“Let me guess,” Astinus remarked, imperturbably entering and taking a seat. Setting a huge book down upon a table, he opened it to a blank page, drew a quill pen from a wooden case he carried with him, carefully examined the tip, then looked up. “Ink, friend,” he said to a startled cleric, who after a nod from Elistan—left the room hurriedly. Then the historian continued his original sentence.
“Let me guess. You were discussing Raistlin Majere.”
“It is true,” Dalamar said. “I called you here.”
The dark elf had resumed his seat by the fire. Tanis, still scowling, went back to his place near Elistan. The cleric, Garad, returning with Astinus’s ink, asked if they wanted anything else. The reply being negative, he left, sternly adding, for the benefit of those in the room, that Elistan was unwell and should not be long disturbed.
“I called you here, together,” Dalamar repeated, his gaze upon the fire. Then he raised his eyes, looking directly at Tanis. “You come at some small inconvenience. But 1 come, knowing that I will suffer the torment all of my faith feel trodding upon this holy ground. But it is imperative that I speak to you, all of you, together. I knew Elistan could not come to me. I knew Tanis Half-Elven would not come to me. And so I had no choice but to—”
“Proceed,” Astinus said in his deep, cool voice. “The world passes as we sit here. You have called us here together. That is established. For what reason?”
Dalamar was silent for a moment, his gaze going back once again to the fire. When he spoke, he did not look up.
“Our worst fears are realized,” he said softly. “He has been successful.”
2
Come home... .
The voice lingered in his memory. Someone kneeling beside the pool of his mind, dropping words into the calm, clear surface. Ripples of consciousness disturbed him, woke him from his peaceful, restful sleep.
“Come home... . My son, come home.”
Opening his eyes, Raistlin looked into the face of his mother.
Smiling, she reached out her hand and stroked back the wispy, white hair that fell down across his forehead. “My poor son,” she murmured, her dark eyes soft with grief and pity and love. “What they did to you! I watched. I’ve watched for so long now. And I’ve wept. Yes, my son, even the dead weep. It is the only comfort we have. But all that is over now. You are with me. Here you can rest... .”
Raistlin struggled to sit up. Looking down at himself, he saw—to his horror—that he was covered with blood. Yet he felt no pain, there seemed to be no wound. He found it hard to take a breath, and he gasped for air.
“Here, let me help you,” his mother said. She began to loosen the silken cord he wore around his waist, the cord from which hung his pouches, his precious spell components. Reflexively, Raistlin thrust her hand aside. His breath came easier. He looked around.
“What happened? Where am I?” He was vastly confused. Memories of his childhood came to him. Memories of two childhoods came to him! His... and someone else’s! He looked at his mother, and she was someone he knew and she was a stranger.
“What happened?” he repeated irritably, beating back the surging memories that threatened to overthrow his grasp on sanity.
“You have died, my son,” his mother said gently. “And now you are here with me.”
“Died!” Raistlin repeated, aghast.
Frantically he sorted through the memories. He recalled being near death... How was it that he had failed? He put his hand to his forehead and felt... flesh, bone, warmth... And then he remembered...
The Portal!
“No,” he cried angrily, glaring at his mother. “That’s impossible.”
“You lost control of the magic, my son,” his mother said, reaching out her hand to touch Raistlin again. He drew away from her. With the slight, sad smile—a smile he remembered so well—she let her hand drop back in her lap. “The field shifted, the forces tore you apart. There was a terrible explosion, it leveled the Plains of Dergoth. The magical fortress of Zhaman collapsed.” His mother’s voice shook. “The sight of your suffering was almost more than I could bear.”
“I remember,” Raistlin whispered, putting his hands to his head. “I remember the pain... but...”
He remembered something else, too—brilliant bursts of multicolored lights, he remembered a feeling of exultation and ecstasy welling up in his soul, he remembered the dragon’s heads that guarded the Portal screaming in fury, he remembered wrapping his arms around Crysania.
Standing up, Raistlin looked around. He was on flat, level ground—a desert of some sort. In the distance he could see mountains. They looked familiar—of course! Thorbardin! The dwarven kingdom. He turned. There were the ruins of the fortress, looking like a skull devouring the land in its eternally grinning mouth. So, he was on the Plains of Dergoth. He recognized the landscape.
But, even as he recognized it, it seemed strange to him. Everything was tinged with red, as though he were seeing all objects through blood-dimmed eyes. And, though objects looked the same as he remembered them, they were strange to him as well.
Skullcap he had seen during the War of the Lance. He didn’t remember it grinning in that obscene way. The mountains, too, were sharp and clearly defined against the sky. The sky! Raistlin drew in a breath. It was empty! Swiftly he looked in all directions. No, there was no sun, yet it was not night. There were no moons, no stars; and it was such a strange color—a kind of muted pink, the reflection of a sunset.
He looked down at the woman kneeling on the ground before him.
Raistlin smiled, his thin lips pressed together grimly. “No,” he said, and this time his voice was firm and confident.
“No, I did not die! I succeeded.” He gestured. “This is proof of my success. I recognize this place. The kender described it to me. He said it was all places he had ever been. This is where I entered the Portal, and now I stand in the Abyss.”
Leaning down, Raistlin grabbed the woman by the arm, dragging her to her feet. “Fiend, apparition! Where is Crysania? Tell me, whoever or whatever you are! Tell me, or by the gods I’ll—”
“Raistlin! Stop, you’re hurting me!”
Raistlin started, staring. It was Crysania who spoke, Crysania whose arm he held! Shaken, he loosed his grip but, within instants, he was master of himself again. She tried to pull free, but he held her firmly, drawing her near.
“Crysania?” he questioned, studying her intently.
She looked up at him, puzzled. “Yes,” she faltered. “What’s wrong, Raistlin? You’ve been talking so strangely.”
The archmage tightened his grip. Crysania cried out. Yes, the pain in her eyes was real, so was the fear.
Smiling, sighing, Raistlin put his arms around her, pressing her close against his body. She was flesh, warmth, perfume, beating heart...
“Oh, Raistlin!” She nestled close to him. “I was so frightened. This terrible place. I was all alone.”
His hand tangled in her black hair. The softness and fragrance of her body intoxicated him, filling him with desire. She moved against him, tilting her head back. Her lips were soft, eager. She trembled in his arms. Raistlin looked down at her—and stared into eyes of flame.
So, you have come home at last, my mage!
Sultry laughter burned his mind, even as the lithe body in his arms writhed and twisted... he clasped one neck of a five-headed dragon... acid dripped from the gaping jaws above him... fire roared around him... sulfurous fumes choked him. The head snaked down...
Desperately, furiously, Raistlin called upon his magic. Yet, even as he formed the words of the defensive spell chant in his mind, he felt a twinge of doubt. Perhaps the magic won’t work! I am weak, the journey through the Portal has drained my strength. Fear, sharp and slender as the blade of a dagger, pierced his soul. The words to the chant slipped from his mind. Panic flooded his body. The Queen! She is doing this! Ast takar ist... No! That isn’t right! He heard laughter, victorious laughter... .