“What do you want?” asked the Nightlord, glowering.
“His Imperial Majesty Ariakas extends his respects to the Nightlord of Queen Takhisis,” said the draconian. “The Emperor has sent me to inform your lordship that there has been a change in plans. Your lordship and these honored holy men will enter the hall after the Highlord of the White Dragonarmy, Lord Toede. The Emperor—”
“I will not,” said the Nightlord, dangerously calm.
“I beg your lordship’s pardon,” said the draconian.
“You heard me. I will not enter last. In fact, I will not enter at all. You may so inform Ariakas.”
“I will inform the Emperor,” said the draconian, and with a bow and a disdainful flick of his tail, he departed.
The Nightlord cast a grim glance around at his clerics. “Ariakas insults me and, by insulting me, he insults our Queen. I will not stand for it and neither will she! We will go to the Abbey and give her our prayerful support.”
The Spiritors swept out of the room, their robes rustling with righteous indignation. Raistlin started to join them. He took a step then, clutching at his chest, cried out in pain. His staff fell from his limp hand. He stumbled, staggered, and sank to his knees, coughing and spewing up blood. With a groan, he slumped onto his belly and lay on the floor, twitching and writhing in agony.
The Spiritors stopped, staring at him in alarm. Several looked uncertainly at the Nightlord.
“Should we help?” asked one.
“Leave him. Morgion will see to his cleric,” said the Nightlord, and he waved his hand dismissively and hastened off.
The Spiritors did not wait to be told twice. Covering their mouths and noses with their black sleeves, they tried to get away from Raistlin as fast as possible.
Once he was certain he was alone, Raistlin rose to his feet. He picked up the Staff of Magius and walked to the door and looked out into the hall.
A narrow bridge of black stone extended some distance ahead of him. At the end was the shadowy alcove and the throne of the Dark Queen. She had not yet made an appearance. Perhaps she was in the Abbey, listening to the complaints of her Nightlord. In the hall, drums beat and soldiers cheered. Another Dragon Highlord was making his grand entrance. Raistlin ventured out onto the bridge. He did not go far. He wanted to see, not be seen.
The bridge had no rails, no barriers. Raistlin peered over the edge, looking down on the heads of the crowd that was far below him. The soldiers surged and heaved and wriggled, reminding him of maggots feeding off rotting flesh. The platforms on which the Dragon Highlords had their thrones rose high above the floor. Narrow, stone bridges extended from the antechambers of each Highlord to the throne. Thus, the Highlords were spared the need of walking among the masses.
Ariakas’s throne reared above all the others. His throne was in the place of honor, directly beneath the Dark Queen’s alcove.
The Emperor’s throne was made of onyx and was plain and unadorned. Takhisis’s throne, by contrast, was hideously beautiful. The back of the throne was formed of the gracefully curving necks and heads of five dragons, two on the right, two on the left, and one in the center. The arms of the throne were the dragon’s legs; the seat, the dragon’s breast. The throne was made entirely of jewels: emeralds, rubies, sapphires, pearls, and black diamonds.
From his vantage point on the bridge, Raistlin could see two of the other Highlords: the handsome and disdainful face of Salah-Kahn and the ugly, cunning face of the half-ogre Lucien of Takar. The white throne was empty. Ariakas had been shouting for Lord Toede, Highlord of the White, but no one by that name was answering.
The same Toede who had been Fewmaster in Solace. The same Toede whose search for the blue crystal staff had plunged Raistlin and his friends into danger and started them on the bright and shining, dark and tortuous paths they walked.
Raistlin could not see Kitiara from where he stood. She must be seated on the throne to Ariakas’s right. Raistlin advanced along the bridge. He no longer worried about anyone below seeing him. The domed ceiling of the hall was wreathed in smoke from the breath of the dragons, who were watching from their alcoves high above and from the hundreds of torches mounted on the walls and the fires burning in iron braziers. In his black robes, Raistlin was just another shadow in a hall of shadows.
Takhisis would be watching him, as she was watching with avid interest everything that was going on. The air in the hall reeked of smoke and steel, leather and intrigue. Certainly Ariakas must have smelled the stench. And yet he sat on his throne alone, isolated, apart, supremely confident and invincible. He had no armed guards, only the Crown of Power. Let his underlings ring themselves round with steel. Ariakas feared nothing and no one. He had the backing of his Queen.
“But does he?” Raistlin wondered.
A ruler is supposed to appear confident. Even arrogance has its place upon the throne. But no god can forgive hubris. The last living man who had worn the crown had suffered from that malady. The Kingpriest of Istar had believed himself to be as powerful as any god. The gods of Krynn had shown him power; they had sent a fiery mountain crashing down upon his head. Ariakas had made the mistake of thinking too well of himself.
Raistlin was finally in a position where he could see Kitiara.
And with her was Tanis Half-Elven.
16
Crown of Love. Crown of Power.
Raistlin had not anticipated finding Tanis there, and he was annoyed. The presence of the half-elf could seriously disrupt his plans. Tanis was not standing at Kit’s side; no one was allowed on the platform with the Highlord. But he was as close to her as he could manage, however, standing on the step leading to the throne.
Raistlin’s lip curled. Tanis had come to Neraka to save the woman he loved. But did he know, even at that moment, which woman that was?
The council meeting proceeded. Raistlin, high above the thrones of the Highlords, could hear Ariakas’s deep bellow, but much of what he was saying was swallowed by the vastness of the chamber. From what he could gather, Highlord Toede was not there because he had been slain by kender. And that news prompted a sound Raistlin could hear clearly—Kitiara’s scornful laughter.
Ariakas was furious. He rose to his feet and started to descend the platform. Kitiara did not move. Her soldiers grabbed their weapons. Raistlin was amused to see Tanis take a protective step toward Kit, who remained seated on her throne, regarding Ariakas with a look of unutterable scorn. The other two Highlords were on their feet, watching with interest, neither offering any support, both probably hoping Ariakas and Kit would kill each other.
Raistlin walked to the edge of the bridge and looked down on Ariakas, who was directly beneath him. That was the moment to strike. No one was paying any attention to him. Everyone was watching the Highlords. Raistlin readied his magic.
Then he went blind. Darkness obliterated his sight, filled his mind, his heart, his lungs. He froze in place, for he was standing on the edge of the bridge. A wrong step would carry him over. He could always use the magic of his staff, which would allow him to float like a feather through the air, but everyone in the hall would see him, including Ariakas, unless they were all blind as he was at the moment. Reading his thoughts, an unseen hand tore his staff from his grasp and smote him in the back. His heart lurching in terror, he pitched forward. He landed, hard, on his knees, and though his wrists tingled and his knees were bruised, he shook with relief, for he had not plunged over the edge.
He reached out a shaking hand and felt nothing in front of him except air and realized how close he had come. He longed to crawl to safety, but he had lost all sense of direction and he feared that he might yet fall. The hand was pounding him, grinding him, crushing him into the stone. Then suddenly, when it seemed his heart would burst, the hand released him, the darkness lifted from his eyes. Raistlin scrambled back until he bumped into something solid, the Dark Queen’s throne.