Exhausted from his experiences in the dungeon, Raistlin lay down on the floor, covered himself with the blanket, and fell immediately asleep. He dreamed of the dungeons, of hanging naked from chains, of a man holding a burning hot rod of iron coming toward him …
Raistlin woke with a gasp. Sunlight flooded the room. He did not at first remember where he was, and he stared around in confusion until memory brought the events of last night back to him. He sighed and closed his eyes. He reached out his hand, as he normally did of a morning, and felt the staff lying by his side; its smooth wood warm and reassuring.
Raistlin smiled to think of the discomfiture the Nightlord would feel when he went to gloat over the valuable artifact he had lately acquired, only to discover it had disappeared during the night. One of the staff’s magical powers was that it always returned to its owner. Raistlin had known, when he handed it over, that the staff would come back to him.
Stiff from sleeping on the hard floor, he sat up, rubbing his back and neck to try to ease the kinks in his muscles. The small apartment was quiet. His hostess was not yet awake. Raistlin was glad for a chance to be alone, to sort out his thoughts.
He performed his ablutions then boiled water to prepare the herbal tea that eased his cough. The Nightlord had taken his herbs away from him, but they were common enough, and a rummage through Iolanthe’s kitchen produced all he needed. It was only when he was pouring the water into the kettle that he remembered that he didn’t need to drink his tea; his cough was gone. He was well again. Fistandantilus was no longer leeching away half his life.
Raistlin was accustomed to drinking the tea, and he continued to brew it. Unfortunately, the task brought back memories of his brother. Caramon had always fixed Raistlin’s tea for him, making of it a daily ritual. Their friends, Tanis and the others, had watched Caramon do the menial work for his twin in disapproval.
“Your legs aren’t broke,” Flint had once said to Raistlin. “Fix your own damn tea!”
Raistlin could have brewed his own tea, of course, but it wouldn’t have been the same. He allowed his brother to prepare his tea not, as his friends thought, to exhibit his ascendancy over Caramon or demean him. The homely act brought back fond memories to both of them, memories of the years they had walked strange and dangerous roads, each watching the other’s back, each dependent on the other for companionship and protection.
Raistlin sat before the kitchen fire, listening to the water bubble in the teakettle, and he thought of those days alone on the road, their small cooking fire blazing beneath the greater, more glorious fire of the sun. Caramon would sit on a log or a boulder or whatever happened to be handy, holding the clay mug in one big hand that almost engulfed it, sprinkling the herbs from the bag into the water, measuring out the leaves with care and intense concentration.
Raistlin, sitting nearby, would watch with impatience, telling Caramon that he did not need to be so careful; he could just dump the leaves in the cup.
Caramon would always say no, it was important to have the proper mixture. Did he or did he not know how to make an excellent cup of tea? Raistlin would always admit that his brother did make wonderful tea; that was true. No matter how hard Raistlin tried, he had never been able to duplicate Caramon’s recipe. No matter how hard he tried, Raistlin’s tea did not taste the same. His scientific mind scoffed at the fact that love and care could make a difference to a cup of tea, but he had to admit he could find no other explanation.
He poured the boiling water into the mug and shook out the herbs, which floated on the top before sinking. The smell was always slightly unpleasant; the taste was not that bad. He’d grown to like it. He sipped at the tea, a stranger in a strange city, the heart of the forces of darkness, and he thought of himself and Caramon, sitting together in the sunshine, laughing over some silly jest, recalling incidents from their childhood, recounting some of their adventures and the wonders they had seen.
Raistlin felt a burning in his eyes and a choking sensation in his throat that did not come from his former malady. The choking came from a heart swelling with emotion, from loss and loneliness, guilt and grief and remorse. Raistlin took an unusually large gulp of the tea and burned the roof of his mouth. He swore angrily beneath his breath, and flung the contents of the mug into the fire.
“Serves me right for being maudlin,” he muttered. He banished all thought of Caramon from his mind and, finding some bread in the pantry, toasted it over the fire and chewed on it as he thought over his situation.
His arrival in Neraka had not turned out as planned. He had deliberately chosen to appear in the temple by traveling the corridors of magic. His idea had been that he would materialize inside the temple to the awe and astonishment of all who witnessed him. The clerics would be so impressed by his exhibition of magical power, they would escort him straightway to Emperor Ariakas, who would beg Raistlin to join him in conquering the world.
Things had not turned out as planned. Raistlin had achieved one of his goals; the dark pilgrims had certainly been astonished to see him burst out of thin air inside the abbey, just as they were starting services. One elderly pilgrim had nearly suffered apoplexy, and another had fainted dead away.
Far from being impressed, the dark pilgrims had been outraged. They had tried to seize him, but he had fended them off with the Staff of Magius, which administered a strong jolt to anyone it touched. As they crowded around him, shouting and threatening, Raistlin had urged everyone to remain calm. He was not here to cause trouble, he explained. He would go with them willingly. He wanted only to pay his respects to his Queen. He had found himself instead paying his respects to the loathsome Nightlord.
Raistlin had almost immediately seen the man for what he was: a demented man who took physical pleasure and gratification in the suffering of others. Raistlin had realized at once that he was in deadly peril, though he was confused as to why.
“We are all on the same side,” the mage had tried to tell the Nightlord. “All of us want to see Queen Takhisis victorious. Why, then, do you view me with such enmity? Why threaten me with unspeakable horrors unless I reveal myself to be a spy for the Conclave? Why would the Conclave want to spy on the Dark Queen’s clerics? It makes no sense.”
Or rather, it had made no sense until he had heard the Nightlord say that Nuitari had turned against his mother.
The questioning had gone on hour after weary hour. All the while Raistlin could hear the shrieks and howls and screams of other prisoners, the turning of the rack, the snaps of the lash. He could smell the burning flesh.
The Nightlord had grown frustrated with Raistlin’s denials.
“You will tell me all you know and more,” the Nightlord had said. “Send for the Adjudicator.”
Raistlin had tried to use the Staff of Magius, but the guards had rushed him and, at the cost of a few jolts, had knocked the staff out of his hand onto the floor. He had then cast a Circle of Protection around himself. The Nightlord was expert at dealing with uncooperative wizards, however. He had spoken a few words and pointed his bloodstained fingernails at Raistlin, and the protection spell had shattered like a crystal goblet dropped on a marble floor.
Raistlin had known fear unlike any he’d ever experienced, worse even than the time he’d been lying helpless beneath the claws of a black dragon in Xak Tsaroth. The guards began closing in on him, and he had no way to fight them. Then something strange had happened. He had yet to find an explanation. The guards had not been able to lay their hands on him.