“I’m all right,” he said through bloodless lips.
Raag glanced at him, then up at the dwarf.
“We can’t take him out there in this condition,” Arack said, regarding Caramon with disgust. “Not looking like a fish gone belly up. Haul him to his room.”
“No,” said a small voice from the darkness. “I-I’ll take care of him.”
Tas crept out of the shadows, his face nearly as pale as Caramon’s.
Arack hesitated, then snarled something and turned away. With a gesture to the ogre, he hurried off, clambering up the stairs to make the awards to the victors.
Tasslehoff knelt beside Caramon, his hand on the big man’s arm. The kender’s gaze went to the body that lay forgotten on the stone floor. Caramon’s gaze followed. Seeing the pain and anguish in his eyes, Tas felt a lump come to his throat. He couldn’t say a word, he could only pat Caramon’s arm.
“How much did you hear?” Caramon asked thickly.
“Enough,” Tas murmured. “Fistandantilus.”
“He planned this all along.” Caramon sighed and leaned his head back, wearily closing his eyes. “This is how he’ll get rid of us. He won’t even have to do it himself. Just let this... this cleric...”
“Quarath.”
“Yeah, he’ll let this Quarath kill us.” Caramon’s fists clenched. “The wizard’s hands will be clean! Raistlin will never suspect. And all the time, every fight from now on, I’ll wonder. Is that dagger Kiiri holds real?” Opening his eyes, Caramon looked at the kender. “And you, Tas. You’re in this, too. The dwarf said so. I can’t leave, but you could! You’ve got to get out of here!”
“Where would I go?” Tas asked helplessly. “He’d find me, Caramon. He’s the most powerful magic-user that ever lived. Even kender can’t hide from people like him.”
For a moment the two sat together in silence, the roar of the crowd echoing above them. Then Tas’s eyes caught a gleam of metal across the corridor. Recognizing the object, he rose to his feet and crept over to retrieve it.
“I can get us inside the Temple,” he said, taking a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. Picking up the bloodstained dagger, he brought it back and handed it to Caramon.
“I can get us in tonight.”
8
The silver moon, Solinari, flickered on the horizon. Rising up over the central tower of the Temple of the Kingpriest, the moon looked like a candle flame burning on a tall, fluted wick. Solinari was full and bright this night, so bright that the services of the lightwalkers were not needed and the boys who earned their living lighting party-goers from one house to another with their quaint, silver lamps spent the night at home, cursing the bright moonlight that robbed them of their livelihood.
Solinari’s twin, the blood-red Lunitari, had not risen, nor would it rise for several more hours, flooding the streets with its eerie purplish brilliance. As for the third moon, the black one, its dark roundness among the stars was noted by one man, who gazed at it briefly as he divested himself of his black robes, heavy with spell components, and put on the simpler, softer, black sleeping gown. Drawing the black hood up over his head to blot out Solinari’s cold, piercing light, he lay down on his bed and drifted into the restful sleep so necessary to him and his Art.
At least that is what Caramon envisioned him doing as he and the kender walked the moonlit, crowded streets. The night was alive with fun. They passed group after group of merrymakers—parties of men laughing boisterously and discussing the games; parties of women, who clung together and shyly glanced at Caramon out of the corners of their eyes. Their filmy dresses floated around them in the soft breeze that was mild for late autumn. One such group recognized Caramon, and the big man almost ran, fearing they would call guards to take him back to the arena.
But Tas—wiser about the ways of the world—made him stay. The group was enchanted with him. They had seen him fight that afternoon and, already, he had won their hearts. They asked inane questions about the Games, then didn’t listen to his answers—which was just as well. Caramon was so nervous, he made very little sense. Finally they went on their way, laughing and bidding him good fortune. Caramon glanced at the kender wonderingly at this, but Tas only shook his head.
“Why did you think I made you dress up?” he asked Caramon shortly.
Caramon had, in fact, been wondering about this very thing. Tas had insisted that he wear the golden, silken cape he wore in the ring, plus the helmet he had worn that afternoon. It didn’t seem at all suitable for sneaking into Temples—Caramon had visions of crawling through sewers or climbing over rooftops. But when he balked, Tas’s eyes had grown cold. Either Caramon did as he was told or he could forget it, he said sharply.
Caramon, sighing, dressed as ordered, putting the cape on over his regular loose shirt and leather breeches. He put the bloodstained dagger in his belt. Out of habit, he had started to clean it, then stopped. No, it would be more suitable this way.
It had been a simple matter for the kender to unlock their door after Raag locked them in that night, and the two had slipped through the sleeping section of the gladiators’ quarters without incident; most of the fighters either being asleep or—in the case of the minotaurs—roaring drunk.
The two walked the streets openly, to Caramon’s vast discomfort. But the kender seemed unperturbed. Unusually moody and silent, Tas continually ignored Caramon’s repeated questions. They drew nearer and nearer the Temple. It loomed before them in all its pearl and silver radiance, and finally Caramon stopped.
“Wait a minute, Tas,” he said softly, pulling the kender into a shadowy corner, “just how do you plan to get us in here?”
“Through the front doors,” Tas answered quietly.
“The front doors?” Caramon repeated in blank astonishment. “Are you mad? The guards! They’ll stop us—”
“It’s a Temple, Caramon,” Tas said with a sigh. “A Temple to the gods. Evil things just don’t enter.”
“Fistandantilus enters,” Caramon said gruffly.
“But only because the Kingpriest allows it,” Tas said, shrugging. “Otherwise, he couldn’t get in here. The gods wouldn’t permit it. At least that’s what one of the clerics told me when I asked.”
Caramon frowned. The dagger in his belt seemed heavy, the metal was hot against his skin. Just his imagination, he told himself. After all, he’d worn daggers before. Reaching beneath his cloak, he touched it reassuringly. Then, his lips pressed tightly together, he started walking toward the Temple. After a moment’s hesitation, Tas caught up with him.
“Caramon,” said the kender in a small voice, “I-I think I know what you were thinking. I’ve been thinking the same thing. What if the gods won’t let us in’”
“We’re out to destroy evil,” Caramon said evenly, his hand on the dagger’s hilt. “They’ll help us, not hinder us. You’ll see.”
“But, Caramon—” Now it was Tas’s turn to ask questions and Caramon’s turn to grimly ignore him. Eventually, they reached the magnificent steps leading up to the Temple. Caramon stopped, staring at the building. Seven towers rose to the heavens, as if praising the gods for their creation. But one spiraled above them all. Gleaming in Solinari’s light, it seemed not to praise the gods but sought to rival them. The beauty of the Temple, its pearl and rose-colored marble gleaming softly in the moonlight, its still pools of water reflecting the stars, its vast gardens of lovely, fragrant flowers, its ornamentation of silver and of gold, all took Caramon’s breath away, piercing his heart. He could not move but was held as though spellbound by the wonder.
And then, in the back of his mind, came a lurking feeling of horror. He had seen this before! Only he had seen it in a nightmare—the towers twisted and misshapen... Confused, he closed his eyes. Where? How? Then, it came to him. The Temple at Neraka, where he’d been imprisoned! The Temple of the Queen of Darkness! It had been this very Temple, perverted by her evil, corrupted, turned to a thing of horror. Caramon trembled. Overwhelmed by this terrible memory, wondering at its portent, he thought for a moment of turning around and fleeing.