Then he felt Tas tug at his arm. “Keep moving!” the kender ordered. “You look suspicious!”
Caramon shook his head, clearing it of stupid memories that meant nothing, he told himself. The two approached the guards at the door.
“Tas!” Caramon said suddenly, gripping the kender by the shoulder so tightly he squeaked in pain. “Tas, this is a test! If the gods let us in, I’ll know we’re doing the right thing! We’ll have their blessing!”
Tas paused. “Do you think so?” he asked hesitantly.
“Of course!” Caramon’s eyes shone in Solinari’s bright light.
“You’ll see. Come on.” His confidence restored, the big man strode up the stairs. He was an imposing sight, the golden, silken cape fluttering about him, the golden helmet flashing in the moonlight. The guards stopped talking and turned to watch him. One nudged the other, saying something and making a swift, stabbing motion with his hand. The other guard grinned and shook his head, regarding Caramon with admiration.
Caramon knew immediately what the pantomime represented and he nearly stopped walking, feeling once again the warm blood splash over his hand and hearing the Barbarian’s last, choked words. But he had come too far to quit now. And, perhaps this too was a sign, he told himself. The Barbarian’s spirit, lingering near, anxious for its revenge.
Tas glanced up at him anxiously. “Better let me do the talking,” the kender whispered.
Caramon nodded, swallowing nervously.
“Greetings, gladiator,” called one of the guards. “You’re new to the Games, are you not? I was telling my companion on watch, here, that he missed a pretty fight today. Not only that, but you won me six silver pieces, as well. What is it you are called?”
“He’s the ‘Victor,’ ” Tas said glibly. “And today was just the beginning. He’s never been defeated in battle, and he never will be.”
“And who are you, little cutpurse? His manager?”
This was met by roars of laughter from the other guard and nervous high-pitched laughter from Caramon. Then he glanced down at Tas and knew immediately they were in trouble. Tas’s face was white. Cutpurse! The most dreadful insult, the worst thing in the world one could call a kender! Caramon’s big hand clapped over Tas’s mouth.
“Sure,” said Caramon, keeping a firm grip on the wriggling kender, “and a good one, too.”
“Well, keep an eye on him,” the other guard added, laughing even harder. “We want to see you slit throats—not pockets!”
Tasslehoff’s ears—the only part visible above Caramon’s wide hand—flushed scarlet. Incoherent sounds came from behind Caramon’s palm. “I-I think we better go on in,” the big warrior stammered, wondering how long he could hold Tas. “We’re late.”
The guards winked at each other knowingly, one of them shook his head in envy. “I saw the women watching you today,” he said, his gaze going to Caramon’s broad shoulders. “I should have known you’d be invited here for—uh—dinner.”
What were they talking about? Caramon’s puzzled look caused the guards to break out in renewed laughter.
“Name of the gods!” One sputtered. “Look at him! He is new!”
“Go ahead,” the other guard waved him on by. “Good appetite!”
More laughter. Flushing red, not knowing what to say and still trying to hold onto Tas, Caramon entered the Temple. But, as he walked, he heard crude jokes pass between the guards, giving him sudden clear insight into their meaning. Dragging the wriggling kender down a hallway, he darted around the first corner he came to. He hadn’t the vaguest idea where he was. Once the guards were out of sight and hearing, he let Tas go. The kender was pale, his eyes dilated.
“Why, those—those—I’ll—They’ll regret—”
“Tas!” Caramon shook him. “Stop it. Calm down. Remember why we’re here!”
“Cutpurse! As if I were a common thief!” Tas was practically frothing at the mouth. “I—”
Caramon glowered at him, and the kender choked. Getting control of himself, he drew a deep breath and let it out again slowly. “I’m all right, now,” he said sullenly. “I said I’m all right,” he snapped as Caramon continued to regard him dubiously.
“Well, we got inside, though not quite the way I expected,” Caramon muttered. “Did you hear what they were saying?”
“No, not after ‘cu—cut’... after that word. You had part of your hand over my ears,” Tas said accusingly.
“They... they sounded like... the ladies invited m-men here for—for... you know...”
“Look, Caramon,” Tas said, exasperated. “You got your sign. They let us in. They were probably just teasing you. You know how gullible you are. You’ll believe anything! Tika’s always saying so.”
A memory of Tika came to Caramon’s mind. He could hear her say those very words, laughing. It cut him like a knife. Glaring at Tas, he shoved the memory away immediately.
“Yeah,” he said bitterly, flushing, “you’re probably right. They’re having their joke on me. And I fell for it, too! But”—he lifted his head and, for the first time, looked around at the splendor of the Temple. He began to realize where he was—this holy place, this palace of the gods. Once more he felt the reverence and awe he had experienced as he stood gazing at it, bathed in Solinari’s radiant light—“you’re right—the gods have given us our sign!”
There was a corridor in the Temple where few came and, of those that did, none went voluntarily. If forced to come here on some errand, they did their business quickly and left as swiftly as possible.
There was nothing wrong with the corridor itself. It was just as splendid as the other halls and corridors of the Temple. Beautiful tapestries done in muted colors graced its walls, soft carpets covered its marble floors, graceful statues filled its shadowy alcoves. Ornately carved wooden doors opened off of it, leading to rooms as pleasingly decorated as other rooms in the Temple. But the doors opened no longer. All were locked. All the rooms were empty—all except one.
That room was at the very far end of the corridor, which was dark and silent even in the daytime. It was as if the occupant of this one room cast a pall over the very floor he walked, the very air he breathed. Those who entered this corridor complained of feeling smothered. They gasped for breath like someone dying inside a burning house.
This room was the room of Fistandantilus. It had been his for years, since the Kingpriest came to power and drove the magic-users from their Tower in Palanthas—the Tower where Fistandantilus had reigned as Head of the Conclave.
What bargain had they struck—the leading powers of good and of evil in the world? What deal had been made that allowed the Dark One to live inside the most beautiful, most holy place on Krynn? None knew, many speculated. Most believed it was by the grace of the Kingpriest, a noble gesture to a defeated foe.
But even he—even the Kingpriest himself—did not walk this corridor. Here, at least, the great mage reigned in dark and terrifying supremacy.
At the far end of the corridor stood a tall window. Heavy plush curtains were drawn over it, blotting out the sunlight in the daytime, the moons’ rays at night. Rarely did light penetrate the curtains’ thick folds. But this night, perhaps because the servants had been driven by the Head of Household to clean and dust the corridor, the curtains were parted the slightest bit, letting Solinari’s silver light shine into the bleak, empty corridor. The beams of the moon the dwarves call Night Candle pierced the darkness like a long, thin blade of glittering steel.