Temple bells rang the hour. The time of the council meeting was drawing near, and Raistlin still had to make his way back to the upper level. Once he was out of sight of the guards, he removed his pouches and concealed them once more beneath his robes. He put on the golden chain and the medallion of faith, transforming himself from wizard to cleric and left the dungeons, counting the stairs to find his way to the upper regions of the temple where the Nightlord’s entourage was gathering.
Raistlin joined the group of Spiritors in an antechamber outside the council hall. He kept apart from the others, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He did not speak to anyone, but stood in the shadows, his head bowed, his hood over his face. His limp was pronounced. He leaned heavily on his staff. A few of the Spiritors glanced at him, and one started to approach him.
“He’s a follower of Morgion,” said another, and the cleric changed his mind.
After that, everyone left Raistlin severely alone.
The Nightlord made his appearance, accompanied by an aide. The Nightlord was clad in a black velvet robe over which he wore vestments shimmering with the five colors of the five heads of the dragon, Takhisis. The Spiritors, dressed in their own ceremonial garb, clustered around him. The Nightlord was in an excellent humor. He greeted each Spiritor in turn; then his flat and empty eyes turned upon Raistlin.
“I am told you are a worshiper of Morgion,” said the Nightlord. “It is not often we have one of his followers among us, especially one of such high rank. You are welcome, Spiritor—”
The Nightlord stopped talking. His eyes narrowed. He studied Raistlin.
“Have we met, Spiritor?” the Nightlord asked, and though his tone was pleasant, the expression in his eyes was not. “Something about you seems familiar. Put back your hood. Let me see your face.”
“My face is not pleasant to look upon, Nightlord,” said Raistlin in a harsh voice, as different from his own as he could make it.
“I am not easily shocked. This very morning I cut off a man’s nose and gouged out his eyes,” said the Nightlord, smiling. “He was a spy, and that is what I do to spies. Let me see your face, Spiritor.”
Raistlin tensed, cursing his luck. He should not have come up here. He should have foreseen the danger that the Nightlord would recognize him. They would not bother taking him to the dungeons. The Nightlord would kill him here, where he stood.
“Take off the hood! Show him your face,” said Fistandantilus.
“Shut up!” Raistlin hissed under his breath. Aloud he said, “My lord, I have sworn an oath to Morgion—”
“Show your face!” The Nightlord took hold of his medallion of faith and began to chant, “Takhisis, hear my prayer …”
“He will kill you where you stand! Take off the hood! As you said, we are both in this together. For the moment …”
Slowly, reluctantly, Raistlin took hold of the hood and drew it from his head.
One of the Spiritors covered her mouth with her hand and gagged. The others averted their eyes and shrank back from him. The Nightlord looked away not from disgust, but because he had lost interest. He had not unmasked a spy, merely a diseased follower of a loathsome god.
“Cover your face,” said the Nightlord, waving his hand. “My apologies to Morgion if I have offended him.”
Raistlin drew his hood over his head.
“Once again, I have saved you, young one.”
Raistlin pressed his hand against his temple, longing to reach into his skull and rip the voice out of his head.
Fistandantilus chuckled. “You owe me. And you pride yourself on paying your debts.”
A hand squeezed Raistlin’s heart. His chest hurt. He struggled to breathe and was seized by a fit of coughing that doubled him over. He pressed his hand to his mouth. His fingers were covered in blood. Raistlin cursed inwardly, impotently. He cursed and coughed until he was dizzy, and he sagged back against a wall.
The Spiritors eyed him in alarm. The word contagion was on everyone’s lips, and they nearly came to blows trying to get away from him. Then the sound of a gong reverberated throughout the temple. The Spiritors forgot Raistlin in their excitement.
“The bell summons us, my lord,” said the aide, and he opened the double doors that led from the chamber into the council hall.
The Spiritors crowded around the door, eager to witness the procession of Highlords and the arrival of the Emperor.
“Must you gawk like peasants?” the Nightlord said angrily.
The Spiritors, looking chastened, left the door and returned to the antechamber.
“The Emperor’s troops are gathering around his throne,” reported the aide from his position at the door. “They are making ready for the Emperor.”
“We enter after Ariakas,” said the Nightlord. “Line up.”
The aide bustled around, forming the Spiritors into two lines. The Nightlord took his place at the end. No one paid attention to Raistlin, who was leaning on his staff, gasping for breath and trying to clear his mind. The thunder of tramping feet, marching in time to the rhythmic thumping of a drum and shouted commands of officers, caused the floor to shake.
“First will come the Procession of Pilgrims,” the Nightlord told his Spiritors. “When all of you have assembled on the platform, I will enter and take the place of honor beside Her Dark Majesty.”
The soldiers in the hall began to cheer.
“See what is going on,” the Nightlord commanded his aide.
“The Emperor has entered the hall,” the aide reported.
“Is he wearing the Crown of Power?” the Nightlord asked tersely.
“He wears the armor of a Dragon Highlord,” reported the aide, “a cape of royal purple, and the Crown of Power.”
The Nightlord’s face contorted in anger. His outraged voice sounded shrill above the thunderous ovation. “The crown is a holy artifact. When Queen Takhisis has conquered the world, we will see who wears this crown.”
The Spiritors stood in line, expectant, excited, awaiting the signal and the arrival of their Queen. Raistlin fell in at the end. He began to cough. The cleric in front of him whipped around to glare at him.
Ariakas’s troops cheered him and kept on cheering. Ariakas appeared to be in no hurry to stop them, for the cheering grew louder and more raucous. The soldiers struck the floor with their spears and banged their swords against their shields and roared his name. The Spiritors were growing tired of waiting. They began to mutter and shift impatiently. The Nightlord scowled and demanded to know what was happening.
“Ariakas is making his reverence to the throne of the Dark Queen,” the aide reported from his place at the door. He had to shout to make himself heard.
“Has Her Dark Majesty arrived?” the Nightlord asked.
“No, your lordship. Her throne remains empty.”
“Good,” said the Nightlord. “We will be there to welcome her.”
The Spiritors fidgeted. The Nightlord’s foot tapped the floor. Finally, the cheering began to die. A hush settled over the troops. Another gong sounded.
“That is our signal,” said the Nightlord. “Make ready.”
The Spiritors readjusted their hoods and smoothed their robes. A trumpet sounded and cheers again erupted in the hall, as loud or louder than those that greeted the Emperor. The Nightlord was pleased. He made a gesture, and the line of Spiritors began to move toward the door. From there, they would walk out onto the narrow stone bridge that led from the antechamber to the throne of the Dark Queen. The first two Spiritors were at the door when the aide suddenly cried out for them to stop.
“Why? What for?” the Nightlord asked, frowning in displeasure.
“The signal was for Highlord Kitiara, your lordship!” the aide said, trembling. “The Blue Lady and her troops are coming into the hall now.”
The Nightlord paled with fury. The Spiritors broke ranks and clustered angrily around their leader, all of them clamoring to be heard. The entrance of a draconian wearing the insignia of the Emperor’s guard brought sudden, chill silence.