“Ast bilak moiparalan/Suh akvlar tantangusar.”
The chill of the orb began to spread through his fingers, causing his very bones to ache. Gritting his teeth, Raistlin repeated the words.
“Ast bilak moiparalan/Suh akvlar tantangusar.”
The swirling colors within the orb ceased their lazy meandering and began to spin madly. Raistlin stared within the dazzling vortex, fighting the dizziness that assailed him, keeping his hands placed firmly upon the orb.
Slowly, he whispered the words again.
The colors ceased to swirl and a light glowed in the center. Raistlin blinked, then frowned. The light should have been neither black nor white, all colors yet none, symbolizing the mixture of good and evil and neutrality that bound the essence of the dragons within the orb. Such it had always been, ever since the first time he had looked within the orb and fought for its control.
But the light he saw now, though much the same as he had seen before, seemed ringed round by dark shadows. He stared at it closely, coldly, banishing any fanciful flights of imagination. His frown deepened. There were shadows hovering about the edges... shadows of... wings!
Out of the light came two hands. Raistlin caught hold of them—and gasped.
The hands pulled him with such strength that, totally unprepared, Raistlin nearly lost control. It was only when he felt himself being drawn into the orb by the hands within the shadowy light that he exerted his own force of will and yanked the hands back toward him.
“What is the meaning of this?” Raistlin demanded sternly. “Why do you challenge me? Long ago, I became your master.”
She calls... She calls and we must obey!
“Who calls who is more important than I?” Raistlin asked with a sneer, though his blood suddenly ran colder than the touch of the orb.
Our Queen! We hear her voice, moving in our dreams, disturbing our sleep. Come, master, we will take you! Come, quickly!
The Queen! Raistlin shuddered involuntarily, unable to stop himself. The hands, sensing him weakening, began to draw him in once more. Angrily, Raistlin tightened his grip on them and paused to try to sort his thoughts that swirled as madly as the colors within the orb.
The Queen! Of course, he should have foreseen this. She had entered the world—partially—and now she moved among the evil dragons. Banished from Krynn long ago by the sacrifice of the Solamnic Knight, Huma, the dragons, both good and evil, slept in deep and secret places.
Leaving the good dragons to sleep on undisturbed, the Dark Queen, Takhisis, the Five-Headed Dragon, was awaking the evil dragons, rallying them to her cause as she fought to gain control of the world.
The dragon orb, though composed of the essences of all dragons—good, evil, and neutral—would, of course, react strongly to the Queen’s commands, especially as—for the present—its evil side was predominant, enhanced by the nature of its master.
Are those shadows I see the wings of dragons, or shadows of my own soul? Raistlin wondered, staring into the orb.
He did not have leisure for reflection, however. All of these thoughts flitted through his mind so rapidly that between the drawing of one breath and the releasing of it, the archmage saw his grave danger. Let him lose control for an instant, and Takhisis would claim him.
“No, my Queen,” he murmured, keeping a tight grip upon the hands within the orb. “No, it will not be so easy as this.” To the orb he spoke softly but firmly, “I am your master still. I was the one who rescued you from Silvanesti and Lorac, the mad elven king. I was the one who carried you safely from the Blood Sea of Istar. I am Rai—” He hesitated, swallowed the suddenly bitter taste in his mouth, then said through clenched teeth, “I am... Fistandantilus—Master of Past and of Present—and I command you to obey me!”
The orb’s light dimmed. Raistlin felt the hands holding his own tremble and start to slip away. Anger and fear shot through him, but he suppressed these emotions instantly and kept his clasp firmly upon the hands. The trembling ceased, the hands relaxed.
We obey, master.
Raistlin dared not breathe a sigh of relief.
“Very well,” he said, keeping his voice stern, a parent speaking to a chastened child (but what a dangerous child! he thought). Coldly, he continued, “I must contact my apprentice in the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas. Heed my command. Carry my voice through the ethers of time. Bring my words to Dalamar.”
Speak the words, master. He shall hear them as he hears the beating of his own heart, and so shall you hear his response.
Raistlin nodded...
2
Dalamar shut the spellbook, clenching his fist in frustration. He was certain he was doing everything right, pronouncing the words with the proper inflection, repeating the chant the prescribed number of times. The components were those called for. He had seen Raistlin cast this spell a hundred times. Yet, he could not do it.
Putting his head wearily in his hands, he closed his eyes and brought memories of his Shalafi to mind, hearing Raistlin’s soft voice, trying to remember the exact tone and rhythm, trying to think of anything he might be doing wrong.
It didn’t help. Everything seemed the same! Well, thought Dalamar with a tired sigh, I must simply wait until he returns.
Standing up, the dark elf spoke a word of magic and the continual light spell he had cast upon a crystal globe standing on the desk of Raistlin’s library winked out. No fire burned in the grate. The late spring night in Palanthas was warm and fine. Dalamar had even dared open the window a crack.
Raistlin’s health at the best of times was fragile. He abhorred fresh air, preferring to sit in his study wrapped in warmth and the smells of roses and spice and decay. Ordinarily, Dalamar did not mind. But there were times, particularly in the spring, when his elven soul longed for the woodland home he had left forever.
Standing by the window, smelling the perfume of renewed life that not even the horrors of the Shoikan Grove could keep from reaching the Tower, Dalamar let himself think, just for a moment, of Silvanesti.
A dark elf—one who is cast from the light. Such was Dalamar to his people. When they’d caught him wearing the Black Robes that no elf could even look upon without flinching, practicing arcane arts forbidden to one of his low rank and station, the elven lords had bound Dalamar hand and foot, gagged his mouth, and blindfolded his eyes. Then he had been thrown in a cart and driven to the borders of his land.
Deprived of his sight, Dalamar’s last memories of Silvanesti were the smells of aspen trees, blooming flowers, rich loam. It had been spring then, too, he recalled.
Would he go back if he could? Would he give up this to return? Did he feel any sorrow, regret? Without conscious volition, Dalamar’s hand went to his breast. Beneath the black robes, he could feel the wounds in his chest. Though it had been a week since Raistlin’s hand had touched him, burning five holes into his flesh, the wounds had not healed. Nor would they ever heal, Dalamar knew with bitter certainty.
Always, the rest of his life, he would feel their pain. Whenever he stood naked, he would see them, festering scabs that no skin would cover. Such was the penalty he had paid for his treachery against his Shalafi.
As he had told the great Par-Salian, Head of the Order, master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth—and Dalamar’s master, too, of a sort, since the dark elf mage had, in reality, been a spy for the Order of Mages who feared and distrusted Raistlin as they had feared no mortal in their history—“It was no more than I deserved.”
Would he leave this dangerous place? Go back home, go back to Silvanesti?
Dalamar stared out the window with a grim, twisted smile, reminiscent of Raistlin, the Shalafi. Almost unwillingly, Dalamar’s gaze went from the peaceful, starlit night sky back indoors, to the rows and rows of nightblue-bound spellbooks that lined the walls of the library. In his memory, he saw the wonderful, awful, beautiful, dreadful sights he had been privileged to witness as Raistlin’s apprentice. He felt the stirrings of power within his soul, a pleasure that outweighed the pain.