He turned his attention to the Hourglass of Stars. The three moons glimmered in the glass like fireflies trapped in a jar.
He heard Fistandantilus shout, “Smash it!”
Raistlin picked up the hourglass. Expecting it to be heavy, he found it was deceptively light, and he almost dropped it. He was about to smash it, as the old man urged. Then he paused. Why was Fistandantilus helping him?
Raistlin held the hourglass poised above the floor. His thought had been to smash the hourglass and free the gods. But what if that didn’t happen? What if, by smashing it, he sealed them in the darkness forever?
Raistlin stared at the hourglass. The shining grain of sand quivered, about to fall. And then came the ghastly song of the banshees lifted in a terrible wail of welcome and revulsion.
Lord Soth had returned to Dargaard Keep.
Raistlin could hear, beneath the song, the death knight running down the stairs. Raistlin had some thought of trying to hide, and he was about to replace the hourglass on the pedestal when the shining grain of sand started to fall …
Raistlin watched it, and suddenly light flashed in his mind as the light had flared from his staff. Hoping he wasn’t too late, he swiftly turned the Hourglass of Stars upside down.
The grain of sand reversed, fell back into the top half, which had become the bottom.
The three moons vanished.
Raistlin could not see the moons’ blessed light. He did not know if his desperate act had succeeded or failed. He extended his hands, palms upward.
“Kair tangus miopiar!” he said, his voice shaking.
He felt nothing for a moment, and his heart stopped in fear; then the familiar, soothing, exciting, searing warmth burned in his blood and fire flared in his hands. He watched the flames leap from his palms, and he was weak with relief. The gods were free.
Raistlin hurled the Hourglass of Stars against the stone wall. The crystal shattered into a myriad of sharp shards. Spilled sand glittered in the light like tiny stars.
Raistlin picked up the dragon orb from among the marbles and held it fast. The door was opening, pushed by the death knight’s hand. He had just strength enough left to speak the words of magic …
… Barely.
10
No Rest For The Wizard. Revenge.
Raistlin emerged from the corridors of magic into his bedroom in the Broken Shield. He was exhausted, and he was looking forward to his bed, to falling into exhausted sleep.
He found, to his astonishment, that his bed was occupied.
“Welcome home,” said Iolanthe.
She was seated on the bed. As she lifted her head, he saw her face was battered and bruised. Both eyes were blackened, one almost completely swollen shut. Her lip was split. Her fine clothes were torn. Purple bruises covered her neck.
“Thank you for saving my life this night, my dear,” she said, mumbling through her bloody lips. “Too bad I can’t return the favor.”
She cast a sidelong glance at the man who was standing at the window, gazing out at the three moons, which had just come together to form one unblinking eye. Emperor Ariakas did not bother to turn around. He merely glanced over his broad shoulder. His face was dark, expressionless.
Raistlin felt nothing. He was going to die in the next few moments, and he was too worn, too drained to care. He supposed he should try to defend himself, cast some sort of deadly spell. The words of magic fluttered in his brain and flew off before he could catch them.
“If you’re going to kill me, do so now,” he said wearily. “At least that way I will get some rest.”
Iolanthe tried to smile, but it hurt. She winced and pressed her fingers to her lip.
“My lord wants the dragon orb,” she said.
Raistlin tore the pouch from his belt and tossed it onto the floor. The pouch opened. Marbles and the dragon orb rolled out onto the floor and lay there, gleaming in the moonlight. The three moons were starting to separate, drifting apart, yet never far apart.
The moonlight—silver and red—shone on the orb and, as if basking in the magic, the orb seemed to grow and expand. Its own colored lights swirled in response.
Ariakas gazed at the orb, entranced. He left the window and squatted down on his haunches to peer at it. The hands in the orb reached out to him. Ariakas’s fingers twitched. He must be longing to touch it, to see if he could control it. He actually started to reach for it. With a dark smile, he drew back.
“Nice try, Majere,” said Ariakas, standing up. “I’m not as stupid as King Lorac—”
“Oh, yes, you are, my dear,” said Iolanthe.
A blast of frigid air, chill as the frozen wastes of Icewall, struck Ariakas from behind. The magical cold turned his flesh blue and stole his breath. His hair and beard and armor were rimed with hoarfrost. His limbs shuddered. His blood congealed. A look of fury and astonishment froze on his face. Unable to move, he crashed to the floor with a thud like a block of ice.
“Never turn your back on a wizard,” Iolanthe advised him. “Especially one you just beat up.”
Raistlin watched, stupid with fatigue, as Iolanthe walked to Ariakas’s side. She knelt down, put her hand to his neck, and began to swear.
“Damn it to the Abyss and back! The bastard is still alive! I thought I had killed him for certain. Takhisis must love him.”
Iolanthe thrust a small crystal cone into her bosom and reached out her hand to Raistlin. “I know you’re tired. I’ll transport you. Hurry! We have to get out of here before his guards come to see what has happened to him.”
Raistlin stared at her. He was too tired to think. He had to cajole his brain into working. He shook his head and, ignoring her outstretched hand, he picked up the glowing dragon orb. It shrank at his touch, and his hand closed over it tightly.
“You go,” he said.
“You can’t stay in Neraka! Ariakas isn’t dead. He will send the Black Ghost after you—”
“He tried that tonight, didn’t he?” said Raistlin, looking at Iolanthe intently.
A blush suffused her face. She was beautiful and alluring. Small wonder those unsuspecting Black Robes had opened their doors to her sultry whispers in the dead of night.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“I count stairs, remember. How long have you been working for Hidden Light?”
“Ever since—” Iolanthe stopped then shook her head. “It’s a winter’s tale, meant to be told around the fire. We don’t have time for it now. My friends and I are leaving Neraka. Come with us.”
Raistlin was gazing into the dragon orb, watching the colors. Black and green, red and white and blue twined and writhed and twisted.
“I have to change the darkness,” he said.
She stared at him, not understanding. Then she squeezed his hand and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Thank you, Raistlin Majere. You saved the people who are most dear to me.”
She flung her magical clay on the wall. The portal opened, expanded, and Iolanthe stepped into it.
“Go with the gods,” she called to him.
The portal shut behind her.
“I plan to,” said Raistlin.
He held the glowing dragon orb in his hands and looked out the window to the three moons.
“You owe me,” he told them.
The hands in the dragon orb reached out to him, caught him up, and carried him away.
11
Godshome. Old friends.
Raistlin woke to find himself lying on hard rock, cold and polished, so it seemed he was resting on the surface of a glittering, black ice-bound lake. He was surrounded by a circle of twenty-one pillars of stone, shapeless and roughhewn. The pillars stood separate and apart, yet so close together that Raistlin could not see what lay beyond them.
He had no idea how long he had been asleep. He recalled periods of drowsy semiconsciousness, thinking that he should wake, that the sands in his hourglass were falling fast, the world was turning beneath him, events were happening, and he was not there to shape them. He tried several times to grasp hold of the rim of consciousness and pull himself out of sleep’s deep well, only to find he lacked the strength.