Iolanthe remained standing near the door more by instinct than because she would have any hope of escape if something went wrong. She bowed to the Nightlord. He was an elderly human, somewhere in his seventies; of medium height, thin and wiry. With his long, gray hair, which was always neatly combed, and his kindly and benevolent face, the Nightlord had the appearance of a benign, old gentleman.
Until you looked into his eyes.
The Nightlord saw the darkest depths of evil to which the soul of man can sink, and he reveled in the sight. He took joy in the pain and suffering of others. The Adjudicator inflicted the torture as the Nightlord watched, reacting to the screams and torment in perverse ways that caused even those who served him to regard him with fear and loathing. The Nightlord’s eyes were as dispassionate as those of a shark, as empty as those of a snake. The only time anyone ever saw his eyes gleam was when he was in the throes of his horrid pleasures.
He made Iolanthe’s gorge rise, and she was not one to give way easily to fear. She was, after all, the mistress to Ariakas, the second most dangerous man in Ansalon. Even the Emperor grudgingly acknowledged that the Nightlord was the first.
With those horrid eyes fixed on her, Iolanthe would not give the man the satisfaction of seeing her cower. She made him a slight bow; then, as if bored by the sight of him, she shifted her gaze to his prisoner. She saw, to her vast astonishment, that the prisoner was a mage, that he was young, and that he was wearing the black robes. Her heart sank. No wonder the Nightlord had summoned her.
“You are in a great deal of trouble, Mistress Iolanthe,” said the Nightlord in his mild voice. “As you see, we have captured your spy.”
The Adjudicator smiled, and flexed his biceps.
“My spy?” Iolanthe repeated, astounded. “I never saw this man before in my life!”
The Nightlord regarded her intently. He had the goddess-given ability to tell when people were lying to him, though he did not often use it. Generally he did not care whether people were lying or not; he tortured them anyway.
“And yet,” he said, “you two are birds of feather, so to speak.”
“We both wear the black robes, if that’s what you mean,” Iolanthe replied disdainfully. “There are a great many of us who do. I don’t suppose your lordship knows every servant of Takhisis in the world.”
“You’d be surprised,” the Nightlord returned dryly. “But if you two really do not know each other, allow me to introduce you. Iolanthe, meet Raistlin Majere.”
Raistlin Majere, Iolanthe repeated to herself. I’ve heard that name before. …
Then she remembered.
By Nuitari! Iolanthe stared at the young man.
Raistlin Majere was Kitiara’s brother!
2
The Mage. The Witch. And the Maniac.
The harsh light glared down on Raistlin, on him alone, making him seem the only person in the room. Iolanthe drew nearer to see him better.
He was leaning for support on a staff made of wood topped by a dragon’s claw holding a crystal globe. Iolanthe recognized at once that the staff was magical and guessed that it was extremely powerful. The young man’s other hand fiddled nervously with a leather pouch he wore attached to his belt. The pouch was nondescript, the sort any wizard might use to hold components necessary to the casting of spells. She noted that the mage wore several pouches, all of them undoubtedly containing various components. He kept his hand near only one.
And though she wondered immediately why that pouch was singled out for special treatment, she did not give the matter much thought. She was far more interested in the hand than the pouch. The skin of it glistened with a golden sheen, as though the mage had been dipped in the precious metal. The odd color was the result of some magical spell, no doubt, but what and why?
She shifted her gaze from the mage’s hand to his face. He had removed his black cowl, leaving his face exposed, and Iolanthe searched for a resemblance to his sister. She did not find it in his features. His face was handsome, or would have been if it had not been thin and drawn and pale with exhaustion. The skin of his face was the same golden hue as that of his hands.
His eyes were astonishing. They were large and intense, the black pupils the shape of hourglasses. He turned to look at her with his strange eyes, and Iolanthe saw no admiration in them, no desire, as she saw in the eyes of almost every other man who looked at her. Then she knew the reason.
The eyes were cursed; it was known as the “curse of Realanna,” for the fabled sorceress who had developed the spell. Every living being Raistlin looked upon would appear to age and wither and die. He saw her as she would look years in the future, perhaps an ugly, toothless, old hag.
Iolanthe shivered.
The resemblance to his sister appeared to be more in spirit than in body. Iolanthe saw Kitiara’s ruthless ambition in her brother’s firm, strong jaw; her fierce determination in the young man’s fixed expression; and her pride and self-confidence in his thrust-back shoulders. By contrast, there were qualities Kitiara lacked. Iolanthe saw sensitivity in the long, slender fingers of Raistlin’s hands and a shadowed look in his eyes. He had suffered in life. He had known pain, both physical and spiritual, and he had overcome both by the sheer force of his indomitable will.
She also noticed, as a point of interest, that there was no mark on him. He had not been beaten. His golden skin had not been flayed and fed to the dogs. His bones had not been broken on the rack, nor had the Adjudicator gouged out those interesting eyes. Somehow Raistlin had managed to thwart the Nightlord. Iolanthe found that fascinating.
She looked back at the Nightlord and saw that he was, in fact, annoyed and frustrated.
“I have never seen this person before,” Iolanthe reiterated. “I do not know who he is or where he came from.”
That was a lie. Kitiara had told Iolanthe all about her “baby” brother and their childhood in Solace. Raistlin had a twin brother, she recalled, a big, hulking, simple-minded fellow named Caringman or something odd like that. Supposedly the two were never apart. Iolanthe wondered what had become of Raistlin’s twin.
The Nightlord regarded her grimly. “I fail to believe you, madam.”
“I fail to understand any of this, your lordship,” said Iolanthe in exasperation. “If you are so worried that this young mage is a spy, why did you permit him to enter the temple?”
“We didn’t,” said the Nightlord coldly.
“Well, then, the draconian guards at one of the gates must have cleared him—”
“They didn’t,” said the Nightlord.
Iolanthe’s lashes fluttered in confusion. “Then how—?”
The Nightlord leaped upon the word. “How! That is the question I want answered! How did this mage come to be here? He did not enter by the front gate. The dark pilgrims would not have permitted it.”
Iolanthe knew that to be true. They never allowed her to pass without harassment, and she carried the Emperor’s authorization.
“He did not enter by any of the five dragonarmy gates. I have questioned the draconian commanders, and they all swear to me by the five heads of Takhisis that they did not allow him to pass. What is more”—the Nightlord gestured at the young man—”he himself admits that he did not come through any of the entrances. He appeared out of nowhere. And he will not say how he managed to evade all our warding spells.”
Iolanthe shrugged. “Far be it from me to give you advice, but I have heard that your lordship has methods of persuading people to tell you whatever you want to know.”
The Nightlord’s eyes narrowed. “I tried. Some force protects him. When the Adjudicator attempted to ‘question’ him, Majere attempted to cast a Circle of Protection spell—the efforts of an amateur. I was able to dismantle it, of course. The Adjudicator then tried to seize hold of him. But he could not.”