Raistlin was polite, but firm in his refusal to stay. Unfortunately, when Iolanthe saw that he meant to have his way, she said she had nothing better to do. She would accompany him to the Broken Shield. They would dine together there.
He tried to think of some way of discouraging Iolanthe without hurting her feelings. Her friendship had already been of benefit to him, and he foresaw how she could be useful to him in the future. She could also be a formidable enemy.
He wondered why she was so insistent on dogging him, and, as he listened to her idle chatter as she moved around the apartment, tidying up the room, the realization struck him. She was lonely. She was hungry to talk to another wizard, someone like herself, who understood her goals and aspirations. His thoughts were confirmed when she turned to him to say, “I have the feeling we are very much alike, you and I.”
Raistlin smiled. He almost laughed. What could he, a frail young man with strange-colored skin and stranger eyes, have in common with such a beautiful, exotic, intelligent, powerful, and self-possessed young woman? He wasn’t attracted to her. He didn’t trust her or even much like her. Every time she brought up marbles in her mocking tone, he could feel his skin crawl. Yet what she said was true. He did feel a kinship to her.
“It is the love of the magic that binds us,” she said, answering his unspoken thought as clearly as if she had heard it. “And the love of the power the magic can bring us. Both of us have sacrificed comfort, safety and security for the magic. And we are both prepared to sacrifice still more. Am I right?”
Raistlin did not answer. She took his silence for his response and went into her bedchamber to change her clothes. He was resigning himself to being forced to spend the evening with her, which meant the strain of keeping a guard on everything he said and did, when he heard footfalls on the stairs leading to her apartment.
The feet were heavy, and there was a scraping sound, as of claws on wood. When Iolanthe came out of her room, she grimaced, as though she knew what the sounds meant.
“Oh, damn,” she said softly and flung open the door.
A large bozak draconian, his wings brushing the ceiling, stood on the landing.
“Is this the lodging of Mistress Iolanthe?” asked the bozak.
“Yes,” said Iolanthe with a sigh. “And I am Iolanthe. What do you want?”
“The Emperor Ariakas has returned to grace Neraka with his august presence. He requests your attendance upon him, madam,” said the bozak. “I am to escort you.”
The draconian’s gaze shifted from her to Raistlin and back to Iolanthe. Seeing the reptilian eyes flicker dangerously, Raistlin rose to his feet, bringing the words of a deadly spell to his mind.
“I see you have company, madam,” continued the bozak in a dire tone. “Have I interrupted something?”
“Only my dinner plans,” said Iolanthe lightly. “I was going to dine at the Broken Shield along with this young man, a novice wizard, newly arrived in Neraka. The Emperor will be interested to meet him, I think. This is Raistlin Majere, brother to Dragon Highlord Kitiara.”
The bozak’s suspicious attitude disappeared. He regarded Raistlin with interest and respect. “I hold your sister in high esteem, sir,” he said. “As does the Emperor.”
“He only tried to have her executed,” Iolanthe whispered to Raistlin as she handed him linens and a blanket, which she had told him he would need for his new lodging.
Raistlin stared at her, shocked at that news. What did she mean? What had happened? Were Ariakas and Kit enemies? More to the point, how would it affect him? Raistlin was desperate to know details, but Iolanthe only grinned at him and winked, well knowing she had just ensured the fact that he would be certain to seek out her company.
“You remember how to find your way to the Broken Shield, Master Majere?” she asked.
“Yes, madam. Thank you,” said Raistlin humbly, playing his part.
Iolanthe held out her hand to him. “It may be some time before I see you again. Good-bye and good luck to you.”
Under the watchful eyes of the bozak, Raistlin stuffed the bed linens into a sack and gathered up his possessions. He did not take the Staff of Magius. He did not even glance at it as he left it standing in a corner. Iolanthe caught his eye and gave a slight nod in reassurance.
Raistlin made a deep bow to Iolanthe and another to the bozak. He slung the sack with the bed linens and his spellbooks and few belongings over his shoulder. Feeling like a peddler, he hurried down the staircase. Iolanthe held a lantern at the top to light his way.
“I will stop by the Tower tomorrow to see how you are coming along with your work,” she called when he reached the bottom of the stairs.
She shut her door before he could answer. The bozak remained waiting for her on the landing.
Raistlin walked into the street, which was empty that time of night. He missed his staff, missed its shining light, the support it lent his weary steps. The sack was heavy, made his arms ache.
“Here, Caramon, you carry this—”
Raistlin stopped. He could not believe he had said that. He could not believe he had thought that. Caramon was dead. Furious with himself, Raistlin walked rapidly down the street, his way lit by the red rays of Lunitari and the silver rays of Solinari.
The Dark Queen’s temple came into view. The moons’ feeble light seemed incapable of reaching the Temple. The twisted towers and bulbous minarets caused the moons to shrink, the stars to vanish. Its shadow fell upon him, and he was crushed beneath it.
If she wins the war, her shadow will fall on every person in the world.
I did not come to serve. I came to rule.
Raistlin began to laugh. He laughed until the laughter caught in his throat and he choked on it.
6
Forces of the Dark Queen
The search. The find.
Being a Treatise on the Subject of the Advisability of the Using of Parrots as Familiars, with Particular Emphasis on Teaching Said Birds the Words to Magical Spells, and Remarks on the Unfortunate Consequences Resulting Therefrom.
Raistlin gave a deep sigh. Tossing the manuscript into a large crate he had labeled “Ineffable Twaddle,” he gazed in gloomy despair at the pile of manuscripts, books, scrolls, and various other types of documents that surrounded him. He’d been working for hours, all day the previous day and most of this day, sitting on a footstool, sorting through crap. The crate was almost full. He was half suffocated from the dust, and he could not tell that he had made any progress.
Iolanthe had been right. There was nothing of value in what could only be laughingly termed a “library.” The high-level Black Robes must have taken their spellbooks and scrolls with them when they departed. Either that or, as Iolanthe had said, the books had been sold.
He resumed his task and was rewarded by unearthing a spell-book, nicely bound in red leather. He thought he’d stumbled across a treasure until he opened it to find it was a child’s primer, a book meant to teach aspiring young wizards the art of spellcasting. He was flipping through it, thinking back to his own school days—the torment he endured, his inept teacher—when he heard a commotion outside the front door of the Tower. Someone began pounding on the door.
“Open in the name of Her Majesty the Queen!”
Down the hall from him, the three old men broke into panicked shrieks at the clamor. Raistlin rose to his feet.
“It’s the Temple guards!” cried Hook Nose, peering out a filthy window. “The elite Temple guards! What do we do?”
“Let them in,” said Paunchy.
“No, don’t,” said the third, whom Raistlin had dubbed Scrawny.