He had not done anything to defend himself. He had no energy left to cast any more magic. The trip through the corridors of magic, the subsequent fight, the casting of the Circle of Protection spell, had all weakened him. Yet the simple fact was, every time the guards had tried to seize him, they had started to shake so severely, they could not make their fingers work.
Raistlin sat cross-legged on the floor. He opened the pouch containing the marbles and shook them out. The dragon orb rolled around, indistinguishable from the other marbles except to his eyes. One of the facts he had learned about the dragon orb was that it had an instinct for self-preservation as great or greater than his own.
He picked up the dragon orb and held it in his palm and gazed at it, pondering, wondering. He had taken a risk bringing the orb to Neraka, to the heart of the Dark Queen’s empire. Made of the essence of evil dragons, the orb might feel emboldened, here among its own kind, so close to its evil Queen. It might turn on him, find a master more important, more powerful.
Instead, it seemed, the orb had chosen to protect him. Not out of love for him, Raistlin was sure. Raistlin shook his head, bemused at the thought. The orb was interested only in protecting itself. And that was an unsettling thought. The orb sensed danger. The orb believed it was in peril, and that meant he was in peril.
But from what? From whom? This city, of all places, should be a safe haven for those who walked the paths of darkness.
“By Nuitari, you really do play with marbles,” exclaimed Iolanthe. She wrinkled her nose and coughed. “What is that ghastly smell?”
Raistlin had been so lost in his thoughts that he had not heard her stirring. Hastily, he scooped up the marbles along with the dragon orb and dropped them into the pouch.
“I fixed myself a cup of tea,” he said blandly. “I have been ill, and I find it helps.”
Iolanthe opened a casement to let in air, though the smell outside was almost as bad as that within. The air was gray with smoke that billowed from the forge fires and reeked from the stench of the garbage-filled alleys and the foul water that ran ankle deep in the gutters.
“This illness,” said Iolanthe, waving her hand to dissipate the smell. “Was it a result of the Test?”
“An aftereffect,” Raistlin replied, surprised that she would immediately jump to that conclusion.
“And was that how you came to have gold skin and hourglass eyes?”
Raistlin nodded.
“The sacrifices we make for the magic,” Iolanthe said with a sigh. She shut the window and locked it. “I did not come out unscathed. No one does. I bear my scars on the inside.”
Iolanthe rumpled her dark hair and sighed again. She was dressed in a silken gown known as a caftan by those who lived in the eastern land of Khur. The silk was sumptuous and vividly colored; red and blue birds amid purple and orange flowers, green leaves and twining vines.
Raistlin found himself disconcerted by the woman. Her frank manner of speaking, her charm, her wit, her humor and vivacity and her beauty—especially her beauty—made him uncomfortable.
For even with his accursed vision, he could see that Iolanthe was beautiful. Her blue-black hair and violet eyes and olive skin were different from the other women he’d known in his life. Women such as Laurana, the elf maiden, who was blonde, fair, ethereal; or Tika, with her fiery red curls and her generous smile; voluptuous, laughing, wholesome, and loving.
By contrast, Iolanthe was mystery, danger, intrigue. She made Raistlin nervous. Even her clothing, with its myriad colors, made him uneasy. He disapproved. Those who took the black robes and walked shadowy places should not bring beauty and color with them.
She was smiling at him, and he realized he’d been staring at her. His skin burned, much to his irritation. He had conquered a dragon orb, imprisoned Fistandantilus inside it, and faced down the Nightlord, but he felt himself blushing like a pimply teenager just because a lovely woman smiled at him.
“I see the Nightlord returned your staff,” Iolanthe said. “How very kind of him. He is not usually so considerate.”
Raistlin was startled by her remark; then he saw the glint of laughter in her violet eyes. He realized he should have had devised some explanation for the staff’s reappearance, but he had been too absorbed in wondering about the workings of the dragon orb. He tried to think of something plausible to say, but he was tongue-tied. The woman confused him, turned his brain to gruel. The sooner he was away from her, the better.
Iolanthe knelt on the floor, her silken caftan floating around her, filling the air with the scent of gardenia perfume. She studied the staff, not touching it, but looking intently at the smooth wood and the dragon’s claw clutching a crystal ball that adorned the top.
“So this is the famed Staff of Magius,” she said.
Once again, she caught Raistlin off guard. He stared at her, dumbfounded.
“I took the opportunity of doing a little research last night after you were asleep,” she told him. “There are not that many magical staffs in the world. I found the description in an old book. How did you come by it, if I might ask?”
Raistlin was going to tell her it was none of her business. Instead, he found himself saying, “Par-Salian gave it to me after I passed the Test.”
“Par-Salian?” Iolanthe sank bank languidly on the floor, propping herself up on her elbow. “The Head of the Order of White Robes? He gave you this valuable gift?”
“I was a White Robe when I took the Test,” said Raistlin. “Due to the kind interest Lunitari took in me, I afterward wore the red robes. I have only recently taken the black.”
“All three,” Iolanthe murmured. Her violet eyes gazed at him. The black pupils dilated, seeming to widen in order to absorb him. “How very unusual.”
She rose gracefully to her feet, her caftan swirling around her bare feet. “It is said that the Master of Past and Present will be one who wore all three robes.”
Raistlin stared at her.
“And now, if you will excuse me,” she continued coolly, “I will go change into my black robes for our trip to the Tower of High Sorcery. I would wear my caftan, for I like bright colors, but the old buzzards who live there would have a collective stroke.”
She wafted out of the room; her perfume lingering. The smell tickled Raistlin’s nose and made him sneeze. She returned wearing robes of black silk similar to the caftan in cut and design, leaving her forearms bare. He heard a faint jingling of bells as she walked and saw that she wore a circlet of tiny, golden bells around her ankle. The sound was jarring and set his teeth on edge.
“I usually wear golden bracelets to match,” Iolanthe remarked as though she read his thoughts. She nibbled on some of the dry toast Raistlin had left uneaten and, picking up the mug, sniffed at the remnants of his tea and made a face. “But I dare not wear my jewels around Neraka anymore. The soldiers have not been paid, you see. The Emperor was counting upon steel flowing into his coffers from the wealth he would seize in Palanthas. Unfortunately for him, we hear that silver dragons have come to guard that fair city.”
“That is true,” said Raistlin. “I saw them before I left.”
“So you came from Palanthas,” said Iolanthe. “How interesting.”
Raistlin cursed himself for having revealed such information. The woman was a witch!
“Anyhow,” Iolanthe continued, “Ariakas lost all that revenue. What was worse, having been confident he would gain the steel, he had already spent it. Now he is deep in debt, though only a few people know that.”
“And why now am I one of them?” Raistlin asked, annoyed. “Why are you telling me this? I don’t want to hear it. Spreading such rumors is … is …”