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Once he was awake, he was loath to move, as one is reluctant to rise from bed on a gray morning when raindrops pelt gently on the window pane. The air was still and pure, and it carried to him the scent of spring. But the scent was faint, the season far away, distant, as though there, in that vale, the passing of years did not matter.

Raistlin looked up into the sky and judged by the position of the stars that the time was early morning, though what the date might be, he had no idea. The sky was black as death above. Faint light, glimmering in the east, promised a rosy dawn. The stars shone bright, none brighter than the red star, the forging fire of Reorx. The constellations of the other gods were visible, all of them at once, which was not possible.

The previous autumn, Raistlin had looked into the sky and seen that two constellations were missing: that of Paladine and that of Takhisis. How long past that seemed! Autumn’s leaves had gone up in flame and smoke. Winter had honored the dead with snow, white and pure. The snow was melting and new life, born of death and sacrifice, was stubbornly fighting to push its way through the frozen ground.

“Godshome,” said Raistlin to himself softly.

He had slept on the hard rock without even a blanket, yet he was not stiff or sore. He rose to his feet and shook out his robes and checked to make certain that the Staff of Magius was at his side. He could see the constellations reflected in the shining, black surface.

Stars above and stars below, much like an hourglass.

The pillars that surrounded him were much like prison bars. He saw no way to pass between them.

For some, faith is a prison, he reflected. For others, faith brings freedom.

Raistlin walked steadily toward the pillars and found himself on the other side without knowing how he came to be there. “Interesting,” he murmured.

He was thirsty and hungry. He rarely ate much at the best of times, and he had undergone such tension and inner turmoil the previous day that he had forgotten to eat at all. As if thinking made it so, he found a stream of clear water, running down from the mountains. Raistlin drank his fill and, dipping a handkerchief in the water, he laved his face and body. The water had restorative powers, it seemed, for he felt strong and revived. And though there was nothing to eat, he was no longer hungry.

Raistlin had read something of Godshome, though not much, for not much had been written. The Aesthetic who had traveled to Neraka had tried to find Godshome, which was very near that dread city, but he had been unsuccessful. Godshome was the most holy site in the world. Who had created it and why were not known. The Aesthetic had offered various theories. Some said that when the gods had finished creating the world, they came together in this place to rejoice. Another theory held that Godshome was man made, a holy shrine to the gods erected by some lost and forgotten civilization. What was known was that only those chosen by the gods were permitted to enter.

Raistlin felt a sense of urgency, the gods breathing down his neck.

Everything happens for a reason. I need to make sure the reason is mine.

Raistlin settled himself on the rocky floor near the stream and drew the dragon orb from the pouch. He placed the dragon orb on the surface before him and, chanting the words, reached out to the hands that reached out to him. He had no idea if his plan would work, for he was still discovering the orb’s capabilities. From what he had read, the wizards who created the orb had used it to look into the future. If the orb’s eyes could see into the future, why not the present? It seemed a much easier task.

“I am looking for someone,” he told the orb. “I want to know what this person is doing and hear what he is saying and see what he is seeing at this very moment. Is that possible, Viper?”

It is. Think of this person only. Concentrate on this person to the exclusion of all else. Speak the name three times.

“Caramon,” said Raistlin, and he brought his twin to mind. Or rather, he no longer attempted to drive him away.

“Caramon,” Raistlin said again, and he stared into the orb that was swirling with color.

“Caramon!” Raistlin said a third time, sharply, as when they were young and he was trying to waken him. Caramon had always been fond of sleeping in.

The orb’s colors dissipated like morning mists. Raistlin saw pouring rain, the wet face of a rock wall. Standing around in a sodden group were his friends: Tanis Half-Elven; Tika Waylan; Tasslehoff Burrfoot; Flint Fireforge; and his twin brother, Caramon. With them was an old man in mouse-colored robes and a disreputable hat.

“Fizban,” Raistlin said softly. “Of course.”

Tanis and Caramon wore the black armor and the insignia of dragonarmy officers. Tanis had put on a helm that was too big for him, not so much for protection as to conceal the pointed ears that would have revealed his elven blood. Caramon was not wearing a helm. He had probably not been able to find one big enough. His breastplate was a tight fit; the straps that held it on were stretched to their limit over his broad chest.

As Raistlin watched, Tanis—his face distorted with anger—looked swiftly around at the small group. His gaze focused on Caramon.

“Where’s Berem?” he asked in urgent tones.

Raistlin’s ears pricked at the name.

His brother’s face went red. “I—I dunno, Tanis. I—I thought he was next to me.”

Tanis was furious. “He’s our only way into Neraka, and he’s the only reason they’re keeping Laurana alive. If they catch him—”

“Don’t worry, lad.” That was Flint, always Tanis’s comforting father. “We’ll find him.”

“I’m sorry, Tanis,” Caramon was mumbling. “I was thinking—about Raist. I—I know I shouldn’t—”

“How in the name of the Abyss does that blasted brother of yours work mischief when he’s not even here?”

“How indeed?” Raistlin asked with a smile and a sigh.

So Tanis had captured Berem and was apparently planning to exchange him for Laurana. Only Caramon had lost him. Raistlin wondered if Tanis knew the reason the Dark Queen wanted Berem so desperately. If he knew, would he be so eager to hand him over? Raistlin did not hazard a guess. He did not know these people. They had changed; the war, their trials had changed them.

Caramon, good-natured, cheerful, outgoing, was lost and alone, seeking the part of himself that was missing. Tika Waylan stood beside him, trying to be supportive, but unable to understand.

Pert and pretty Tika, with the bouncing, red curls and hearty laughter. Her red curls might be wet and drooping, but their fire was still bright in the spring rain. She carried a sword, not mugs of ale, and wore pieces of mismatched armor. Raistlin had been annoyed by Tika’s love for his brother. Or perhaps he had been jealous of that love. Not because Raistlin had been in love with Tika himself, but because Caramon had found someone else to love besides his twin.

“I did you a favor by leaving, my brother,” Raistlin told Caramon. “It is time for you to let go.”

His attention shifted to Tanis, the leader of the group. Once he had been calm and collected, but he was falling apart as Raistlin watched. The woman he loved had been taken from him, and he was desperate to save her, though it meant destroying the world in the process.

Fizban, the befuddled old wizard in the mouse-colored robes, standing apart, watching and waiting quietly, patiently.

Raistlin remembered a question Tanis had asked him once, long in the past, when the autumn winds blew cold.

“Do you believe we were chosen, Raistlin? … Why? We are not the stuff of heroes …”