3

The dragon orb. Caramon’s pledge.

Raistlin stood in the small doorway of the wagon, his golden eyes peering into the sunlit woods. All was quiet. It was past Yuletide. The countryside was held fast in the grip of winter. Nothing stirred in the snowblanketed land. His companions were gone, busy about various tasks. Raistlin nodded grimly. Good. Turning, he went back inside the wagon and shut the wooden doors firmly.

The companions had been camped here for several days, on the outskirts of Kendermore. Their journey was nearing an end. It had been unbelievably successful. Tonight they would leave, traveling to Flotsam under the cover of darkness. They had money enough to hire a ship, plus some left over for supplies and payment for a week’s lodging in Flotsam. This afternoon had been their final performance.

The young mage made his way through the clutter to the back of the wagon. His gaze lingered on the shimmering red robe that hung on a nail. Tika had started to pack it away, but Raistlin had snarled at her viciously. Shrugging, she let it remain, going outside to walk in the woods, knowing Caramon—as usual—would find her.

Raistlin’s thin hand reached out to touch the robe, the slender fingers stroking the shining, sequined fabric wistfully, regretting that this period in his life was over.

‘I have been happy’ he murmured to himself. ‘Strange. There have not been many times in my life I could make that claim. Certainly not when I was young, nor in these past few years, after they tortured my body and cursed me with these eyes. But then I never expected happiness. How paltry it is, compared to my magic! Still . . . still, these last few weeks have been weeks of peace. Weeks of happiness. I don’t suppose any will come again. Not after what I must do—’

Raistlin held the robe a moment longer, then, shrugging, hey’ tossed it in a corner and continued on to the back of the wagon which he had curtained off for his own private use. Once inside, he pulled the curtains securely together.

Excellent. He would have privacy for several hours, until nightfall, in fact. Tanis and Riverwind had gone hunting. Caramon had, too, supposedly, though everyone knew this was just an excuse for him to find time alone with Tika. Goldmoon was preparing food for their journey. No one would bother him. The mage nodded to himself in satisfaction.

Sitting down at the small drop-leaf table Caramon had constructed for him, Raistlin carefully withdrew from the very innermost pocket of his robes an ordinary-looking sack, the sack that contained the dragon orb. His skeletal fingers trembled as he tugged on the drawstring. The bag opened. Reaching in, Raistlin grasped the dragon orb and brought it forth. He held it easily in his palm, inspecting it closely to see if there had been any change.

No. A faint green color still swirled within. It still felt as cold to the touch as if he held a hailstone. Smiling, Raistlin clasped the orb tightly in one hand while he fumbled through the props beneath the table. He finally found what he sought—a crudely carved, three-legged wooden stand. Lifting it up, Raistlin set it on the table. It wasn’t much to look at—Flint would have scoffed. Raistlin had neither the love nor the skill needed to work wood. He had carved it laboriously, in secret, shut up inside the jouncing wagon during the long days on the road. No, it was not much to look at, but he didn’t care. It would suit his purpose.

Placing the stand upon the table, he set the dragon orb on it. The marble-sized orb looked ludicrous, but Raistlin sat back, waiting patiently. As he had expected, soon the orb began to grow. Or did it? Perhaps he was shrinking. Raistlin couldn’t tell. He knew only that suddenly the orb was the right size. If anything was different, it was he that was too small, too insignificant to even be in the same room with the orb.

The mage shook his head. He must stay in control, he knew, and he was immediately aware of the subtle tricks the orb was playing to undermine that control. Soon these tricks would not be subtle. Raistlin felt his throat tighten. He coughed, cursing his weak lungs. Drawing a shuddering breath, he forced himself to breathe deeply and easily.

Relax, he thought. I must relax. I do not fear. I am strong. Look what I have done! Silently he called upon the orb: Look at the power I have attained! Witness what I did in Darken Wood. Witness what I did in Siivanesti. I am strong. I do not fear.

The orb’s colors swirled softly. It did not answer.

The mage closed his eyes for a moment, blotting the orb from sight. Regaining control, he opened them again, regarding the orb with a sigh. The moment approached.

The dragon orb was now back to its original size. He could almost see Lorac’s wizened hands grasping it. The young mage shuddered involuntarily. No! Stop it! he told himself firmly, and immediately banished the vision from his mind.

Once more he relaxed, breathing regularly, his hourglass eyes focused on the orb. Then—slowly—he stretched forth his slender, metallic-colored fingers. After a moment’s final hesitation, Raistlin placed his hands upon the cold crystal of the dragon orb and spoke the ancient words.

‘Ast bilak moiparalan/Suh akvlar tantangusar.’

How did he know what to say? How did he know what ancient words would cause the orb to understand him, to be aware of his presence? Raistlin did not know. He knew only that—somehow, somewhere—inside of him, he did know the words! The voice that had spoken to him in Silvanesti? Perhaps. It didn’t matter.

Again he said the words aloud.

‘Ast bilak rnoiparalan/Sub akvlar tantangusar!’

Slowly the drifting green color was submerged in a myriad swirling, gliding colors that made him dizzy to watch. The crystal was so cold beneath his palms that it was painful to touch. Raistlin had a terrifying vision of pulling away his hands and leaving the flesh behind, frozen to the orb. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the pain and whispered the words again.

The colors ceased to swirl. A light glowed in the center, a light neither white nor black, all colors, yet none. Raistlin swallowed, fighting the choking phlegm that rose in his throat.

Out of the light came two hands! He had a desperate urge to withdraw his own, but before he could move, the two hands grasped his in a grip both strong and firm. The orb vanished! The room vanished! Raistlin saw nothing around trim No light. No darkness. Nothing? Nothing . . . but two hands, holding his. Out of sheer terror, Raistlin concentrated on those hands.

Human? Elven? Old? Young’’ He could not tell. The fingers, were long and slender, but their grip was the grip of death. Let go and he would fall into the void to drift until merciful darkness consumed him. Even as he clung to those hands with strength lent him by fear, Raistlin realized the hands were slowly drawing, him nearer, drawing him into . . . into . . .

Raistlin came to himself suddenly, as if someone had dashed cold water in his face. No! he told the mind that he sensed controlled the hands. I will not go! Though he feared losing that saving grip, he feared even more being dragged where he did not want to go. He would not let loose. I will maintain control, he told the mind of the hands savagely. Tightening, has own grip, the mage summoned alI of his strength, all of his will, and pulled the hands toward him!

The hands stopped. Fair a moment, the two wills vied together, locked in a life-or-death contest, Raistlin felt the strength ebb from his body, his hands weakened, the palms began to sweat. He felt the hands of the orb begin to pull him again, ever so slightly. In agony, Raistlin summoned every drop of blood, focused every nerve, sacrificed every muscle in his frail body to regaining control.

Slowly . . . slowly . . . just when he thought his pounding heart would burst from his chest or his brain explode in fire— Raistlin felt the hands cease their tug. They still maintained their firm grip on him—as he maintained his firm grip on them. But the two were no longer in contest. His hands and the hands of the dragon orb remained locked together, each conceding respect, neither seeking dominance.

The ecstasy of the victory; the ecstasy of the magic flowed through Raistlin and burst forth, wrapping him in a warm, golden light. His body relaxed. Trembling, he felt the hands hold him gently, support him, lend him strength.

What are you’ he questioned silently. Are you good? Evil?

I am neither. I am nothing. I am everything. The essence of dragons captured long ago is what I am.

How do you work? Raistlin asked. How do you control the dragons?

At your command, I will call them to me. They cannot resist my call. They will obey.

Will they turn upon their masters? Will they fall under my command?

That depends on the strength of the master and the bond between the two. In some instances, this is so strong that the master can maintain control of the dragon. But most will do what you ask of them. They cannot help themselves.

I must study this, Raistlin murmured, feeling himself growing weaker. I do not understand . . . .

Be easy. I will aid you. Now that we have joined, you may seek my help often. I know of many secrets long forgotten. They can be yours.

What secrets? . . . Raistlin felt himself losing consciousness. The strain had been too much. He struggled to keep his hold on the hands, but he felt his grip slipping.

The hands held onto him gently, as a mother holds a child.

Relax: I will not let you fall. Sleep. You are weary.

Tell me! I must know! Raistlin cried silently.

This only I will tell you, then you must rest. In the library of Astinus of Palanthas are books, hundreds of books, taken there by the mages of old in the days of the Lost Battle. To all who look at these books, they seem nothing more than encyclopedias of magic, dull histories of mages who died in the caverns of time.

Raistlin saw darkness creeping toward him. He clutched at the hands.

What do the books really contain? he whispered.

Then he knew, and with the knowledge, darkness crashed over him like the wave of an ocean.

In a cave near the wagon, hidden by shadows, warmed by the heat of their passion, ‘Tika and Caramon lay in each other’s arms. Tika’s red hair clung around her face and forehead in tight curls, her eyes were closed, her full lips parted. Her soft body clad in her gaily-colored skirt and puffy-sleeved white blouse pressed against Caramon. Her legs twined around his, her hand caressed his face, her lips brushed his.

‘Please, Caramon,’ she whispered. ‘This is torture. We want each other. I’m not afraid. Please love me!’

Caramon closed his eyes. His face shone with sweat. The pain of his love seemed impossible to bear. He could end it, end it all in sweet ecstasy. For a moment he hesitated. Tika’s fragrant hair was in his nostrils, her soft lips on his neck. It would; be so easy . . . so wonderful . . .

Caramon sighed. Firmly he closed his strong hands around: Tika’s wrists. Firmly he drew them away from his face pushed the girl from him.

‘No,’ he said, his passion choking him. Rolling over, he stood up. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. . to let things get this far.’

‘Well, I did!’ Tika cried. ‘I’m not frightened! Not anymore.’

No, he thought, pressing his hands against his pounding’ head. I feel you trembling in my hands like a snared rabbit.

Tika began to tie the string on her white blouse. Unable see it through her tears, she jerked at the drawstring so viciously it snapped.

‘Now! See there!’ She hurled the broken silken twine across the cave. ‘I’ve ruined my blouse! I’ll have to mend it. They’ll all know what happened, of course! Or think they know! I—I . . . Oh, what’s the use!’ Weeping in frustration, Tika covered her face with her hands, rocking back and forth.

‘I don’t care what they think!’ Caramon said, his voice echoing in the cave. He did not comfort her. He knew if he touched her again, he would yield to his passion. ‘Besides, they don’t think anything at all. They are our friends. They care for us—’

I know!’ Tika cried brokenly. ‘It’s Raistlin, isn’t it? He doesn’t approve of me. He hates me!’

‘Don’t say that, Tika.’ Caramon’s voice was firm. ‘If he did and if he were stronger, it wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t care what anyone said or thought. The others want us to be happy. They don’t understand why we—we don’t become—er— lovers. Tanis even told me to my face I was a fool—’

‘He’s right.’ Tika’s voice was muffled by tear-damp hair.

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

Something in Caramon’s voice made the girl quit crying. She looked up at him as Caramon turned around to .face her.

‘You don’t know what happened to Raist in the Towers of High Sorcery. None of you know. None of you ever will. But I know. I was there. I saw. They made me see!’ Caramon shuddered, putting his hands over his face. Tika held very still. Then, looking at her again he drew a deep breath. ‘They said, ‘his strength, will save the world.’ What strength? Inner strength? I’m his outer strength! I—I don’t understand, but Raist said to me in the dream that we were one whole person, cursed by the gods and put into two bodies. We need each other—right now at least.’ The big man’s face darkened. ‘Maybe some day that will change. Maybe some day he’ll find the outer strength—’

Caravan fell silent. Tika swallowed and wiped her hand across her face. ‘‘I—’ she began, but Caramon cut her off.

‘Wait a minute,’ he sand. ‘Let me finish. I love you, Tika, as truly as any man loves any woman in this world. I want to make love to you. If we weren’t involved in this stupid war, I’d make you mine today. This minute. But I .can’t. Because if I did, it would be a commitment to you that I would dedicate my life to keeping. You must come first in all my thoughts. You deserve no less than that. But I can’t make that commitment, Tika. My first commitment is to my brother.’ Tika’s tears flowed again this time not for herself, but for him. ‘I must leave you free to find someone who can—’

‘Caramon!’ A call split the afternoon’s sweet silence. ‘Caramon, come quickly!’ It was Tanis.

‘Raistlin!’ said the big man and, without another word, ran out of the cave.

Tika stood a moment, watching after him. Then, sighing, she tried to comb her damp hair into place.

‘What is it?’ Caramon burst into the wagon. ‘Raist?’

Tanis nodded, his face grave.

‘I found him like this.’ The half-elf drew back the curtain to the mages small apartment. Caramon shoved him aside.

Raistlin lay on the floor, his skin white, his breathing shallow. Blood trickled from his mouth. Kneeling dawn, Caramon lifted him in his arms.

‘Raistlin?’ he whispered. ‘What happened?’

‘That’s what happened,’ Tanis said grimly, pointing.

Caramon glanced up, his gaze coming to rest on the dragon orb—now grown to the size Caramon had seen in Silvanesti. It stood on the stand Raistlin had made for it, its swirling colors shifting endlessly as he watched. Caramon sucked in his breath. in horror. Terrible visions of Lorac flooded his mind. Lorac insane, dying . . .

‘Raist!’ he moaned, clutching his brother tightly.

Raistlin’s head mowed feebly. His eyelids fluttered, and he opened his mouth.

‘What?’ Caramon bent low, his brother’s breath cold upon his skin. ‘‘What?’

‘Mine . . . .’Raistlin whispered. ‘Spells . . . of the ancients . . . mine . . . . Mine . . . ‘

The mage’s head lolled his words died. But his face calm, placid, relaxed, His breathing drew regular.

Raistlin’s thin lips parted in a smile.