His musings were interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls ringing hollowly on the stone floor. Iolanthe went deathly pale.
“I must take my leave,” she said hurriedly and flung her cloak around herself. “Raistlin, come see me when you return to Neraka. We have much to discuss.”
Before he could say a word, Iolanthe threw her magical clay against the wall, squeezed inside the portal before it was halfway open, and shut it swiftly behind her.
The footfalls drew closer, moving slowly, resolutely, purposefully. A chill like death flowed into the room.
“You are about to meet the master of Dargaard Keep, Baby brother,” said Kitiara, and she tried to smile the crooked smile, but Raistlin saw it slip.
2
Knight of the Black Rose.
The Hourglass of Stars.
Death’s chill flowed beneath the door, seeped through the cracks in the stone walls, sighed through the broken window panes. Raistlin shivered from the dreadful cold, and he laid down the quill pen and thrust his hands into the sleeves of his robes to try to warm them. He rose to his feet to be ready.
“Soth is very terrible,” said Kitiara, her gaze fixed on the door. “But he will not harm you, so long as you are under my protection.”
“I do not need your protection, my sister,” said Raistlin, angered at her patronizing tone.
“Just be careful, will you, Raistlin?” said Kitiara sharply. He was startled. She rarely, if ever, called him by name. Kitiara added softly, “Soth could kill us both with a single word.”
The door opened, and terror entered.
The death knight stood in the doorway, an imposing figure clad in the armor of a Solamnic Knight from the time of the rise of Istar. Beautifully crafted armor that had once shone silvery bright, but was now blackened and stained with blood that only the waters of redemption could remove, and Soth was far from seeking forgiveness. A black cape, bloody and tattered, hung from his shoulders.
His eyes shone red in the eye slits of his helm; red with the passion that had been his doom and that he could not control. He raged at his fate; raged at the gods; raged, sometimes, at himself. Only at night, when the banshees sang to him the mournful song of his own downfall, was the blazing fire reduced to smoldering embers of remorse and bitter regret. When the song ceased with the coming of day, Soth’s rage blazed anew.
Raistlin had walked many dark places in his life, perhaps none darker than his own soul. He had taken the dread Test in the Tower. He had journeyed through Darken Wood. He had been trapped in the nightmare that was Silvanesti. He had been a prisoner in Takhisis’s dungeons. In all those places, he had known fear. But when he looked into the hellish fire that blazed in the eyes of the death knight, Raistlin knew fear so awful, so debilitating that he thought he would die of it.
He could clasp the dragon orb and speak the magic and be gone as swiftly as Iolanthe. He was fumbling for the orb with his shaking hands when he saw Kitiara watching him.
Her lips curled. She was testing him, taunting him as she had when he was a child, and she was trying to force him to take a dare.
Anger acted on Raistlin like a potion, restoring his courage and his ability to think. He recognized then what he should have seen earlier but for his terror: the fear was magical, a spell Soth had cast on him.
Tit for tat, two could play at that game.
“Delu solisar!” Raistlin said swiftly. He let go of the orb and raised his hand to trace a rune in the air.
The rune caught fire and blazed brightly. The dueling magicks hung, quivering, in the air. Kitiara watched, one hand on her hip, the other clasping the hilt of her sword. She was enjoying their contest.
Soth’s magic snapped. Raistlin ended his spell. The fiery rune vanished, leaving behind an afterimage of blue and wavering smoke.
Kitiara nodded in approval. “Lord Soth, Knight of the Rose, I have the honor to present Raistlin Majere.” Kitiara added, half teasing and half proud, “My baby brother.”
Raistlin bowed in acknowledgment of the introduction; then, raising his head and standing tall, he forced himself to look directly into the eye slits of the death knight’s helm, to stare into the fires of a tortured soul’s torment, though the sight made Raistlin’s own soul shrivel in horror.
“You are powerful in magic for one so young,” said Lord Soth. His voice was hollow and deep, burning with his constant rage, undying regret.
Raistlin bowed again. He did not yet trust himself to speak.
“You cast two shadows, Raistlin Majere,” said the death knight suddenly. “Why is that?”
Raistlin had no idea what he was talking about. “I do not cast one shadow in this terrible place, my lord, let alone two.”
The death knight’s red eyes flickered.
“I do not speak of shadows cast by the sun,” Lord Soth said. “I dwell on two planes, forced to dwell on the plane of the living and cursed to dwell in the plane of the dead who cannot die. And in both I see your shadow, darker than darkness.”
Raistlin understood.
Kitiara had no idea what Soth meant. “Raistlin has a twin brother—” she began.
“No longer,” Raistlin said, casting her an irate glance. She could be as stupid as Caramon sometimes.
Between the spellcasting, the terror, and the intrigue, Raistlin was suddenly worn out. “You brought me here because you required my help, my sister. I have pledged you and Takhisis my allegiance. If you wish me to serve you in some way, tell me how. If not, allow me to go home.”
Kitiara glanced at Lord Soth. “What do you think?” “He is dangerous,” said Soth.
“Who? Raistlin?” Kitiara scoffed, startled and amused.
“He will be your doom.” The death knight stared at Raistlin, his flame eyes flickering.
Kitiara hesitated, watching Raistlin, frowning, and fingering the hilt of her sword. “Are you saying I should kill him?”
“I am saying you could try,” Raistlin said, his gaze going from one to the other. His fingers closed over a bit of amber.
Kitiara stared at him, and suddenly she began to laugh. “Come with me,” she said, grabbing a blazing torch from the wall. “I have something to show you.”
“What about him?” Raistlin asked, not moving from where he stood.
The death knight had walked over to the window and gazed down at the desolation.
“Evening is coming,” said Kitiara. “Soth has somewhere else to go. Make haste,” she added, shivering. “You don’t want to be anywhere close.”
The wail was distant, yet the eerie and awful sound pierced Raistlin, smote his heart. He slowed his pace and looked over his shoulder, stared back down the corridor. The song was ghastly, yet he seemed compelled to listen to it.
Kitiara caught hold of his wrist. “Stop up your ears!” she said warningly.
“What is it?” he asked. He could feel the hair prickling on his neck, rising on his arms.
“Banshees. The elf women who share his curse. They are compelled to sing to him every night, recite the story of his crimes. He sits in the chamber where his wife and child perished and stares at the bloodstain on the floor and listens.”
They both hastened down the corridor, increasing their pace. Still the evil song pursued them. The wailing seemed to beat on Raistlin with black wings and tear at him with sharp claws. He tried to muffle his ears with his hands, but the song throbbed in his blood. He saw that Kitiara was very pale, and she was sweating.
“Every night it is the same. I never get used to it.”
The corridor they walked came to a dead end. Raistlin guessed they had not walked all that way for nothing, and he waited patiently to see what happened. Kit handed the torch to Raistlin to hold. Raistlin could have offered to use the light from his staff, but he never liked to reveal its power to people unless there was some good reason to do so. He held the torch so she could see what she was doing.