"You didn't need to, my friend. I know how you feel. I have given Raistlin the Staff of Magius, one of our most powerful artifacts. Though it will be a long time before he knows its true power."
Antimodes was bitter, refusing to be mollified. "And now you have your sword."
"The metal withstood the fire," Par-Salian replied gravely, "and came out tempered and true, with a fine cutting edge. Now the young man must practice, he must hone the skills he will need in the future and learn new ones."
"None of the conclave will apprentice him, not if they think he is somehow tied to Fistandantilus. Not even the Black Robes. They would not trust him. How, then, will he learn?"
"I believe he will find a master. A lady has taken an interest in him, a very great interest."
"Not Ladonna?" Antimodes frowned.
"No, no. Another lady, far greater and more powerful." Par-Salian cast a glance out the window, where the red moon shone with a ruby's glittering brilliance.
"Ah, indeed?" Antimodes said, impressed. "Well, if that's the case, I suppose I need not worry about him. Still, he's very young and very frail, and we don't have much time."
"As you said, it will be some years before the Dark Queen can muster her forces, before she is prepared to launch her attack."
"Yet already the clouds of war gather," Antimodes remarked ominously. "We stand alone in the last rays of the setting sun. And I ask again, where are the true gods now that we need them?"
"Where they have always been," Par-Salian replied complacently.
Chapter 8
Raistlin sat in a chair before a desk in the Tower of High Sorcery. He had been a resident of the tower for several days, Par-Salian having given the young man permission to remain in the tower for as long as he deemed necessary to recover from the effects of the Test.
Not that Raistlin would ever truly recover. He had never before been physically strong or healthy, but in comparison to what he was today, he looked back upon his former self with envy. He spent a moment recalling the days of his youth, realized regretfully that he had never fully appreciated them, never fully appreciated his energy and vigor. But would he go back? Would he trade his shattered body for a whole one?
Raistlin's hand touched the wood of the Staff of Magius, which stood at his side, was never far from his side. The wood was smooth and warm, the enchantment within the staff tingled through his fingers, an exhilarating sensation. He had only the vaguest idea what magic the staff could perform. It was requisite that any mage coming into possession of a magical artifact search out such power himself. But he was aware of the staff's immense magical power, and he reveled in it.
Not much information on the staff existed in the tower; many of the old manuscripts concerning Magius, which had been kept in the Tower of Palanthas, had been lost when the magi evacuated to the tower at Wayreth. The staff itself had been retained, as being of far more value, though it had- according to Par-Salian-remained unused all these centuries.
The time had not been right for the staff's return to the world, Par-Salian had said evasively in answer to Raistlin's question. Until now the staff had not been needed. Raistlin wondered what made the time right now, right for a staff that had purportedly been used to help fight dragons. He was not likely to find out. Par-Salian kept his own counsel. He would tell Raistlin nothing about the staff, beyond where to find the books that might provide him with knowledge.
One of those books was before him now, a smallish quarto written by some scribe attached to Huma's retinue. The book was more frustrating than helpful. Raistlin learned a great deal about manning battlements and posting guards, information that would be useful to a war mage, but very little about the staff. What he had learned had been inadvertent. The scribe, writing an account of Magius, described the mage leaping from the topmost tower of the besieged castle to land unharmed among us, much to our great astonishment and wonder. He claimed to have used the magic of his staff.
Raistlin wrote in his own small volume: It appears that the staff has the ability to allow its owner to float through the air as lightly as a feather. Is this spell inherent in the staff? Must magical words be recited in order to activate this spell? Is there a limit to its usage? Will the spell work for anyone other than the magus who is in possession of the staff
All these were questions that must be answered, and that was just for one of the staff's enchantments. Raistlin guessed there must be many more bound within the wood. In one sense, it was frustrating not to know. He would have liked to have had them delineated. Yet if the nature of the staff's powers had been presented to him, he still would have pursued his studies. The old manuscripts might be lying. They might be deliberately withholding information. He trusted no one but himself.
His studies might take him years, but.
A spasm of coughing interrupted his work. The cough was painful, debilitating, frightening. His windpipe closed, he could not breathe, and when the paroxysms were very bad, he had the terrible feeling that he would never be able to breathe again, that he would suffocate and die.
This was one of the bad ones. He fought, struggled to breathe. He grew faint and dizzy from lack of air, and when at last he was able to draw a breath with a certain amount of ease, he was so exhausted from the effort that he was forced to rest his head on his arms on the table. He lay there, almost sobbing. His injured ribs hurt him cruelly, his diaphragm burned from coughing.
A gentle hand touched his shoulder.
"Raist? Are. are you all right?"
Raistlin sat upright, thrust aside his brother's hand.
"What a stupid question! Even for you. Of course I am not all right, Caramon!" Raistlin dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief, drew it back stained with blood. He swiftly concealed the handkerchief in a secret pocket of his new red robes.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Caramon asked, patiently ignoring his brother's ill humor.
"You can leave me alone and quit interrupting my work!" Raistlin returned. "Are you packed? We leave within the hour, you know."
"If you're sure you're well enough." Caramon began. Catching his brother's irritated and baleful gaze, he bit his tongue. "I'll. go pack," he said, though he was already packed and had been for the past three hours.
Caramon started to leave, tiptoeing out of the room. He fondly imagined that he was being extremely quiet. In reality, with his rattling, jingling, clanking, and creaking, he made more noise than a legion of mountain dwarves on parade.
Reaching into the pocket, Raistlin drew forth the handkerchief, wet with his own blood. He gazed at it for a dark, brooding moment.
"Caramon," he called.
"Yes, Raist?" Caramon turned around, pathetically anxious. "Is there something I can do for you?"
They would have many years together, years of working together, living together, eating together, fighting together. Caramon had seen his twin kill him. Raistlin had seen himself kill.
Hammer blows. One after the other.
Raistlin sighed deeply. "Yes, my brother. There is something you can do for me. Par-Salian gave me a recipe for a tisane that he believes will help ease my cough. You will find the recipe and the ingredients in my pouch, there on the chair. If you could mix it for me."
"I will, Raist!" Caramon said excitedly. He couldn't have looked more pleased if his twin had bestowed a wealth of jewels and steel coins upon him. "I haven't noticed a teakettle, but I'm sure there must be one around here somewhere. Oh, here it is. I guess I didn't see it before. You keep working. I'll just measure out these leaves. Whew! This smells awful! Are you sure?. Never mind," Caramon amended hurriedly. "I'll make the tea. Maybe it'll taste better than it smells."