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Raistlin fixed his gaze, his thoughts on Caramon. “You can do this, my brother. I have often called you a fool, but you are not. You are smarter than you think. Stand on your own. You don’t need me. You don’t need Tanis. I will create the diversion. And you will act.”

Caramon sat bolt upright on the bench.

“Raist?” he called out. “Raist? Where are you?”

Tika had been patting Tas’s cheek, trying to rouse him. Caramon’s shout made her jump. She stared at him reproachfully. “Stop it, Caramon!” she said wearily, her eyes filling with tears. “Raistlin is gone. Get that into your head.”

Caramon flushed. “I must have been dreaming,” he mumbled.

Tika sighed bleakly and went back to trying to rouse Tas.

Caramon slumped down on the bench, but he didn’t close his eyes.

“I guess it’s up to me,” he said with a sigh.

“Jasla’s calling,” said Berem.

“Yeah,” said Caramon. “I know. But you can’t go to her now. We have to wait.” He laid his hand on Berem’s arm, calming, protecting.

Raistlin thought how often he’d been annoyed by that same protective hand. He turned away, retracing his steps along the passage, moving away from the main prison area, deeper into the darkness. He was not certain where he was going, though he had some idea. When he came to the place where the corridor branched off in different directions, he chose the passage that sloped downward, the passage that was darkest, the passage that smelled the worst. The air was dank and fetid. The walls were wet to the touch; the floor, covered with slime.

Torches lit the way, but their light was feeble, as though they, too, struggled to survive in the oppressive dark. Raistlin spoke the word that caused his staff to shine, and the globe of crystal glimmered palely, barely enough for him to see. He moved quietly, treading softly, alert to any sound. Arriving at the top of a staircase, he paused to listen. Voices—the guttural, sibilant voices of draconian guards, drifted up from below.

Hidden in the darkness, Raistlin removed the golden medallion of faith from around his neck and dropped it into a pocket. He took several pouches from around his neck and tied them to the belt of his black robes. Then, dousing the light of his staff, he crept down the stairs.

Rounding a corner, he saw a guard room with several baaz draconians seated at a table with their bozak commander, playing at bones beneath the light of a single torch. Two more baaz stood at attention in front of a stone arch. Beyond the arch was darkness vaster and deeper than the darkness of death.

Raistlin remained on the landing at the bend of the staircase and listened to the draconians talk. What he heard confirmed him his theory. He gave a loud “ahem” and walked loudly down the stairs, his staff thumping on the stone.

The draconians leaped to their feet, drawing their swords. Raistlin came into view and, at the sight of his wizard’s robes, the draconians relaxed, though they kept their clawed hands on their sword hilts.

“What do you want, Black Robe?” asked the bozak.

“I have been commanded to renew the spell traps that guard the Foundation Stone,” said Raistlin.

He was taking an enormous risk mentioning the Foundation Stone. If he had made the wrong surmise and those draconians were guarding something else, he would soon be fighting for his life.

The bozak commander eyed Raistlin suspiciously.

“You’re not the usual wizard,” said the bozak. “Where is he this night?”

Raistlin heard the inflection on the word; realizing it was a test, he gave a snort. “You must have extremely poor eyesight, Commander, if you mistook Mistress Iolanthe for a man.”

The baaz draconians hooted and made rude comments at their commander’s expense. The bozak silenced them with a growl and slid his sword back into its sheath.

“Get on with it, then.”

Raistlin crossed to the arch that was festooned with cobwebs. He lifted his staff and let the magical light play over the web. He spoke a few words of magic. The strands glistened with a faint radiance that almost immediately died. The draconians went back to their game.

“A good thing I came,” said Raistlin. “The magic is starting to fail.”

“Where is the witch tonight?” the bozak asked in casual tones that were a little too casual.

“I hear she is dead,” said Raistlin. “She tried to assassinate the Emperor.”

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the bozak and the baaz exchange glances. The bozak muttered something about her death being “a waste of a fine female.”

Raistlin started to walk through the arch.

“Stop right there, Black Robe,” said the bozak. “No one allowed past this point.”

“Why not?” asked Raistlin, feigning surprise. “I need to check the other traps.”

“Orders,” said the bozak.

“What is out there, then?” Raistlin asked curiously.

The bozak shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

Guards were not posted to guard nothing. Raistlin was now firmly convinced that the Foundation Stone lay through that arch. He tried to catch a glimpse of the fabled stone, but if it was there, he could not see it.

He looked up at the arch. A strange feeling came over him. His flesh crawled, as when someone steps on your grave. He could not figure out why, except that he had the oddest impression he had seen the archway before.

The stonework of the arch was ancient, far older than the guard room, which appeared to have been recently built. Raistlin could discern the faint outlines of carvings on the marble blocks that formed the arch, and though the carvings were faded and damaged, he recognized them. Each marble block was engraved with a symbol for the gods. Raistlin looked to the keystone, the center point of the arch, and though the lines were faint he could see the symbol of Paladine.

He closed his eyes, and the Temple of Istar filled his vision, beautiful and graceful, white marble shining in the sunlight. He opened his eyes and looked into the twisted darkness of the Temple of Takhisis, and he knew with unerring certainty what lay beyond:

The past and the present.

“What’s taking you so damn long?” the bozak demanded.

“I cannot figure out what type of spell Mistress Iolanthe has cast,” said Raistlin, frowning in seeming puzzlement. “Tell me, what would happen if someone were to pass through the arch?”

“All holy hell breaks loose,” said the bozak with a relish. “Trumpets sound the alarm, or so I hear. I wouldn’t know myself. It’s never happened. No one has ever gone through that arch.”

“These trumpets,” said Raistlin. “Can they be heard in all parts of the temple? Even in the council hall?”

The draconian grunted. “From what I’m told, the dead can hear them. The noise will sound like the end of the world.”

Raistlin cast a rudimentary spell on the cobwebs, then started to leave. He paused and said as an afterthought, “Do any of you know by chance where they have taken the elf woman they call the Golden General? I am supposed to interrogate her. I thought she would be in the dungeons, but I cannot locate her.”

The draconians had no idea. Raistlin sighed and shrugged. Well, he had tried. He climbed back up the stairs, thinking as he went that the trap he had set was so obvious, only a complete moron would stumble into it.

15

The Nightlord. Paying A Debt.