The moment Ariakas put on the Crown of Power, he became a target. He was convinced that his fellow Highlords were plotting against him, and he was right. Since he had done all he could to foment their rivalries and jealousies, thinking it would ensure strong leaders, he had no one to blame but himself when they turned their knives on him.
In many ways, Ariakas reminded Raistlin of a dark-souled, arrogant version of Caramon. Ariakas was, at heart, a bluff and simple soldier, who was floundering about in the muck and mire of intrigue and politics. Weighted down by his heavy armor, he was starting to sink, and he would take all those who were hanging on to him down with him.
After three days, Raistlin told Iolanthe that he was leaving. She urged him to be patient.
“Ariakas is caught up in his war,” Iolanthe said. “He has no interest in anything else and that includes ambitious, young wizards. You must put yourself forward. Draw his notice.”
“And how do I do that?” Raistlin asked scathingly. “Trip him as he walks by?”
“Pray to Queen Takhisis. Urge her to intercede for you.”
“Why should she?” Raistlin shrugged. “You said yourself she has turned against all wizards since Nuitari abandoned her.”
“Ah, but the Dark Queen seems to favor you. She saved you from the Nightlord, remember?” said Iolanthe with a mischievous smile. “It was the Dark Queen who saved you, wasn’t it?”
Raistlin muttered something and walked off.
Iolanthe’s questions and insinuations were starting to grate on his nerves. He did not know where he stood with the woman. True, she had saved him from being arrested. The temple guards had arrived to question Raistlin shortly after the two of them had fled the Broken Shield. But Raistlin had the feeling that Iolanthe had saved him for the same reason a dragon spares her victims: she was keeping him alive to be devoured later.
Raistlin had no intention of talking to Takhisis. The Dark Queen was still seeking the dragon orb. And although he was confident that he was strong enough to hide it from her, he did not want to take any chances. That was another reason he was leaving. Takhisis had a shrine in the Red Mansion, and he could sense her presence there. Thus far, he had managed to avoid going anywhere near the shrine.
He spent the morning of the day he was planning to depart in the mansion’s library. Since Ariakas was a magic-user, Raistlin had hoped to find his spellbooks. Ariakas cared little about magic, apparently, for he kept no spellbooks and was, it seemed, not given to reading books of any sort. The only books in the library were those left behind by the Spiritor, and they were devoted to the glories of Takhisis. Raistlin yawned his way through a few of those, then gave up the search.
He came across only one volume of interest, a slender book that Ariakas had actually read, for Raistlin found the man’s crude notes scrawled in the margins: The Crown of Power: A History. The volume had been written by some scribe in the service of the last Kingpriest, Beldinas, and gave an account of the crown’s creation, which the Kingpriest believed dated back to the Age of Dreams.
The crown had been crafted by the ruler of the ogres and had been lost and purportedly found and lost again many times down through the ages. Judging by the book’s account, the crown had been in the possession of Beldinas prior to the fall of Istar. A note added at the end by Ariakas indicated that the crown had been rediscovered shortly after Takhisis unearthed the Foundation Stone. He had also included a list of some of the crown’s magical powers, though, to Raistlin’s disappointment, Ariakas had not provided details. Ariakas did not seem much interested in the crown’s powers, save for one—the crown had the ability to protect the wearer from physical attack. Ariakas had underlined that.
Raistlin shelved the volume and left the library. He walked the halls of the mansion, his head bowed in thought. Arriving at what he thought was his room, he opened the door. A strong smell of incense caught him by the throat and made him cough. He looked around in alarm to find that he was not in his room. He was in the last place on Krynn he wanted to be. He had somehow blundered into the shrine of Takhisis.
The shrine was small and oddly shaped, resembling an egg. The ceiling was domed and adorned with the five heads of the dragon, all looking down on Raistlin. The dragons’ eyes had been painted in such a way that they seemed to follow him, so no matter where he walked, he could not escape their gaze. An altar to Takhisis stood in the center of the room. Incense burned perpetually, smoke rising from an unknown source. The smell was cloying, filling the nostrils and lungs. Raistlin felt himself start to grow dizzy and, fearing it was poisonous, he covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve and tried to breathe as little as possible.
Raistlin turned to leave, only to find that the door had shut and locked behind him. His alarm grew. He searched for another way out. A door stood open at the end of the nave. To reach it, Raistlin would have to walk past the altar, which was wreathed in the smoke that was definitely having some sort of strange effect on him. The room was shrinking and expanding, the floor rolling in waves beneath his feet. Gripping the Staff of Magius in one hand, using it to support his faltering steps, he staggered among the pews, where the worshipers were meant to sit and reflect on their worthlessness.
He was arrested by a woman’s voice.
You will kneel before me.
Raistlin froze, the blood congealing in his veins. He leaned on the Staff of Magius to steady himself. The voice did not speak again, and he doubted, after long moments of silence, if he had heard it or imagined it.
He took another step.
Kneel before me! Give yourself to me, the voice said, adding in sultry tones, I offer rich reward to those who do.
Raistlin could no longer doubt. He looked up at the ceiling. A dark light, like the light of the dark moon, shone in the eyes of the five dragons. He went down on his knees and bowed his head.
“Your Majesty,” Raistlin said. “How may I serve you?”
Place the dragon orb on the altar.
Raistlin’s hands shook. His heart constricted. The poisonous fumes clouded his mind, made thinking an effort. He reached into the pouch and clasped his hand possessively over the dragon orb. He seemed to hear the voice of Fistandantilus, desperately and furiously chanting the words of magic, hoping in vain to destroy the dragon and free himself from his prison.
“I will serve you in everything except that, my Queen,” said Raistlin.
A crushing weight fell on him, trying to beat him down. The weight was the weight of the world, and he was collapsing under it. Takhisis was going to smash him, pulverize him. He gritted his teeth and kept fast hold of the dragon orb and did not move.
Then suddenly, the weight lifted, eased.
I will hold you to your promise.
Raistlin crouched on the floor, trembling. The voice did not speak again. He slowly and shakily rose to his feet. The dark light shone in the dragons’ eyes. He could still feel the Queen’s malice, a cold breath hissing through sharp teeth.
Raistlin was relieved, though confused, to find he was still in one piece. Takhisis could have crushed him like an eggshell. He wondered why she hadn’t.
The reason came to Raistlin, and a thrill of excitement made him shiver. He had felt the weight of the world, but not the weight of Takhisis.
“She cannot touch me,” he breathed.
With the return of her evil dragons, the wise had assumed that Takhisis had also returned. But now Raistlin was not so certain. Takhisis could touch mortals with a spiritual hand, but not with a physical one. She was not able to exert the full force of her power and her might, which meant that she had not yet fully entered the world. Something was stopping her, blocking her way.