“Farewell, gentlemen,” she said after a moment, when it was apparent Raistlin wasn’t going to add anything further. Bowing slightly, she turned and walked down the dark hall, her white robes seeming to take the light away as she left.
“I’ll tell Caramon you send your regards,” Tas called after her helpfully, but Crysania didn’t turn around. The kender turned to Raistlin with a sigh. “I’m afraid Caramon didn’t make much of an impression on her. But, then, he was all fuddled because of the dwarf spirits—”
Raistlin coughed. “Did you come here to discuss my brother?” he interrupted coldly, “because, if so, you can leave—”
“Oh, no!” Tas said hastily. Then he grinned up at the mage. “I came to stop the Cataclysm!”
For the first time in his life, the kender had the satisfaction of seeing his words absolutely stun Raistlin. It was not a satisfaction he enjoyed long, however. The mage’s face went white and stiff, his mirrorlike eyes seemed to shatter, allowing Tas to see inside, into those dark, burning depths the mage kept hidden. Hands as strong as the claws of a predatory bird sank into the kender’s shoulders, hurting him. Within seconds, Tas found himself thrown inside Raistlin’s room. The door slammed shut with a shattering bang.
“What gave you this idea?” Raistlin demanded.
Tas shrank backward, startled, and glanced around the room uneasily, his kender instincts telling him he better look for someplace to hide.
“Uh—you d-did,” Tas stammered. “Well, n-not exactly. But you said something about m-my coming back here and being able to alter time. And, I thought, st—stopping the Cataclysm would be a sort of good thing—”
“How did you plan to do it?” Raistlin asked, and his eyes burned with a hot fire that made Tas sweat just looking into it.
“Well, I planned to discuss it with you first, of course,” the kender said, hoping Raistlin was still subject to flattery, “and then I thought—if you said it was all right—that I would just go and talk to the Kingpriest and tell him he was making a really big mistake—one of the All Time Big Mistakes, if you take my meaning. And, I’m sure, once I explained, that he’d listen—”
“I’m sure,” Raistlin said, and his voice was cool and controlled. But Tas thought he detected, oddly, a note of vast relief.
“So”—the mage turned away—“you intend to talk to the Kingpriest. And what if he refuses to listen? What then?”
Tas paused, his mouth open. “I guess I hadn’t considered that,” the kender said, after a moment. He sighed, then shrugged. “We’ll go home.”
“There’s another way,” Raistlin said softly, sitting down in his chair and regarding the kender with his mirrorlike eyes. “A sure way! A way you could stop the Cataclysm without fail.”
“There is?” Tas said eagerly. “What?”
“The magical device,” Raistlin answered, spreading his slender hands. “Its powers are great, far beyond what Par-Salian told that idiot brother of mine. Activate it on the Day of the Cataclysm, and its magic will destroy the fiery mountain high above the world, so that it harms no one.”
“Really?” Tas gasped. “That’s wonderful.” Then he frowned.
“But, how can I be sure. Suppose it doesn’t work—”
“What have you got to lose?” Raistlin asked. “If, for some reason, it fails, and I truly doubt it.” The mage smiled at the kender’s naivete. “It was, after all, created by the highest level magic-users—”
“Like dragon orbs?” Tas interrupted.
“Like dragon orbs,” Raistlin snapped, irritated at the interruption. “But if it did fail, you could always use it to escape at the last moment.”
“With Caramon and Crysania,” Tas added.
Raistlin did not answer, but the kender didn’t notice in his excitement. Then he thought of something.
“What if Caramon decides to leave before then?” he asked fearfully.
“He won’t,” Raistlin answered softly. “Trust me,” he added, seeing Tas about to argue.
The kender pondered again, then sighed. “I just thought of something. I don’t think Caramon will let me have the device. Par-Salian told him to guard it with his life. He never lets it out of his sight and locks it up in a chest when he has to leave. And I’m sure he wouldn’t believe me if I tried to explain why I wanted it.”
“Don’t tell him. The day of the Cataclysm is the day of the Final Bout,” Raistlin said, shrugging. “If it is gone for a short time, he’ll never miss it.”
“But, that would be stealing!” Tas said, shocked.
Raistlin’s lips twitched. “Let us say—borrowing,” the mage amended soothingly. “It’s for such a worthy cause! Caramon won’t be angry. I know my brother. Think how proud he will be of you!”
“You’re right,” Tas said, his eyes shining. “I’d be a true hero, greater than Kronin Thistleknot himself! How do I find out how to work it?”
“I’ll give you instructions,” Raistlin said, rising. He began to cough again. “Come back... in three days’ time. And now... I must rest.”
“Sure,” Tas said cheerfully, getting to his feet. “I hope you feel better.” He started for the door. Once there, however, he hesitated. “Oh, say, I don’t have a gift for you. I’m sorry—”
“You have given me a gift,” Raistlin said, “a gift of inestimable value. Thank you.”
“I have?” Tas said, astonished. “Oh, you must mean stopping the Cataclysm. Well, don’t mention it. I—”
Tas suddenly found himself in the middle of the garden, staring at the rosebushes and an extremely surprised cleric who had seen the kender apparently materialize out of nowhere, right in the middle of the path.
“Great Reorx’s beard! I wish I knew how to do that,” Tasslehoff said wistfully.
13
On Yule day came the first of what would be later known as the Thirteen Calamities, (note that Astinus records them in the Chronicles as the Thirteen Warnings).
The day dawned hot and breathless. It was the hottest Yule day anyone—even the elves—could remember. In the Temple, the Yule roses drooped and withered, the everbloom wreaths smelled as if they had been baked in an oven, the snow that cooled the wine in silver bowls melted so rapidly that the servants did nothing all day but run back and forth from the depths of the rock cellars to the party rooms, carrying buckets of slush.
Raistlin woke on that morning, in the dark hour before the dawn, so ill he could not rise from his bed. He lay naked, bathed in sweat, a prey to the fevered hallucinations that had caused him to rip off his robes and the bedcovers. The gods were indeed near, but it was the closeness of one god in particular—his goddess, the Queen of Darkness—that was affecting him. He could feel her anger, as he could sense the anger of all the gods at the Kingpriest’s attempt to destroy the balance they sought to achieve in the world.
Thus he had dreamed of his Queen, but she had chosen not to appear to him in her anger as might have been expected. He had not dreamed of the terrible five-headed dragon, the Dragon of All Colors and of None that would try to enslave the world in the Wars of the Lance. He had not seen her as the Dark Warrior, leading her legions to death and destruction. No, she had appeared to him as the Dark Temptress, the most beautiful of all women, the most seductive, and thus she had spent the night with him, tantalizing him with the weakness, the glory of the flesh.
Closing his eyes, shivering in the room that was cool despite the heat outdoors, Raistlin pictured to himself once again the fragrant dark hair hanging over him; he felt her touch, her warmth. Reaching up his hands, letting himself sink beneath her spell, he had parted the tangled hair—and seen Crysania’s face!
The dream ended, shattered as his mind took control once more. And now he lay awake, exultant in his victory, yet knowing the price it had cost. As if to remind him, a wrenching coughing fit seized him.