled.
“Your dreams?” Fistandantilus snarled, his voice pounding like blood in Raistlin’s ears. “Your dreams are my dreams! I spent a lifetime—many lifetimes—working toward my goal, becoming the Master of Past and Present. No sniveling, hacking upstart will steal it!”
Raistlin kept his own thoughts in check, refusing to be drawn into battle before he was ready. He walked rapidly, unerringly through the night toward his destination, toward his destiny. The Staff of Magius lit his way, the orb held in the dragon’s claw shining softly, illuminating the dark streets that, in this part of the city, were very dark and very empty. No lights shone in the windows, most of which were broken. No laughter rang from within the tumble-down buildings. The streets were deserted. No one, not even the fearless kender, dared venture into the shadow of the Tower of High Sorcery—not by day and especially not by night.
The Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas had once been the most beautiful of all the Towers of High Sorcery. Named the Lorespire, the Tower was to be dedicated to the search of wisdom and knowledge. The Tower graced Palanthas, its wizards assisting the knights to fight Queen Takhisis in the Third Dragon War. The wizards of all three orders came together to create the fabled dragon orbs and used them to lure the evil dragons into a trap. Takhisis was driven into the Abyss and the white Tower of the wizards and the High Clerist’s Tower of the Knights were both proud guardians of Solamnia.
Then came the rise of the Kingpriests, who dictated that sorcery was evil. The Knights were strong supporters of the Kingpriests, and they came to view the wizards with distrust and finally demanded that the wizards abandon the Tower. Two Towers of High Sorcery had already been attacked, and the wizards had destroyed them, with devastating results to the populaces of those cities. The wizards of Palanthas decided to surrender their Tower. The Lord of Palanthas had intended to take over the Tower for his own use, as the Kingpriest had taken over the Tower of Istar, but before the lord could turn the key in the lock, a black robe wizard named Andras Rannoch cast a curse upon it.
The crowd who had gathered to rejoice in the eviction of the wizards watched in horror as Rannoch cried out, “The gates will remain closed and the halls empty until the day comes when the Master of Past and Present returns with power.” Then he had leaped from the Tower and was impaled upon the barbs of the fence. As his blood flowed over the iron, he spoke a curse with his dying breath.
The beautiful tower was transformed into a thing of evil, horrible to look upon. Almost four hundred years had passed, and no one had dared come too near it. Many had tried, but few could summon up the courage to come within sight of the dread Shoikan Grove, a forest of oak trees that stood guard around the Tower. No one knew what went on in the grove. No one who entered the grove ever returned to tell.
Raistlin was here in this part of Palanthas because he had magic to perform, and it was vital that he be left alone. Any interruption—such as Bertrem knocking on his door—might well be fatal.
The Tower’s twisted remains came into view, blotting out the stars, blotting out the light of the two moons, Solinari and Lunitari. Nuitari, the dark moon, was still visible, though only to the eyes of those who had been initiated into the dark god’s secrets. Raistlin kept his eyes upon the dark moon and drew courage from it.
He pressed steadily on, even though he could feel the terror that flowed in a bone-chilling river from the Tower. Fear lapped at his feet. He shivered and drew his robes closer around him and went on. Fear grew deeper. He began to sweat. His hands trembled, his breath came fast, and he was afraid he would have a coughing fit. He gripped the Staff of Magius tightly, and though the shadow of the Tower snuffed out every other light in the world, the staff’s light did not fail him.
The river of terror grew so deep that he could barely find the courage to put one foot in front of the other. Death awaited him. The next step would be his doom. Still he took that next step. Gritting his teeth, he took another.
“Turn back!” Fistandantilus urged him, his voice hammering inside Raistlin’s brain. “You are mad to think of trying to destroy me. You need me.”
You need me, Raist! Caramon’s voice said, pleading. I can protect you.
“Shut up!” Raistlin said. “Both of you.”
He came within sight of the Shoikan Grove, and he shuddered and closed his eyes. He could not go on, not without risking dying of the terror. He was far from the populated part of the city. It would do. He searched around for a suitable place to cast his spell. Nearby was an empty building with three gables and leaded pane windows. According to the sign that dangled at a crazy angle from a hook, the building had once been a tavern known as the Wizard’s Hat, a name suitable for a tavern located near the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas.
The painted sign was extremely faded, but by the light of the staff, Raistlin could see a laughing wizard quaffing ale from a pointed hat. Raistlin was reminded of the senile old wizard, Fizban, who had worn (and continually mislaid) a hat that looked very much like the one portrayed on the sign.
The memory of Fizban made Raistlin uncomfortable, and he quickly banished it. He walked over to the door and shoved on it. The door creaked on rusty hinges and swung slowly open. Raistlin was about to enter when he had the feeling he was being watched. He told himself that was nonsense; no one in his right mind came to this part of the city. Just to reassure himself, he cast a glance around the street. He saw no one, and he was about to enter the tavern when he happened to look up at the sign. The painted eyes of the wizard were fixed on him. As he stared, one eye winked.
Raistlin shivered. The thought came to him that if he failed, he would die there and no one would ever know what had happened to him. His body would not be found. He would die and be forgotten, a pebble washed away in the River of Time.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Raistlin chided himself. He stared hard at the sign. “It was a trick of the light.”
He walked swiftly into the abandoned tavern and shut the door behind himself. All that time, Fistandantilus was berating him.