Raistlin ignored him and spoke to Astinus. “When I lay dying, you said to me, ‘So this ends your journey, my old friend.’ Your old friend, Fistandantilus, the wizard who crafted the Sphere of Time for you. Look into my eyes, sir. Look into the hourglass pupils that are my constant torment. Do you see your ‘old friend’?”
“I do not,” said Astinus after a moment. Then he added with a shrug, “So you won.”
“I won,” said Raistlin proudly. “I came to pay my debt—”
Astinus made a gesture as though brushing away gnats. “You owe me nothing.”
“I always pay my debts,” Raistlin said sharply. He reached into a pocket of the black velvet robes and drew out a scroll wrapped in black ribbon. “I thought perhaps you would like this. It is an account of the battle between us. For your records.”
He held out the scroll. Astinus hesitated a moment; then he took the scroll. Raistlin removed the staff, and Astinus slammed shut the door.
“I know the way out,” Raistlin told Bertrem.
“The master said I was to escort you,” said Bertrem, and he not only walked with Raistlin to the door, but accompanied him down the marble stairs and out into the street.
“I washed the gray robes and left them folded on the bed,” Raistlin said. “Thank you for the use of them.”
“Of course,” said Bertrem, babbling with relief at finally being rid of his strange visitor. “Any time.”
He flushed, suddenly, and stammered, “That is … I don’t mean ‘any time.’”
Raistlin smiled at the Aesthetic’s discomfiture. He reached into his pouch and clasped his hand around the dragon orb and made ready to cast his spell. It would be the first powerful spell he had cast without hearing that whispering voice in his head. He had bragged that the power was his. He would finally know whether or not he had spoken the truth.
Gripping the Staff of Magius in one hand and the dragon orb in the other, Raistlin spoke the words of magic.
“Berjalan cepat dalam berlua tanah.”
A portal opened in the midst of space and time. He looked through it and saw the black, twisted spires of a temple. Raistlin had never been to Neraka, but he had spent time in the Great Library reading descriptions of the city. He recognized the Temple of Takhisis.
Raistlin entered the portal.
He looked out of it to see poor Bertrem, his eyes bulging, frantically pawing the empty air with his hands. “Sir! Where have you gone? Sir?”
Unable to find his vanished guest, Bertrem gulped and turned and fled up the stairs to the library, running as fast as his sandaled feet would carry him.
The portal closed behind Raistlin and opened on his new life.
BOOK II
1
The Court of the Nightlord.
Iolanthe’s formal title was “Wizardess to the Emperor.” She was known informally as Ariakas’s Witch or by other names even less flattering, though those were spoken only behind her back. No one dared say them to her face, for the “witch” was powerful.
The guards at the Red Gate saluted as she approached them. The Temple of Takhisis had six gates. The main gate was in the front. That gate, the Queen’s Gate, was manned by eight dark pilgrims whose duty was to escort visitors through the temple. Five other gates were placed at various points around the temple’s perimeter. Each of those gates opened into the camp of one of the five dragonarmies, which were fighting the Dark Queen’s war of conquest.
Iolanthe avoided the main gate, for although she was the Emperor’s mistress and under his protection, she was a wielder of magic, a worshiper of the gods of magic, and though one of those gods was the Dark Queen’s son, the dark pilgrims viewed any wizard with deep suspicion and mistrust.
The dark pilgrims would have allowed her to enter the temple (not even the Nightlord, who was the head of the Holy Order of Takhisis, dared incur the wrath of the Emperor), but the clerics would have made her visit as unpleasant as possible, insulting her, demanding to know her business, and finally insisting upon sending one of the loathsome pilgrims as an escort.
By contrast, the draconians of the Red Dragonarmy, who were charged with guarding the Red Gate, fell over their clawed feet to be accommodating to the beautiful wizardess. A languishing glance from her lavender eyes, which glittered like amethysts beneath her long, black eyelashes; a gentle brush of her slender fingers on the sivak’s scaly arm; a charming smile from carnelian lips; and the sivak commander was only too happy to permit Iolanthe to enter the temple.
“You are here late, Mistress Iolanthe,” said the sivak. “It is well after Dark Watch. Not a good time to walk the halls of the temple alone. Would you like me to accompany you?”
“Thank you, Commander. I would appreciate the company,” Iolanthe replied, and she fell into step beside him. He was new and she tried to recall his name. “Commander Slith, isn’t it?”
“Yes, madam,” said the sivak with a grin and a gallant flick of his wings.
Iolanthe found the Temple of Takhisis to be an unnerving place even during the daylight hours. Not that much daylight ever managed to beat its way inside, but at least the knowledge that the sun was shining somewhere made her feel better. Iolanthe had sometimes been forced to walk the halls of the temple after dark, and she had not liked it. The dark pilgrims, those clerics who were dedicated to the worship of the Dark Queen, performed their unhallowed rites in the hours of darkness. Iolanthe’s own hands were far from clean, but at least she washed the blood of victims from her fingers; she did not drink it.
Iolanthe had another reason for wanting an armed escort. The Nightlord hated her, and he would have rejoiced to see her buried in sand up to her neck with buzzards pecking out her eyes and ants devouring her flesh. She was safe, at least for the moment. Ariakas held his strong hand over her.
At least for the moment.
Iolanthe knew quite well that he would eventually tire of her. Then his strong hand would either be clenched to a fist or, worse, wave dismissively. She did not think the time had yet come for him to want to get rid of her. Even if he did, Ariakas would not hand her over to the dark clerics. He disliked and distrusted the Nightlord as much as the Nightlord disliked and distrusted him. Ariakas was the type to simply strangle her.
“What brings you to the temple at this hour, madam?” Slith asked. “Not here for the Dark Watch service, are you?”
“Gods, no!” said Iolanthe with a shiver. “The Nightlord sent someone to fetch me.”
She was wakened in the middle of the night by one of the dark pilgrims shouting outside the window of her dwelling, which was located above a mageware shop. The cleric would not risk contaminating himself by actually knocking on a wizard’s door, and so he yelled from the street, waking the neighbors, who opened their windows, prepared to fling the contents of their chamber pots on whoever was making that ungodly racket. Seeing the black robes of a cleric of Takhisis and hearing him invoke the name of the Nightlord, the neighbors slammed shut their windows and probably went to hide under their beds.
The dark pilgrim did not wait to escort her. His task done, he hastened off before Iolanthe could dress and find out what was going on. She had never before been summoned to the Temple of Takhisis by the Nightlord, and she didn’t like it. She had been forced to traverse the dangerous streets of Neraka after dark by herself. She had conjured a ball of bright, glowing light and held it, crackling, in the palm of her hand. It was not a difficult spell, but it was showy and would mark her as a user of magic. The outlaws who roamed the streets would know immediately that she was not an easy mark, and they would steer clear of her.
The streets had been sparsely populated; most of the troops were off fighting the Dark Queen’s war. Unfortunately those soldiers who remained in Neraka were in a surly mood. Rumor had it that Takhisis’s war, which had been as good as won, was not going so well after all.