“This is the council chamber,” announced the pilgrim, bringing him to the main door. “We are not permitted to go in, but you can see inside. It is most impressive!”
As with all other chambers in the temple, the circular council hall existed half on the ethereal plane and half in the real world and was designed to unsettle all who looked upon it. Everything was as it appeared to be, and nothing was what it appeared. The black granite floor was solid and shifted underfoot. The walls were made of the same black granite, making the observer feel the dark rising all around him in a tidal wave meant to drown the world.
Raistlin, peering upward to the domed ceiling, was astonished and displeased to see several dragons perched among the eaves. He was staring at the dragons and wondering how they might affect his plans, when he suddenly had the horrible impression that the ceiling was falling on him. He ducked involuntarily, then heard the dark pilgrim give a dry chuckle. Raistlin stared at the ceiling until the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach subsided.
“On those four platforms,” said the guide, gesturing, “are the sacred thrones of the Dragon Highlords. The white is for Lord Toede, the green for Salah-Kahn, the black for Lucien of Takar, and the blue is for the Blue Lady, Kitiara uth Matar.”
“The platforms are rather small,” said Raistlin.
The guide bristled, taking offense. “They are most imposing.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Raistlin. “What I meant was that the platforms are not large enough to hold the Highlord and all his bodyguards. Don’t you fear assassins?”
“Ah, I see what you mean,” said the guide stiffly. “No one other than the Highlord is permitted on the platform. The bodyguards stand on the stairs that lead up to the platform, and they encircle the platform itself. No assassin could possibly get by.”
“I assume the large, ornate throne with all the jewels at the front of the hall is for the Emperor?”
“Yes, that is where His Imperial Majesty will sit. And you see the dark alcove above his throne?”
Raistlin had found it difficult to look at anything else. His eyes were constantly drawn to that shadowy area, and he had known what the alcove housed before the guide told him.
“That is where our Queen will make her triumphant entrance into the world. You are fortunate, Spiritor. You will be there with her.”
“I will?” Raistlin asked, startled.
“The Emperor has his throne beneath her. Our Nightlord stands close to Her Dark Majesty, and dignitaries such as yourself, Spiritor, will be standing alongside her.”
The guide sighed with envy. “You are very lucky to be so close to Her Dark Majesty.”
“Indeed,” said Raistlin.
He and Kit had planned that he would join her on her own platform. He could work his magic from there. There were risks in that. He would be in full view of everyone in the council hall, including Ariakas. And though Raistlin was disguised as a cleric, the moment he started to cast his spell, everyone in the hall would know he was a wizard. The longer he thought about it, the more he realized that the Nightlord’s platform would serve him far better.
I will be standing above Ariakas, he reflected. The Emperor will have his back to me. True, I will be close to Takhisis, but she will not be paying attention to me. Her attention will be focused on her Highlords.
“We should be going,” the guide said abruptly. “It is almost time for midday rituals. You can accompany me.”
“I do not want to be a burden,” said Raistlin, who had been wondering how to get rid of the woman so he could go exploring on his own. “I will find my own way around.”
“Attendance is mandatory,” said the guide sternly.
Raistlin swore beneath his breath, but there was no help for it. His guide steered him away from the hall and into the maze that was the temple, where they immediately got caught up in a confused mass of dark clerics and soldiers, all attempting to enter the council hall. The heat from the hundreds of bodies was intense. Raistlin was sweating in his velvet robes. His palms in the black, leather gloves were itchy and wet. He disliked the feeling, and he longed to rip the gloves off. He dared not do so. His golden skin would have caused comment; he feared he would be recognized from the time when he’d been imprisoned here.
Just as the crowd seemed about to thin out, a large baaz draconian appeared out of nowhere and barged into them.
“Make way!” the draconian was yelling. “Dangerous prisoners. Make way! Make way!”
People fell back as ordered. The prisoners came into view. One of them was Tika, walking directly behind the guard. Her red curls were limp and bedraggled, and she had long, bloody scratches on her arms. Whenever she slowed down, a baaz draconian gave her a shove from behind.
Caramon came next, carrying Tasslehoff, slung over his shoulder. Caramon was protesting loudly that they had no reason to arrest him, he was a commander in the dragonarmy, they’d made a big mistake. So what if he didn’t have the right papers? He demanded to see whoever was in charge.
Tas’s face was bloody and bruised, and he must have been unconscious because he was quiet. And Tasslehoff Burrfoot, in such an interesting situation, would have never been quiet.
Where is Tanis? Raistlin wondered. Caramon—insecure and self-doubting—would never abandon his leader. Perhaps Tanis was dead. The fact that Tasslehoff was injured suggested a fight had taken place. Kender never did know when to keep their mouths shut.
There was one other person in the group, a tall man with a long, white beard. Raistlin didn’t recognize him at first, not until Tika stumbled. The baaz draconian shoved her, and she fell against the bearded man. His false beard slipped and Raistlin knew him—Berem.
Tika put her hand to Berem’s face, pretending to be concerned about him, but in reality to repair the damage, swiftly sticking the beard back into place.
The group passed so close by Raistlin that he could have reached out his hand and touched Caramon’s arm, the strong arm that had so often supported him, held him, comforted him, defended him. Raistlin turned his attention to the man with the false beard.
Raistlin had promised to deliver Berem Everman to Takhisis, and there was the Everman, not an arm’s length away.
Raistlin drew in a soft breath. The idea burst like an exploding star inside his head, dazzling him. His heart leaped with excitement; his hands shook. He had thought only to see his sister, Kitiara, wear the crown. That had been the extent of his ambition, his desire. He had never dreamed he would be handed the ability to bring down Queen Takhisis. He quickly squelched the thought, mindful of the voice in his head. Fistandantilus was out there, watching, waiting, biding his time.
Two suns cannot travel in the same orbit.
Raistlin dragged his hood over his face and shrank back against a wall. Clerics and soldiers shoved past him, shielding him from sight. The draconians continued on, bullying their way through the crowd, until Raistlin lost sight of them.
“Where are they taking the prisoners?” he asked his guide.
“To the dungeons below the temple,” she replied. Her lip curled in disapproval. “I don’t know why the stupid guards brought that filth into the main level. The dracos should have entered through the proper gate. But what can you expect of those lizard-brains? I always said creating them was a mistake.”
True, thought Raistlin, but not for the reason the guide imagined. The Dark Queen’s draconians, born into the world to help her conquer it, were taking the one man in the world who could cause her to lose it to the one place in the world where he needed to be:
The Foundation Stone.
14
A reunion of sorts. The spell trap.
Midday services were held at various locations throughout the temple. Raistlin’s guide led him up twenty-six stairs to a place known simply as the Abbey.