Still the dark elf had gagged and spit, convulsing on the floor as his lungs violently worked to expel the lingering taint of deadly gas. Knowing the urgency-the dragon would only keep up his fruitless pursuit for a short while-the dark elf pushed himself to his feet and staggered over to his red-robed companion. Kneeling, he saw immediately that her left leg was unnaturally twisted. But her chest rose and fell slowly, so she was still alive.
"Jenna!" he hissed. Her eyes fluttered open, blank for a second and then wide. "We have to get out of here," Dalamar continued. "Now!"
"Where… is the dragon?" she groaned weakly, struggling to sit up and then crying out in pain. "Ow, my leg!"
"It chased one of my illusion spells out of here," the dark elf replied. "But it'll be back-soon! Can you move?"
Weakly, Jenna shook her head. "You must go," she said. "Leave me!"
Dalamar grimaced, tempted by the offer. But he shook his head. "We'll need both of us to find the Tower," he reminded her, while reminding himself. "I'll help you walk."
"Can't… walk. Wait!" the enchantress reached for the bundle of her possessions, fumbled around for a second, then pulled out a bottle of liquid. "There's enough in here for both of us-you first," she said.
The dark elf quickly took a sip, recognizing the taste of the familiar potion. As Jenna grabbed the bottle from his fingers he felt the solidity of his flesh begin to dissolve and waft freely in the air. He looked down as the woman in the red robe also become diffused under the effect of the gaseous cloud. She soon was barely visible, like faint steam, hovering just above the floor. Her broken leg was no longer an immediate problem.
Together they had floated across the cave, making a slower progress than Dalamar would have preferred. Still, they made their way back up the entryway, along the winding subterranean corridor. Daylight glimmered around the next corner, when, within the depths behind them, the great green serpent could be heard roaring loudly in frustration. But it did not pursue.
And the potion wore off. Jenna collapsed to the ground, with Dalamar slumping down beside her. He could see that she was crippled, but he could only sit here, feed her a few drops of water, and sink deeper into gloom.
Jenna's world was pain, only pain. Agony rose like a tide, surging against her, pushing with hurricane force through the chinks in her soul. It swelled and overwhelmed her, drowned and suffocated her, pressing against her consciousness from all sides. She found no will to resist.
After falling to the stony ground, she felt such intense pain that she blacked out. She was vaguely aware of the dark elf staying beside her, giving her the few sips of water that were the only sustenance she craved. When her pain grew too great to bear, she cried out unintelligibly. They were not far from the dragon's lair, and Dalamar quickly cast a cone of silence, so that Jenna's fevered ranting could not be heard.
For a very long time, she slipped in and out of consciousness. She lost track of the hours, perhaps even days, during which the darkness claimed her. When she was awake, she prayed only for the mercy of healing oblivion. During these times she was keenly aware of Dalamar's presence, but she had no strength-or inclination-to acknowledge him. Of course, he had saved her life, but only after she had protected him with the ice spell, at terrible cost to herself. Protecting her now was uncharacteristic of him. She knew that, for the dark elf, her fate posed a cruel question: How long would he stay?
He was impatient, that much she could sense. It would not have surprised her to wake up and find him gone. But each time consciousness returned, he was there, dour and restless but there. She understood, of course, that he was staying not out of affection or guilt; rather, he was taking care of her because he needed her. He still needed her.
Her injuries were wrenching. Her right leg had been broken in several places, the bone poking through the skin of her thigh in an ugly, bloody wound. The bleeding alone should have killed her within the first few hours, except that Dalamar had stanched the wound with a crude bandage torn from his own robe. Something else was terribly wrong; she had no appetite, and the one time that the elf had insisted she eat a little dry cheese, she had violently thrown it back up, spasms of pain wracking her torso until she lost consciousness.
While lost in oblivion, Jenna's nearly comatose slumber was visited by a dream. She saw a vivid image of the red moon, knew that Lunitari was climbing high into the skies, outside and above this place-just inside the cave-and she heard the soft, musical voice of her goddess calling to her.
"I am here, Mistress," Jenna felt herself whisper, though her lips, her tongue, seemed utterly paralyzed.
"You must go on, my daughter," came the message from the red goddess. "You have made your way past death and mystery; you are close to your goal. You must not relinquish that goal to the one in black."
"But… Mistress… I fear you are wrong. I have failed," the wizard confessed, tears burning in her eyes. "I am broken…"
"Listen, Daughter of the Red Moon!" Lunitari's voice was the lash of a whip, a dousing of chill water. The force of Lunitari's disappointment left Jenna shaking. "You must enter the Tower, and you must gather a Conclave. And then you must lead the Three Robes into the future… For you, Jenna of Palanthas, you shall become Head of the Conclave!"
Jenna couldn't argue with such a powerful will, even if she had wanted to. Instead, she quietly agreed, reaching upward in her dream toward that elusive crimson circle in the sky. She felt the goddess embrace her, warm her, bless her…
And she slept deeply.
Dalamar stalked out of the cave and into the woods, keeping the entrance to the underground shelter where Jenna slumbered just barely in his sight. He felt tied down by the wounded woman, and his frustration drove him to walk angrily through the lofty forest. She was a weak creature, no help to him in her state-in fact, a considerable liability.
His thoughts turned, of their own volition, to memories of his Shalafi. When Raistlin Majere had been burdened by the presence of a wounded woman, the cleric Crysania, he had not allowed that to hold him back. He had gone on to face his ultimate challenge, leaving behind his suffering ally. She had been key to his early success, but when he no longer needed her, he cast her aside, knowing her presence only hampered him and held him back.
But Raistlin had been prepared to make his final battle alone, and that was an important difference. Dalamar knew he couldn't reach the Tower on his own. He needed help, and right now, Jenna was the best candidate.
He was certain this cave was the path to Wayreth Forest, but now that path was blocked to them, and they needed to find another way. But Jenna would not be able to move for a long time given her leg wound; he wasn't even certain, given her strange stomach pain, she would recover at all.
Why hadn't the forest welcomed them, shown them the path? Why had the Tower made itself known to a mere slip of a country girl like Coryn?
"Have I been so unworthy, Nuitari?" he cried, his voice a hoarse whisper of despair. He shook his fists at the sky-in vain, for the only answer he received was the soft moaning of Jenna, as she stirred from sleep.
With a sigh, Dalamar turned back to the cave. Somehow it came down to helping Jenna in order to find Coryn. For some reason, it seemed the gods favored Coryn, and that she-and only she-could lead them to the Tower.
Chapter 19
The White Robe
Coryn tucked the bottle, the wand, and the book into various pockets of her robe. She discovered an extensive array of pouches and other pockets on both the inside and outside of the garment, including several that were perfectly sized for her new possessions. Other pockets already had ingredients in them, and as her hands caressed the newfound materials she found that she could instinctively sense the difference between bat's eyes and dried blackberries, powdered ogre skull, and grains of fine sand.