“I’ll sing a bit,” he said to himself, just to hear the sound of his own voice. “That generally raises my spirits.”
He began to hum the first song that came into his head—a Hymn to the Dawn that Goldmoon had taught him.
Even the night must fail For light sleeps in the eyes And dark becomes dark on dark Until the darkness dies.
Soon the eye resolves Complexities of night Into stillness, where the heart Falls into fabled light.
Tas was just starting in on the second verse when he became aware, to his horror, that his song was echoing back to him only the words were now twisted and terrible...
Even the night must fail When light sleeps in the eyes, When dark becomes dark on dark And into darkness dies.
Soon the eye dissolves, Perplexed by the teasing night, Into a stillness of the heart, A fable of fallen light.
“Stop it,” cried Tas frantically into the eerie, burning silence that resounded with his song. “I didn’t mean to say that! I—”
With startling suddenness, the black-robed cleric materialized in front of Tasslehoff, seeming to coalesce out of the bleak surroundings.
“Her Dark Majesty will see you now,” the cleric said, and, before Tasslehoff could blink, he found himself in another place.
He knew it was another place, not because he had moved a step or even because this place was different from the last place, but that he felt he was someplace else. There was still the same weird glow, the same emptiness, except now he had the impression he wasn’t alone.
The moment he realized this, he saw a black, smooth wooden chair appear—its back to him. Seated in it was a figure dressed in black, a hood pulled up over its head.
Thinking perhaps some mistake had been made and that the cleric had taken him to the wrong place, Tasslehoff—gripping his pouches nervously in his hand—walked cautiously around the chair to see the figure’s face. Or perhaps the chair turned to around to see his face. The kender wasn’t certain.
But, as the chair moved, the figure’s face came into view.
Tasslehoff knew no mistake had been made.
It was not a Five-Headed Dragon he saw. It was not a huge warrior in black, burning armor. It was not even the Dark Temptress, who so haunted Raistlin’s dreams. It was a woman dressed all in black, a tight-fitting hood pulled up over her hair, framing her face in a black oval. Her skin was white and smooth and ageless, her eyes large and dark. Her arms, encased in tight black cloth, rested on the arms of her chair, her white hands curved calmly around the ends of the armrests.
The expression on her face was not horrifying, nor terrifying, nor threatening, nor awe-inspiring; it was, in fact, not even an expression at all. Yet Tas was aware that she was scrutinizing him intensely, delving into his soul, studying parts of him that he wasn’t even aware existed.
“I—I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot, M—majesty,” said the kender, reflexively stretching out his small hand.
Too late, he realized his offense and started to withdraw his hand and bow, but then he felt the touch of five fingers in his palm. It was a brief touch, but Tas might have grabbed a handful of nettles. Five stinging branches of pain shot through his arm and bored into his heart, making him gasp.
But, as swiftly as they touched him, they were gone. He found himself standing very close to the lovely, pale woman, and so mild was the expression in her eyes that Tas might well have doubted she was the cause of the pain, except that looking down at his palm—he saw a mark there, like a five pointed star.
Tell me your story.
Tas started. The woman’s lips had not moved, but he heard her speak. He realized, also, in sudden fright, that she probably knew more of his story than he did.
Sweating, clutching his pouches nervously, Tasslehoff Burrfoot made history that day—at least as far as kender storytelling was concerned. He told the entire story of his trip to Istar in under five seconds. And every word was true.
“Par-Salian accidentally sent me back in time with my friend Caramon. We were going to kill Fistandantilus only we discovered it was Raistlin so we didn’t. I was going to stop the Cataclysm with a magical device, but Raistlin made me break it. I followed a cleric named Lady Crysania down to a laboratory beneath the Temple of Istar to find Raistlin and make him fix the device. The roof caved in and knocked me out. When I woke up, they had all left me and the Cataclysm struck and now I’m dead and I’ve been sent to the Abyss.”
Tasslehoff drew a deep, quivering breath and mopped his face with the end of his long topknot of hair. Then, realizing his last comment had been less than complimentary, he hastened to add, “Not that I’m complaining, Your Majesty. I’m certain whoever did this must have had quite a good reason. After all, I did break a dragon orb, and I seem to recall once someone said I took something that didn’t belong to me, and... and I wasn’t as respectful of Flint as I should have been, I guess, and once, for a joke, I hid Caramon’s clothes while he was taking a bath and he had to walk into Solace stark naked. But”—Tas could not help a snuffle—“I always helped Fizban find his hat!”
You are not dead, said the voice, nor have you been sent here. You are not, in fact, supposed to be here at all.
At this startling revelation, Tasslehoff looked up directly into the Queen’s dark and shadowy eyes.
“I’m not?” he squeaked, feeling his voice go all queer. “Not dead?” Involuntarily, he put his hand to his head—which still ached. “So that explains it! I just thought someone had botched things up—”
Kender are not allowed here, continued the voice.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Tas said sadly, feeling much more himself since he wasn’t dead. “There are quite a number of places on Krynn kender aren’t allowed.”
The voice might not have even heard him. When you entered the laboratory of Fistandantilus, you were protected by the magical enchantment he had laid on the place. The rest of Istar was plunged far below the ground at the time the Cataclysm struck. But I was able to save the Temple of the Kingpriest. When I am ready, it will return to the world, as will I, myself.”
“But you won’t win,” said Tas before he thought. “I—I k-know,” he stuttered as the dark-eyed gaze shot right through him. “I was th-there.”
No, you were not there, for that has not happened yet. You see, kender, by disrupting Par-Salian’s spell, you have made it possible to alter time. Fistandantilus—or Raistlin, as you know him—told you this. That was why he sent you to your death or so he supposed. He did not want time altered. The Cataclysm was necessary to him so that he could bring this cleric of Paladine forward to a time when he will have the only true cleric in the land.
It seemed to Tasslehoff that he saw, for the first time, a flicker of dark amusement in the woman’s shadowy eyes, and he shivered without understanding why.
How soon you will come to regret that decision, Fistandantilus, my ambitious friend. But it is too late. Poor, puny mortal. You have made a mistake—a costly mistake. You are locked in your own time loop. You rush forward to your own doom.
“I don’t understand,” cried Tas.
Yes, you do, said the voice calmly. Your coming has shown me the future. You have given me the chance to change it. And, by destroying you, Fistandantilus has destroyed his only chance of breaking free. His body will perish again, as he perished long ago. Only this time, when his soul seeks another body to house it, I will stop him. Thus, the young mage, Raistlin, in the future, will take the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery, and he will die there. He will not live to thwart my plans. One by one, the others will die. For without Raistlin’s help, Goldmoon will not find the blue crystal staff. Thus—the beginning of the end for the world.
“No!” Tas whimpered, horror-stricken. “This—this can’t be! I—I didn’t mean to do this. I—I just wanted to—to go with Caramon on—on this adventure! He—he couldn’t have made it alone. He needed me!”