Dragons of Vanished Moon
Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
To those who fight the never ending battle against the darkness, this book is respectfully dedicated.
Book 1
1
Lost Souls
In the dungeon of the Tower of High Sorcery, that had once been in Palanthas but now resided in Nightlund, the great archmagus Raistlin Majere had conjured a magical Pool of Seeing. By gazing into this pool, he was able to follow and sometimes shape events transpiring in the world. Although Raistlin Majere had been dead many long years, his magical Pool of Seeing remained in use. The wizard Dalamar, who had inherited the Tower from his Shalafi, maintained the magic of the pool. A veritable prisoner in the Tower that was an island in the river of the dead, Dalamar had often made use of the pool to visit in his mind those places he could not travel in his body. Palin Majere stood now at the pool’s edge, staring into the unwavering blue flame that burned in the center of the still water and was the chamber’s only light. Dalamar was close beside him, his gaze fixed on the same unwavering fire. Although the mages could have seen events transpiring anywhere in the world, they watched intently an event that was happening quite close to them, an event taking place at the top of the very Tower in which they stood.
Goldmoon of the Citadel of Light, and Mina, Lord of the Night, leader of the Dark Knights of Neraka, were to meet in the laboratory that had once belonged to Raistlin Majere. Goldmoon had already arrived at the strange meeting place. The laboratory was cold and dark and shadowed. Dalamar had left her a lantern, but its light was feeble and served only to emphasize the darkness that could never truly be illuminated, not if every lantern and every candle on Krynn should burst into flame. The darkness that was the soul of this dread Tower had its heart here in this chamber, which in the past had been a scene of death and pain and suffering. In this chamber, Raistlin Majere had sought to emulate the gods and create life, only to fail utterly, bringing into the world misbegotten, shambling, pathetic beings known as the Live Ones, who had lived out their wretched existence in the room where the two wizards now stood. In the chamber, the Blue Dragonlady Kitiara had died, her death as brutal and bloody as her life. Here stood the Portal to the Abyss, a link between the realm of the mortal and realm of the dead, a link that had long ago been severed and was nothing now but a home to mice and spiders. Goldmoon knew the dark history of this room. She must be considering that now, Palin thought, watching her image that shimmered on the surface of the pool. She stood in the laboratory, her arms clasped about her. She shivered not with the cold, but with fear. Palin was concerned. He could not remembering all the years that he had known her—seeing Goldmoon afraid. Perhaps it was the strange body that Goldmoon’s spirit inhabited. She was over ninety. Her true body was that of an elderly woman—still vigorous, still strong for her years, but with skin marked and marred with time, a back that was starting to stoop, fingers that were gnarled, but whose touch was gentle. She had been comfortable with that body. She had never feared or regretted the passage of the years that had brought the joy of love and birth, the sorrow of love and death. That body had been taken from her the night of the great storm, and she had been given another body, a stranger’s body, one that was young and beautiful, healthful and vibrant. Only the eyes were the eyes of the woman Palin had known throughout his life.
She is right, he thought, this body doesn’t belong to her. It’s borrowed finery. Clothing that doesn’t fit.
“I should be with her,” Palin muttered. He stirred, shifted, began to pace restlessly along the water’s edge. The chamber was made of stone and was dark and chill, the only light the unwavering flame that burned in the heart of the dark pool, and it illuminated little and gave no warmth. “Goldmoon looks strong, but she’s not. Her body may be that of someone in her twenties, but her heart is the heart of a woman whose life has spanned nine decades. The shock of seeing Mina again—especially as she is—may kill her.”
“In that case, the shock of seeing you beheaded by the Dark Knights would probably do very little for her either,” returned Dalamar caustically. “Which is what she would see if you were to march up there now. The Tower is surrounded by soldiers. There must be at least thirty of them out there.”
“I don’t think they’d kill me,” said Palin.
“No? And what would they do? Tell you to go stand in a corner with your face to the wall and think what a bad boy you’ve been?” Dalamar scoffed.
“Speaking of corners,” he added suddenly, his voice altering, “did you see that?”
“What?” Palin jerked his head, looked around in alarm.
“Not here! There!” Dalamar pointed into the pool. “A flash in the eyes of dragons that guard the Portal.”
“All I see is dust,” Palin said after a moment’s intense gaze, “and cobwebs and mouse dung. You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Dalamar asked. His sardonic tone had softened, was unusually somber. “I wonder.”
“You wonder what?”
“A great many things,” said Dalamar.
Palin eyed the dark elf closely but could not read on that gaunt and drawn face a single thought stirring behind the dark eyes. In his black robes, Dalamar was indistinguishable from the darkness of the chamber. Only his hands with their delicate fingers could be seen, and they appeared to be hands that lacked a body. The long-lived elf was presumably in the prime of life, but his wasted form, consumed by the fever of frustrated ambition, might have belonged to an elder of his race.
I shouldn’t be casting aspersions. What does he see when he looks at me? Palin asked himself. A shabby, middle-aged man. My face wan and wasted. My hair graying, thin. My eyes the embittered eyes of one who has not found what he was promised.
I stand on the edge of wondrous magic created by my uncle, and what have I done, except fail everyone who ever expected anything of me. Including myself. Goldmoon is just the most recent. I should be with her. A hero like my father would be with her, no matter that it meant sacrificing his freedom, perhaps his life. Yet here I am, skulking in the basement of this Tower.
“Stop fidgeting, will you?” Dalamar said irritably. “You’ll slip and fall in the pool. Look there.” He pointed excitedly to the water. “Mina has arrived.” Dalamar rubbed his thin hands. “Now we will see and hear something to our advantage.”
Palin halted on the edge of the pool, wavering in his decision. If he left immediately, walked the corridors of magic, he might yet reach Goldmoon in time to protect her. Yet, he could not pull himself away. He stared down at the pool in dread fascination.
“I can see nothing in this wizard’s murk,” Mina was saying loudly. “We need more light.” The light in the chamber grew brighter, so bright that it dazzled eyes accustomed to the darkness.
“I didn’t know Mina was a mage,” said Palin, shading his eyes with his hand.
“She’s not,” said Dalamar shortly. He cast Palin a strange glance. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”
Palin ignored the question, concentrated on the conversation.
“You... you are so beautiful, Mother,” Mina said softly, awed. “You look just as I imagined.” Sinking to her knees, the girl extended her hands. “Come, kiss me, Mother,” she cried, tears falling. “Kiss me as you used to. I am Mina. Your Mina.”
“And so she was, for many years,” murmured Palin, watching in sorrowful concern as Goldmoon advanced unsteadily to clasp her adopted child in her arms. “Goldmoon found Mina washed up on the shore, presumably the survivor of some terrible ship wreck, though no wreckage or bodies or any other survivors were ever discovered. They brought her to the Citadel’s orphanage. Intelligent, bold, fearless, Mina charmed all, including Goldmoon, who took the child to her heart. And then, one day, at the age of fourteen, Mina ran away. We searched, but we could find no trace of her, nor could anyone say why she had gone, for she had seemed so happy. Goldmoon’s heart broke, then.”