He speaks the truth, Raistlin thought in despair. I have no skill of my own. He told me the words to the spells. His knowledge gave me power. He watched over me, protected me as Caramon watched over me. And now Caramon is gone, and I have no one and nothing.
He is wrong. You have the magic.
The voice that spoke was his voice, and it came from his soul and drowned out the seductive voice of Fistandantilus.
“I have the magic,” said Raistlin aloud, and he knew that pronouncement to be the truth. For him, it was the only truth. He grew stronger as he spoke. “The words may have been your words, but the voice was mine. My eyes read the runes. My hand scattered the rose petals of sleep and flared with magical fire of death. I hold the key. I know myself. I know my weaknesses, and I know my worth. I know the darkness and the light. It was my strength, my power, my wisdom that mastered this dragon orb.”
Raistlin drew in a deep breath, and life filled his lungs. His heartbeat was strong and vital. For a moment, the curse that had been laid on his hourglass eyes was lifted. He no longer saw all things withering with age. He saw himself.
“I have been afraid all my life. I fell victim to you because of my fear.”
He saw his foe as a shadow of himself, cast across space and time. Raistlin gripped the hands firmly, confidently.
“I am afraid no longer. Our bargain is broken. I sever the tie.” “Only death severs our tie!” said Fistandantilus. “Seize him,” Raistlin commanded.
The blue and red, black and green, and white lights inside the orb swirled violently, dazzling Raistlin’s eyes and bursting inside his head. The colors coalesced, with green predominant. The dragon, Viper, began to form inside the orb, various parts of the beast visible to Raistlin as it thrashed about: a fiery eye, a green wing, a lashing tail, a horned snout and snarling mouth, dripping fangs, ripping claws. The eye glared at Raistlin, and then shifted its glare to Fistandantilus.
Viper lifted his wings and, still inside the orb, he soared through time and space.
Fistandantilus saw his danger. He looked frantically around, seeking some means of escape. His refuge had become his prison. He could not flee the plane of his tenuous existence.
“To use your magic against the dragon, you must have your hands free,” Raistlin said. “Let go of me, and I’ll let go of you.”
Fistandantilus swore and his grip on Raistlin tightened. Raistlin’s shoulder and arm muscles burned, and his hands trembled with the strain. He could see, in the mists of the dragon orb, the dragon, Viper, swooping down on the wizard.
Fistandantilus shouted words of magic. They came out as so much meaningless drivel. With one hand caught in Raistlin’s grip and the other clutching his heart, Fistandantilus could not use the gestures needed to unleash the power of his spell. He could not trace the runes in the air, could not cast balls of flame or send spiked lightning jabbing from his fingers.
The dragon opened his fanged mouth and extended his talons.
Raistlin was almost finished. Yet he would not let go. If the strain killed him, death would only tighten his grip, not break it.
Fistandantilus set him free. Raistlin sank onto the table, gasping for breath. Though his hands were weak and shaking, he managed to keep his hold on the dragon orb.
“Let go of me!” Fistandantilus raved. “Release me! That was our bargain.”
“I do not have hold of you,” said Raistlin.
He heard a shriek of rage and saw a rush of green; the dragon was returning to the dragon orb. Raistlin stared inside the orb, into the swirling mists.
He saw the face of an old man, a ravaged face, gnawed by time. Fleshless hands beat against the crystal walls of his prison. His yammering mouth shrieked threats.
Raistlin waited tensely to hear the voice in his head. The mouth gibbered and gabbled, and Raistlin smiled.
He heard nothing. All was silence.
He ran his hand over the smooth, cold surface of the dragon orb, and it began to shrink in size. When it was no larger than a marble, he picked it up and dropped it into the pouch. He dismantled the crude stand and slid the pieces into a pocket of his black robes.
He paused a moment before he left the tavern to look around at the empty tables and chairs. He could see the wizards sitting there, drinking elven wine and dwarven ale.
“One day I will come here,” Raistlin told them. “I will sit with you and drink with you. We will toast the magic. One day, when I am the Master of Past and Present, I will travel through time. I will come back. And when I come back, I will succeed where he failed.”
Raistlin drew the cowl of his black robes over his head and left the Wizard’s Hat.
Raistlin woke that morning after a sound night’s sleep, a sleep uninterrupted by coughing fits. He drew in a deep breath of the morning air and felt it fill his lungs. He breathed freely. His heart beat strong and vibrantly. He was hungry and ate the bread soaked in milk, which was the monks’ breakfast, with relish.
He was well. He was whole. Tears of joy stung his eyes. He brushed them away and packed up his few belongings, his spell components, his spellbooks, and the Staff of Magius. He was ready to depart, but first he had an errand to run. He needed to repay his debt to Astinus, who had given him, albeit inadvertently, the key: self-knowledge. And he owed a debt to the Aesthetics, who had cared for him, fed him, and clothed him.
Raistlin sought out Bertrem, who was generally to be found hovering near Astinus’s chamber, guarding his privacy or ready to dash forth at his command.
Bertrem’s eyes widened at the sight of Raistlin’s black robes. The Aesthetic swallowed several times. His hands fluttered nervously, but he blocked the way to Astinus’s chamber.
“I don’t care what you do to me. You will not harm the master!” said Bertrem bravely.
“I came only to take my leave of Astinus,” Raistlin said.
Bertrem cast a fearful glance at the door. “The master is not to be disturbed.”
“I think he will want to see me,” said Raistlin quietly, and he advanced a step.
Bertrem stumbled back a step and bumped up against the door. “I am quite certain he would not—”
The door flew open, causing Bertrem to fall inside, nearly trampling Astinus. Bertrem ducked out of the way and flattened himself against the wall, trying in vain to become one with the marble.
“What is this banging and shouting outside my door?” Astinus demanded in acerbic tones. “I cannot work with all this commotion!”
“I am leaving Palanthas, sir,” Raistlin said. “I wanted to thank you—”
“I have nothing to say to you, Raistlin Majere,” said Astinus, preparing to shut the door. “Bertrem, since you are a failure at providing me with the peace and quiet I desire, you will escort this gentleman out.”
Bertrem’s face flushed with shame. He sidled out the door and, greatly daring, plucked at Raistlin’s black sleeve. “This way—”
“Wait, sir!” Raistlin said, and he thrust his staff into the doorway to prevent Astinus from closing the door. “I ask you the question you asked me the day I arrived: What do you see when you look at me?”
“I see Raistlin Majere,” Astinus replied, glowering.
“You do not see your ‘old friend’?” Raistlin said.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Astinus said, and again he tried to shut the door.
Bertrem tugged harder at Raistlin’s black sleeve. “You must not disturb the master—”