“Not all of us,” said Justarius grimly.
“You might as well, sir,” Raistlin scoffed. “Where are your swords and shields and axes? Where are your mighty warriors to defend you? Without your magic, you cannot defend yourselves. You have your little knives, that is true, but they will barely cut through butter!”
“You, obviously, have the answer,” said Par-Salian. “Otherwise you would not have come.”
“I do, Master of the Conclave. I can summon help.”
“And if you work for Takhisis, why should you? And why should we trust you?” Ladonna asked.
“Because, madam, you have no choice,” replied Raistlin. “I can save you … but it will cost you.”
“Of course!” Justarius said bitterly. He turned to Par-Salian. “Whatever the price, it is too high. I would sooner take my chances with this death knight.”
“If it were our lives alone, I would be inclined to agree with you,” said Par-Salian ruefully. “But we have hundreds in our care, from our pupils to some of the best and most talented wizards in all of Ansalon. We cannot condemn them to death because of hurt pride.” He turned to Raistlin. “What is your price?”
Raistlin was silent a moment; then he said quietly, “I have chosen to walk my own road, free of constraints. All I ask, Masters, is that you allow me to continue to walk it. The Conclave will take no action against me either now or in the future. You will not send wizards to try to kill me or trap me or lecture me. You will let me to go my way, and I will help you remain alive so that you may go yours.”
Par-Salian’s brows came together. “You imply by this that our magic will come back, that the gods of magic will return. How is that possible?”
“That is my concern,” said Raistlin. “Are we agreed?” “No. There is too much we do not know,” said Ladonna. “I agree with her,” said Justarius.
Raistlin stood calmly, his hands folded in the sleeves of his black robes. “Look out the window. You will see an army of undead soldiers wearing charred and blackened armor marked with a rose. Flames devour their flesh as the warriors ride. Their faces wither in the holy fire that endlessly consumes them. They carry death, and Death leads them. Soth will shatter the walls of this Tower with a touch. His army will ride through the melted rock, and your pupils and your friends and colleagues will be helpless to withstand him. Blood will flow in rivers down the corridors—”
“Enough!” Par-Salian cried, shaken. He looked at the others. “I ask you both plainly: Can we fight this death knight without our magic?”
Ladonna had gone deathly pale. Her lips set in a tight, straight line, she sank down in a chair.
Justarius looked defiant at first; then, his face haggard, he gave an abrupt shake of his head. “I am from Palanthas,” he said. “I have heard tales of Lord Soth, and if a tenth of them are true, it would be perilous to fight him even if we had our magic. Without … we do not stand a chance.”
“Mark my words, if we make this bargain with Majere, we will live to regret it,” Ladonna said.
“But at least you will live,” murmured Raistlin.
He drew from his belt a small leather pouch and dumped the contents onto the floor. Marbles of all colors rolled out onto the soft carpeting. Ladonna, staring at them, gave an incredulous laugh.
“He is making fools of us,” she said.
Par-Salian was not so sure. He watched Raistlin’s long, slender fingers, delicate and sensitive, sort through the marbles until he found the one he sought. He lifted the marble and held it in the palm of his hand and began to chant.
The marble grew in size until it filled the palm of Raistlin’s hand. Colors swirled and shimmered inside the crystal globe. Par-Salian, looking in, saw reptilian eyes, looking out.
“A dragon orb!” he said, amazed.
Par-Salian drew nearer, fascinated. He had read about the famed dragon orbs. Five orbs had been created during the Age of Dreams by mages of all three orders who had come together then, as they had come together in his day, to fight the Queen of Darkness. Two of the orbs had been kept at the ill-fated Towers of Losarcum and Daltigoth and had been destroyed in the explosions that had leveled those Towers.
One of the orbs had dropped out of knowledge, only to be discovered by Knights of Solamnia in the High Clerist’s Tower. The Golden General, Laurana, had used the orb to hold the Tower against an assault by evil dragons. That orb had been lost in the battle.
Another orb had been given for safe-keeping to the wizard Feal-Thas, who had kept it locked up in Icewall for many centuries. The orb’s strange and tragic journey had led to its destruction by a kender at the meeting of the Whitestone Council.
The orb Par-Salian looked at, the last one in existence, was controlled by Raistlin Majere. How was that possible? Par-Salian was a powerful wizard, perhaps one of the most powerful ever to have lived, and he wondered if he would have the courage to lay his hands on the orb that could seize hold of a wizard’s mind and keep him enthralled, caught forever in a twisted, living nightmare, as it had done the wretched Lorac. The young mage, Raistlin Majere, had dared to do so, and he had succeeded in bending the orb to his will.
As Par-Salian gazed into the orb, both fascinated and repelled, he had his answer. He could see the figure of a man, an old, old man, barely skin and bones, more dead than alive. The old man’s fists were clenched in fury, he seemed to be shouting, screaming in rage, but his screams went unheard.
Par-Salian looked in amazement and awe at Raistlin, who gave a confirming nod.
“You are right, Master of the Conclave. The prisoner is Fistandantilus. I would tell you the story, but there is no time. You must all be quiet. Speak no word. Make no movement. Do not even breathe.”
Raistlin placed his hands upon the dragon orb. He cried out in pain as hands reached out from the orb and grasped hold of him. He closed his eyes and gasped.
“I command you, Viper, summon Cyan Bloodbane,” said Raistlin. His voice was a gasp. He shuddered, yet he kept his hands firmly on the orb.
“Bloodbane is a green dragon!” Ladonna said. “He lied! He means to kill us!”
“Hush!” Par-Salian ordered.
Raistlin was intent upon the orb, listening to an unheard voice, the voice of the orb, and apparently he did not like what it was saying.
“You cannot relax your guard!” he said angrily, speaking to the dragon within the orb. “You must not set him free!”
The hands of the orb tightened on Raistlin’s, and he gasped in pain from either the strengthening grip or the agony of the decision he was being asked to make.
“So be it,” Raistlin said at last. “Summon the dragon!”
Par-Salian, staring into the orb, saw the colors swirl wildly. The tiny figure of Fistandantilus disappeared. Raistlin grimaced, but he kept his hands on the orb, concentrating his will on it, oblivious to what was happening around him.
“Ladonna, are you mad? Stop!” Justarius cried.
Ladonna paid no heed. Par-Salian saw a flash of steel and leaped at her. He managed to grab hold of her hand and tried to wrest away the knife. Ladonna turned on him, striking at him and slashing a bloody gash in his chest. Par-Salian staggered back, staring down at the red stain on his white robes.
Ladonna lunged at Raistlin. He paid no heed. The orb began to glow with a bright, green, gaseous radiance. Tendril-like mists swirled out from the orb and wrapped around Ladonna’s body. She screamed and writhed. The smell was noxious. Par-Salian covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. Justarius began to gasp for air and stumbled to the window.
“Do not harm them, Viper,” Raistlin murmured.
The tendrils released their grip on Ladonna, who sagged back into a chair. Justarius was trying to catch his breath, staring out the window.