“You did, as you say, break our laws,” said Solinari, coming to stand beside his cousin. Dressed in white robes, the god held a scourge of ice. “The Conclave of Wizards was established for a purpose—to govern the magic and those who use it. You not only break the laws, you flout them, mock them.”
“Yet I understand him,” said Lunitari, beautiful and awful, her hair black streaked with white. Her robes were red, and she carried a scourge of fire. “I do not condone his actions, but I understand. What do you want of us, Raistlin Majere?”
“To save what will be lost this night. In Dargaard Keep, there is an underground chamber. Within this chamber is the Hourglass of Stars. Takhisis forged it. The sand she poured into it is the future she desires, a future in which she reigns supreme. Each grain that falls brings that future closer to coming to pass.
“This night, Takhisis will bring three gods—the Gods of the Gray, gods of ‘new magic’ to guard the Hourglass. She intends for these gods of no color to replace you. Her new gods will be loyal to her. All magic will flow through her. You three will no longer be needed.”
The cousins stared at him in silence, too amazed to speak.
“This night,” Raistlin continued, “you can ambush these three gods, and break the Hourglass. This night, you can save yourselves. You can save the magic.”
“If what you say is true—” Solinari began.
“Look into my heart,” said Raistlin tersely. “See if I speak the truth.”
“He does,” Lunitari said and her voice trembled with anger.
Solinari frowned. “To fight gods, we must exert all our power. We will have to withdraw our magic from the world. What will happen to our wizards? They will be left powerless.”
“The majority of wizards will be in the Tower of High Sorcery. I will undertake to protect them.”
“And we are supposed to trust you!”
Raistlin faintly smiled. “You have no choice.”
“If you do this, Takhisis will know you betrayed her. She will be your enemy not only in this life, but in the life beyond,” Lunitari warned.
“Join the Conclave of Wizards. Conform to the law,” said Solinari. “We will protect you.”
“Otherwise, you will be on your own,” said Nuitari.
“I will consider your proposal,” said Raistlin.
What else could he say, withering in the heat of the scourge of flame and burning in the cold of the scourge of ice and writhing with the sting of the black tentacles?
Solinari and Nuitari were not pleased, but they had work to do, and they did not stay to argue or cajole. The two departed, and only Lunitari remained.
“You have no intention of joining the Conclave, do you?”
Raistlin looked down at the words on the lambskin. Black ink on white. He traced over them with his finger.
“I, Magus,” he said softly.
He was startled to see the words turn red, as though written in blood. He shivered and crumpled the lambskin in his hand. When he looked up, Lunitari was gone.
Raistlin sighed deeply and closed his eyes and let his head sink into his hands. They were right. He was playing a dangerous game, a deadly game. He was risking not only his life, but his soul. Still, as Nuitari had said, it was not much of a risk.
Raistlin felt worn out, and there was still work to be done before the day turned into momentous night. He left the Tower of High Sorcery in Neraka, never to return.
Raistlin entered the city proper, using his forged pass to get through the gate. He had to wait in long lines, for the gate was crowded with soldiers. He remembered Kitiara saying something to the effect that Ariakas had summoned all the Highlords to Neraka. She was coming herself, once the matter of the gods of magic was settled.
Raistlin went straight to the temple. He entered through the front, humbly requesting one of the dark pilgrims to act as his guide.
The pilgrim took him to the Abbey. Raistlin prostrated himself on the floor before the altar, lying down on his belly, his forehead touching the floor, and prayed to Takhisis.
“My Queen, I have done as you asked. I beseech your blessing.”
5
The Prayer Meeting.
The Night of the Eye was the time when the moons that were the representations of the gods of magic were in alignment, forming an unblinking eye in the heavens and granting power to their wizards throughout Ansalon.
But that night, the moons did not rise. The light of Solinari did not gild the lakes with silver. The red light of Lunitari did not set the skies aflame. The black light of Nuitari, visible only to those who had dedicated themselves to him, was invisible to all. The moons were gone. And so was the magic. The Eye had closed.
Across the continent, the death squads of Queen Takhisis went forth to seek out the hapless, powerless wizards and destroy them. Squadrons of draconians, armed with swords and knives, dutifully set out from the temple in Neraka. One squad went to the ramshackle Tower of High Sorcery. Finding no one there, they set it ablaze. Another went to the mageware store of Snaggle on Wizard’s Row. He was gone, much to their astonishment, for Snaggle had never before been known to leave his shop.
Angry and frustrated, the draconians ransacked the shop, removing the neatly labeled containers from the shelves and emptying their contents into the street, then setting them on fire. The draconians smashed bottles and broke jars and confiscated artifacts to be taken back to the temple. When the shop was empty, they set fire to the building. Other squads were dispatched to the Broken Shield and the Hairy Troll to arrange for the “accidental” fires that would burn down the taverns and, by sad mischance, kill the owners.
The squadron sent to the Broken Shield was led by Commander Slith, and he was not happy. Slith didn’t give two clicks of his scales for wizards and would just as soon see them slit from gut to gullet as not. But he liked Talent Orren. Slith liked Talent and he especially liked the steel Talent paid him. Slith not only procured many of the goods Talent sold on his black market, the draconian was paid a commission on all customers he sent Talent’s way.
Slith was reflecting gloomily that with his income about to be reduced to nothing except his army pay, which he had not received, he no longer had a reason to hang around Neraka. Slith did not belong here. He was a deserter who had left the army long before, only stopping in Neraka because he’d heard there was steel to be made. The sivak tramped down the dark street, racking his brain, trying to figure out some way to disobey orders without actually having to disobey orders. He became aware that one of his subordinates was trying to claim his attention.
“Yeah, what?” Slith snarled.
“Sir, there’s something wrong,” said Glug.
“If you mean Takhisis forgot to give you a brain, that’s already common knowledge,” Slith muttered.
“It’s not that, sir,” said Glug. “Look at the tavern. It’s … well, it’s quiet, sir. Too quiet. Where’s the party?”
Slith came to a halt. That was a damn good question. Where was the party? There were supposed to be bonfires, crowds in the streets, crowds that had been paid well to set fire to the tavern. Slith saw lights in the Broken Shield, but there was no raucous laughter, rowdy merriment, or drunken revelry. The Broken Shield was quiet as a tomb.
That thought was not comforting. He looked up the street, and he looked down. He saw no one.
“What do we do, sir?” asked Glug.
“Follow me,” Slith said.
He marched across the street, his squadron scraping along behind.
Slith approached the door to the Broken Shield. A large human, who went by the name of Maelstrom and who was one of Slith’s particular pals, was acting as guard.