“There—there was a ring someone had dropped... well, maybe not dropped—” Tas stammered, alarmed enough by the expression in Raistlin’s eyes into telling the truth, or as near as was kenderly possible. “I-I guess I was sort of going into someone else’s room, and it f-fell in—into my pouch, I suppose, because I don’t know how it got there, but when th—the red-robed man sent Bupu home, I knew I was next. And I couldn’t leave Caramon! So I-I said a prayer to F-Fizban—I mean Paladine—and I put the ring on and—poof!”—Tas held up his hands—“I was a mouse!”
The kender paused at this dramatic moment, hoping for an appropriately amazed response from his audience. But Raistlin’s eyes only dilated with impatience and his hand twisted the kender’s collar just a bit more, so Tas hurried on, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.
“And so I was able to hide,” he squeaked, not unlike the mouse he had been, “and sneaked into Par-Salian’s labra-labora-lavaratory—and he was doing the most wonderful things and the rocks were singing and Crysania was lying there all pale and Caramon looked terrified and I couldn’t let him go alone—so... so...” Tas shrugged and looked at Raistlin with disarming innocence, “here I am...”
Raistlin continued clutching him for a moment, devouring him with his eyes, as if he would strip the skin from his bones and see inside his very soul. Then, apparently satisfied, the mage let the kender drop to the floor and turned back to stare into the fire, his thoughts abstracted.
“What does this mean?” he murmured. “A kender—by all the laws of magic forbidden! Does this mean the course of time can be altered? Is he telling the truth? Or is this how they plot to stop me?”
“What did you say?” Tas asked with interest, looking up from where he sat on the carpet, trying to catch his breath. “The course of time altered? By me? Do you mean that I could—”
Raistlin whirled, glaring at the kender so viciously that Tas shut his mouth and began edging his way back to where Caramon stood.
“I was sure surprised to find your brother. Weren’t you?” Tas asked Caramon, ignoring the spasm of pain that crossed Caramon’s face. “Raistlin was surprised to see me, too, wasn’t he? That’s odd, because I saw him in the slave market and I assumed he must have seen us—”
“Slave market!” Caramon said suddenly. Enough of this talk about rivers and time. This was something he could understand! “Raist—you said you’ve been here months! That means you are the one who made them think I attacked Crysania! You’re the one who bought me! You’re the one who sent me to the Games!”
Raistlin made an impatient gesture, irritated at having his thoughts interrupted.
But Caramon persisted. “Why!” he demanded angrily. “Why that place?”
“Oh, in the name of the gods, Caramon!” Raistlin turned around again, his eyes cold. “What possible use could you be to me in the condition you were in when you came here? I need a strong warrior where we’re going next—not a fat drunk.”
“And... and you ordered the Barbarian’s death?” Caramon asked, his eyes flashing. “You sent the warning to what’s-his-name—Quarath?”
“Don’t be a dolt, my brother,” Raistlin said grimly. “What do I care for these petty court intrigues? Their little, mindless games? If I wanted to do away with an enemy, his life would be snuffed out in a matter of seconds. Quarath flatters himself to think I would take such an interest in him.”
“But the dwarf said—”
“The dwarf hears only the sound of money being dropped into his palm. But, believe what you will.” Raistlin shrugged. “It matters little to me.”
Caramon was silent long moments, pondering. Tas opened his mouth—there were at least a hundred questions he was dying to ask Raistlin—but Caramon glared at him and the kender closed it quickly. Caramon, slowly going over in his mind all that his brother had told him, suddenly raised his gaze.
“What do you mean—‘where we go next’?”
“My counsel is mine to keep,” Raistlin replied. “You will know when the time comes, so to speak. My work here progresses, but it is not quite finished. There is one other here besides you who must be beaten down and hammered into shape.”
“Crysania,” Caramon murmured. “This has something to do with challenging the—the Dark Queen, doesn’t it? Like they said? You need a cleric—”
“I am very tired, my brother,” Raistlin interrupted. At his gesture, the flames in the fireplace vanished. At a word, the light from the Staff winked out. Darkness, chill and bleak, descended on the three who stood there. Even Solinari’s light was gone, the moon having sunk behind the buildings. Raistlin crossed the room, heading for his bed. His black robes rustled softly. “Leave me to my rest. You should not remain here long in any event. Undoubtedly, spies have reported your presence, and Quarath can be a deadly enemy. Try to avoid getting yourself killed. It would annoy me greatly to have to train another bodyguard. Farewell, my brother. Be ready. My summons will come soon. Remember the date.”
Caramon opened his mouth, but he found himself talking to a door. He and Tas were standing outside in the now-dark corridor.
“That’s really incredible!” the kender said, sighing in delight. “I didn’t even feel myself moving, did you? One minute we were there, the next we’re here. Just a wave of the hand. It must be wonderful being a mage,” Tas said wistfully, staring at the closed door. “Zooming through time and space and closed doors.”
“Come on,” Caramon said abruptly, turning and stalking down the corridor.
“Say, Caramon,” Tas said softly, hurrying after him. “What did Raistlin mean—‘remember the date’? Is it his Day of Life Gift coming up or something? Are you supposed to get him a present?”
“No,” Caramon growled. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly,” Tas protested, offended. “After all, Yule-tide is in a few weeks, and he’s probably expecting a present for that. At least, I suppose they celebrate Yuletide back here in Istar the same as we celebrate it in our time. Do you think—”
Caramon came to a sudden halt.
“What is it’!” Tas asked, alarmed at the horrified expression on the big man’s face. Hurriedly, the kender glanced around, his hand closing over the hilt of a small knife he had tucked into his own belt. “What do you see? I don’t—”
“The date!” Caramon cried. “The date, Tas! Yuletide! In Istar!” Whirling around, he grabbed the startled kender. “What year is it? What year?”
“Why...” Tas gulped, trying to think. “I believe, yes, someone told me it was—962.”
Caramon groaned, his hands dropped Tas and clutched at his head.
“What is it?” Tas asked.
“Think, Tas, think!” Caramon muttered. Then, clutching at his head in misery, the big man stumbled blindly down the corridor in the darkness. “What do they want me to do? What can I do?”
Tas followed more slowly. “Let’s see. This is Yuletide, year 962 I.A. Such a ridiculously high number. For some reason it sounds familiar. Yuletide, 962... Oh, I remember!” he said triumphantly. “That was the last Yuletide right before .. right before...”
The thought took the kender’s breath away.
“Right before the Cataclysm!” he whispered.
10
Denubis set down the quill pen and rubbed his eyes. He sat in the quiet of the copying room, his hand over his eyes, hoping that a brief moment of rest would help him. But it didn’t. When he opened his eyes and grasped the quill pen to begin his work again, the words he was trying to translate still swam together in a meaningless jumble.
Sternly, he reprimanded himself and ordered himself to concentrate and—finally—the words began to make sense and sort themselves out. But it was difficult going. His head ached. It had ached, it seemed, for days now, with a dull, throbbing pain that was present even in his dreams.