Dalamar answered in even tones, "I just need to talk now."
*III*
...Little mage...little mage...
The voice caressed Raistlin with silky arms. He wanted to give
himself completely to the voice. He was too weak to fight, but
something near the back of his mind alerted him. "Who are you?" he
asked in his dream voice. "Why are you here?"
...Don't worry, little mage. I have come to collect you and
bring you home...
The magician certainly wanted to go home. Why not let this
kind and helpful person take him there? Something at the back of
his mind was screaming now, but he was too tired to care.
...Come to me and I will take you home, little mage. Come to
me...
"Where are you?"
...Follow my voice, little mage...
Raistlin stood, slowly and uneasily, and began moving around
the desk, clutching his mage's robe close to himself. He stopped
near the left wall and stood sleeping.
...Speak the words, the words you know by heart. Come home...
come home...
He dug deep into his memory. He did know the words and he did
want to go home. He lifted his right arm and pointed it, palm
outward, toward the wall. He dug deeper to balance himself and
maintain the necessary concentration. Raistlin found the words and
spoke them with as much force as he could muster. "Black Dragon.
From darkness to darkness/My voice echoes in the emptiness."
His mind was screaming from the pain of the incantation.
Somewhere in the back, he remembered speaking these words in some
other place or some other time.
He lifted his head and began the second chant. "White Dragon.
From this world to the next/My voice cries with life."
Raistlin felt weak and wanted to fall to his knees. His mind
abused his spirit, trying to defeat him.
...Come home...come home...
What was that voice? What was he doing?
Raistlin opened his eyes, only to realize that he was standing
before the Portal. The Portal leading to the Abyss, to the Dark
Queen.
...Come home...come home...
Raistlin knew he could not open the Portal without help. It
would destroy him when he completed the incantation. The Dark
Temptress was leading him to his death in order to take him back to
her. "Clever," he thought. He would have to back out of the spell
carefully, the slightest mistake would be death.
"So much torture to endure." It will be a long night.
Raistlin Majere, Archmage of the Black Robes, slept quietly on
the stone floor of the laboratory as dawn broke through the window.
The five dragon heads of blue, green, white, black, and red
silently watched him curled in his robe from their perches on the
Portal.
The light did not disturb the magician. The workings of last
night had taken the little strength he had left in him. The
Guardian did not disturb his sleep. The spectre could not awaken
him if he tried.
As the golden disk began its descent, Raistlin stirred
slightly. The ground was not his primary choice of places to spend
a night. He was sore and could not move well. Suddenly, another
spasm of coughs attacked his body. It passed finally and he rested
there, unable to move, unable to call for help.
"Why has the wasting sickness return?" he wondered. "Have I
lost so much?"
Raistlin looked at himself and sighed. It would be time to
work soon. He did not have long to live confined in the laboratory.
But all he could do now is rest and wait.
Raistlin slept until the silver light of Solinari had passed
from the sky leaving only Lunitari's red glow to fill the room. The
mage slowly pulled himself up and dressed himself in his black
robe. The fever of last night had passed, but the coughing caused
by his own Test of High Sorcery had returned after so many years.
It was a painful indicator of the power he had lost.
A mirror lay on the table, discarded numerous years ago after
some experiment that he could not remember. Scratched and bloodied,
it barely reflected the light cast by the red moon. The sorcerer
lifted it and stared at himself, a withered, gold-skinned form with
long, tangled white hair and hourglass eyes. "By all the Gods of
Krynn," Raistlin swore. "Why does my skin not rot from my skeleton
as it always has in the past?" The mirror fell from his hand and
cracked on the floor.
Raistlin's view of time as it affected all things was gone.
Only in cases where death's grasp could not have a hold, like the
young Qualinesti princess Laurana, did he ever see beauty. But the
river of time had washed over Raistlin severely, yet he did not age
before his own eyes.
Raistlin looked down at the floor at the mirror, unshattered
but still broken. "I could not have known earlier," he mused. "The
spirit at the door would not age and the items in this laboratory
are dead." The mage paused a moment. "Quite a shock this is. Quite
a shock."
*IV*
As the sun peeked over the horizon, the Guardian watched as
Raistlin worked skillfully at his desk. The parchment spread about
him showed his night's work. Dimensional equations and magical
formulae scrawled in the runic language secret to sorcerers. The
mage muttered, "All night deriving cantrips. Only to summon a puff
of smoke or a spark or a flash of light."
The Guardian looked on in a state of amusement only the dead
could understand while watching the living rush to their own
deaths. "The five cantrips you have recovered," he pointed to a
small stack on the far corner of the desk, "would have taken an
apprentice a year or two to master."
"Those same young fools looked on in jealousy as I, five to
ten years their junior, began casting spell of some power from the
master's spellbooks and skillfully control them." Raistlin snorted.
"Don't speak to me of progress, ghost. I should be casting these in
my sleep." The mage coughed.
"Time has made you frail, magician."
Raistlin coughed again. "And time will make me strong again,"
he said weakly. "Now sink back into your shadow world and leave me
to my studies before I find a way to destroy you."
The spectre vanished slowly. "If only you could, Master."
Raistlin set back to his slow, tedious work.
By noon, Raistlin had recalled and was able to memorize eight
cantrips. The strain of casting the spells caused him to lose
consciousness and he slept in the highbacked chair in the ecstasy
of his art.
The dreams returned to him. He fought against them, trying to
saver his sleep. They came anyway.
The magician sat in a classroom, but not in the Tower of High
Sorcery at Palanthas. Others sat at tables before him as he was at
the back of the room. At the front of the room, a man dressed in
the robes of Black Magic with a long, flowing white beard. He was
old but had an inner strength visible in his stance.
"Ah," Raistlin realized. "The workshop of Fistandantilus."
"You," called the old sorcerer, pointing at Raistlin. "Come
here."
Raistlin knew what was to come. He was to be tested to become
Fistandantilus' apprentice. He ran through the spells in his
memory. The dimension door should be ample to satisfy the mage.
Raistlin stood and walked calmly to the front of the class, under
the full weight of the stares the other hopefuls hurled.
As Raistlin approached the old magician, he began to
concentrate. The syllables formed in his mind as he stopped and
began the incantation. Fistandantilus stared into his hourglass
eyes. The spell was completed and Raistlin waited. A puff of smoke
appeared in the face of the old magician who only began to chuckle.
The other students in the room laughed deeply and the sound
assailed Raistlin with a grinding force.
"A cantrip," snickered Fistandantilus. "Is that the extent of
your powers, little mage? Is this the best you can accomplish?"
The old sorcerer began to look scaly. The white beard fell
away and the black mage's robe stretched. Raistlin watched in
astonishment as a large dragon's head burst from the magician's
shoulder. Then another head tore through at his arm, though of a
different color. The sorcerer was growing to an enormous size and
wings were sprouting from its back. The students continued their
abominable laughing which proved to be the most disheartening thing
to Raistlin. In moments, Fistandantilus had transformed into the
likeness of Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness.
...Little mage, is that the best you can muster. Your magic is
a joke...
Raistlin turned and ran from the room as best he could.
...I will find you and rend the flesh from your bones...
All that followed was the laughter.
"It's all useless," yelled Raistlin in his loudest voice. "I
will never be free of this prison."
The Guardian appeared at the door, glowing in Lunitari's red
light. "Master. It is only a dream, created by your fears. You will
be able to leave here soon enough in your magic."
The mage scowled. "One day, maybe. But I am dying, spectre."
"That would be the easiest path to escape."
"Leave me to my sleep and taunt me no more, demon."
*V*
The Inn of the Last Home sat proudly beneath a growing vallenwood
tree planted by the inn's proprietor, Caramon Majere, Hero of the
Lance. The strong, tall warrior looked out of the window of his
home, looking north to a place far away. His red haired wife, Tika
Waylan Majere, walked up and placed a hand on his shoulder. "What
are you thinking about?" she queried.
"I'm thinking about what happened back there," he explained.
"It seemed so real. Like he was really there. I don't know. Maybe
I'm scared for Palin." Caramon turned from the window.
Tika looked at him lovingly, having the same feelings for
their son. "He raised Palin as best we could. He is grown now, like
Tanin and Sturm. And we must let him go. He'll do the right thing."
"I believed the same of Raistlin."
Raistlin searched through all the drawers and cupboards in the
laboratory. Solinari had raised low in the sky and cast little
light into the room. "To believe that I would sink to this level,"
he muttered. "Will their be so much as a barbarian talisman in
here? Any magical trinket at all?"
The magician long ago gave up the use of magic rings as they
are sign of weakness, instead opting for pure magical spells and
the Staff of Magius' wards and protections. But he was desperate
now. Any form of magic would do. Deep in a cupboard, behind
stoppered flasks of viscous fluid and alchemical reagents, an
ornate box sat, locked and secured. "Damn," he thought. It looked
to be something of Dalamar's by the engraving of the elfish script.
The dark elf would leave nothing like this untrapped.
The mage took the box to the table and began to examine the
lock in the poor light. "Antilach Samrath," Raistlin cast the light
spell he had recently acquired. He looked closely in the new light.
It was certainly trapped and he was in no condition to disarm the
box. Hunger and thirst pains began to take their toll on him.
"By the true gods." Raistlin hurled the box at the wall with
all the strength he could muster. It shattered releasing a small
gas cloud. Raistlin pulled a cloth from the desk and placed it over
his mouth and nose. "You are a fool, Dalamar. So simple a trap. And
had taught you so much."
At the base of the wall, two rings rested on the stones.
Raistlin smiled slightly, but waited for the cloud to dissipate
before collecting the prize. The rings were each made of silver and
held a medium size gemstone, one a ruby, the other a topaz. He
examined them closely, looking for inscriptions or runes. Neither
had any markings except the carvings of trees or the stars and
moons. But no command words. Magical rings would not be protected
by a poison trap if they were cursed, he reasoned. "Spin the wheel
of death and accept its fate." He slipped the ruby ring onto his
left hand. The hunger pains subsided slightly. "Good. A ring of
sustenance or the like. But they are slow in working. I may die
before it takes effect."
He placed the topaz ring on his right hand and concentrated.
Immediately, odd spells flashed through his mind. "Ah. Spells
placed by a cleric. Dalamar must have had extracted a favor from
Paladine's chosen during my journey on the river of time." One of
the spells, he knew, was for the creation of water. "My apprentice
was well prepared to survive in a hostile environment," the mage
reflected.
Raistlin found a small cauldron and, hoping the dark elf mage
had washed it properly, cast the spell. The cauldron filled with
water and Raistlin kneeled down, drinking thirstily. His hair fell
into the pot, soaking through. He sat back and rested against the
wall with a glow of accomplishment, rivulets of the dear liquid
streaming down his neck.
Tika was closing the Inn of the Last Home when a black robed
figure entered the common room. He walked toward a table in a dark
corner of the room and sat. He seemed to not notice her sweeping.
She stopped and stared at him. "Can I help you?" she asked. "The
inn is closed for the night, but I can help you."
"I have no need for help, girl. I am waiting for my brother,"
he said in a whispering voice.
"Raistlin?" she wondered. "Is that you?"
Hourglass eyes flashed from beneath the hood. "Yes," he
answered.
"What are you doing here? Why have you come all the way from
Palanthas?"
The mage smiled from the shadows with a wicked grin. "I've
come to take Caramon back from you." With a swift movement of his
hand, a ball of flame sprang into life and flashed in Tika's face.
"Noooo..." She felt a hand on her shoulder.
"Darling, stop screaming. It's only a dream, only a dream."
Caramon held her closely and Tika buried her head in his chest. She
began to cry. "It's only a dream."
*VI*
The next two weeks passed sluggishly for the mage. Slowly, he was
regaining the spells that sat in spellbooks only a short distance
away. He had accomplished seventeen of the lowest order of magical
spells in the fourteen days, but the time to grasp each new spell
grew longer as he worked on magic of a higher level. And he knew
that it would take days to recall and derive each spell necessary
to brake free from the laboratory.
But he had the time now. The rings kept him nourished and he
was able to sleep for shorter periods of time, thus increasing his
work time. He would be free soon.
Dalamar sat in a library reading room of the Tower of High
Sorcery. Before him sat a massive tome once belonging to the mage,
Fistandantilus. The script was not of the dead mage's hand, but
formed by magic. The magician had been very old when he achieved
the highest echelons of magic, although he continued to use the
bloodstone pendant to prolong his life. Raistlin had been very
powerful to reach the same abilities, something the dark elf could
only dream of now. But, with the extended lifespan of the elven
nation, all he had was time.
After reading through the black mage's long-winded explanation
and theory, the actual spell began and Dalamar poured his
concentration into the memorization of the incantation. He felt the
spark of power form in his mind, but it would take over a hour of
study to fully grasp the spell, if he was ready at all.
Am I ready for the power these books offer? Can I take the
place of the true Master of this Tower? Dalamar doubted if he
could. He had been promoted to head of the Black Robes as he was
the most powerful, but Par-Salian and Justarius held a great sway
in the Conclave of the magicians because of their power in the Art.
The Black Robes had truly become the weakest of the orders, and the
dark elf meant to rectify the situation.
"I will be ready." Dalamar continued his studies.
"Two months is a long time to wait," noted Raistlin. His eyes
flared in the shadows of his hood as the sun rose past the window
of his prison. He surveyed all that he had accomplished in that
time. He had been working on the apportation formulas, in
particular, a spell to teleport him from the laboratory. Unable to
simply exit through the door as the Guardian watched it carefully,
this was one of the only choices, the best choice.
Raistlin scanned the twenty sheets of parchment quickly to
refresh him before casting the spell. The teleportation would be a
draining incantation although he would be moving only a short
distance in the tower. The magician prepared himself mentally,
centering his concentration on the spell. The spell was all that
existed. The syllables formed in his mind. "Whirithen gaialathor
wyck Smathalen." The words flowed from his mouth like a stream over
the smooth stones of a river bed as his hand wove beautiful,
intricate patterns in the air. "Whirithen gaialathor wych en
Transetum."
The sun shimmered, shifting toward the color blue, hot and
bright. Raistlin felt the forces of magic bend around him,
caressing him. He chimed the final syllables with the rhythm of the
power flowing about and through his body. "Whirithen apportai wych
en Transetuminas."
The power surged and fluxed around him as he completed in
incantation. The room spun sickeningly against the flow of energy.
Electricity bit at his outstretched arms causing great pain to
flood through his system. Something was wrong. Unseen forces tore
at his body, twisting him seemingly into oblivion. The stress of
the situation broke his concentration. The world itself has tearing
him to pieces.
The mage fought the invisible hands that grasped at his limbs
with the little strength he had left, fought to keep himself whole.
The magical energy strove to tear his spirit from his frail body,
but Raistlin's indomitable will won him his life once more. The
energy bled away into the walls of the Tower and the archmage
collapsed.
Raistlin had failed.
...Little mage...poor, pitiful little mage...broken and
sleeping on the floor...poor little mage...
The voice returned to Raistlin's sleep. The voice comforted
him like a mother would her child. He wished he could remember his
mother now as he rested on the stones, dying by inches, coughs
breaking his slumber. The voice held his spirit up and cradled it
lovingly.
...Are you ready to return now, little mage? You have been far
from your home for too long. Come home...come home...
Raistlin woke suddenly and stared at his surroundings. The
laboratory had been devastated by the spell. Pages of parchment
were scattered about the room. Beakers and vials shattered against
the walls, pouring their contents into pools on the floor.
Cupboards had been blown open and emptied of any material stored
there.
The archmage snarled. "Two months of work wasted in a single
day. What was my mistake? What went wrong? What could have..."
Raistlin stopped in midsentence. He suddenly realized that he did
not know at all what had happened to cause the spell to misfire. A
spell that his apprentice had easily learned years ago, and
Raistlin had not the power to grasp it now. "So much time has
passed," he sighed.
...Little mage...come home, little mage...
The voice of the Dark Temptress taunted him. Raistlin reached
for the desk and pulled himself to his unsteady feet. "Leave me,
and torment me no more," he gasped. "I will not go to you
willingly."
...No, little mage, not willingly. But you will come in
time...
Raistlin staggered to his chair and collapsed again, too tired
to fight any more, but too alive to give himself to the eternal
sleep.
The twenty-one member Conclave of Wizards met at the Tower of
High Sorcery in Wayreth at the request of Dalamar for an emergency
session. Par-Salian, sitting at the top of the semicircular table,
began the meeting formally and turned the floor to the dark elf.
"My fellow wizards, I bring news to you both terrible and
astonishing," he began. The Conclave was used to melodramatic
speeches given by the sorcerers of the Black Robes and they settled
back into their chairs, one of the elder mages drifting off to
sleep. "As the proximity of the Great Library of Palanthas to my
Tower is, indeed, very small, I spend much time in research of the
chronicles of Astinus and other books and scrolls. Recently during
one of my visits to the Library, one of the Order of Aesthetics,
Bertrem, notified me that Astinus was greatly troubled by something
he had seen in the Orb of Time. The historian has refused to leave
his study to sleep and rarely eats while chronicling the events of
the past few months.
"Bertrem told me that while binding the volume, he read the
accounts of the time Astinus has spent in his study and discovered
something of great importance."
"And what is this news?" queried the head of the Red Robes,
Justarius, to quicken the news.
"Raistlin Majere has returned to Krynn by some means unknown
to even Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness."
Justarius leaped to his feet. "You are telling us that the
most powerful mage to walk the face of Krynn has escaped the
clutches of death. A death you were suppose to secure."
Par-Salian spoke up. "Sit down, Justarius. No one can know to
what extent Raistlin's powers had grown. He had great potential I
saw while giving him the Test of High Sorcery. He could have had
the power to escape from the Abyss and his Dark Queen. When did you
receive this information, Dalamar?"
"Only four days past, Par-Salian," answered the dark elf.
"And what do you suggest we do about this dilemma, Dalamar?"
asked Justarius.
"Prepare," he answered coldly. "Prepare and wait. We may not
be able to do anything else."
*VII*
Raistlin felt the eyes of the spectre at the door watching him.
They regarded him with a chill caused by many centuries of unrest.
They watched the magician repair his laboratory and collect the
pages of his spellcraft. They watched as the mage planned his next
attempt to escape, this time, through the Guardian's door.
"Master, you have not the power to banish me from this world.
To try to pass through this door would secure your death, archmage.
I give you warning now as I have for the last five months. I will
kill you and have no regrets for my actions."
"Nor shall I, spectre." Raistlin continued his studies.
The highest levels of magic were lost to him, he had learned
in his casting to the Teleport spell. But many spells still
remained at his disposal if he could but remember them and derive
the formulas. In the three months since his failure with the
teleportation, Raistlin had recovered quite a few spells, both
offensive and defensive. But the power of the rings was diminishing
daily. The ring of nourishment was slowly failing and the spell-
storing ring was now exhausted. Fear of his wasting away this close
to the mark drove him on.
Today was the day. There would be no other
Standing before the door, Raistlin withdrew a tiny marble-like
ball of pitch from the folds of his robe and began chanting his
first incantation. "Charicin anFlamai." The ball began to glow and
the mage flicked it at the door. The Guardian's twin orbs burst
into existence as the sorcerer's fireball exploded at the door.
There was a piercing howl as the spectre stepped from the door
towards the magician.
"Turn away, Master, and I shall not have to destroy you," it
warned.
Raistlin sneered. "No. I am leaving this place. Now!" The mage
lifted his ring of spell-storing and leveled it at the spectre,
shouting the command word to release its spell. "Realthen
Tsolarithen." A dozen luminous arrows appeared before him, and with
a thought, they sprung at the wraith-like being.
The bolts hit their mark and the spectre screamed again. It
raised its phantasmal hand in the air and swung it, scratching its
fingers through the mage's chest. Raistlin's mind yelled in agony
as the pain of the touch of the undead coursed through his veins.
It became difficult to concentrate. The spectre began to attack
again but Raistlin prepared himself. "Armestis Reflecian." A shield
of force fended off the spectre's attack with a flash of blue light
and multitudes of sparks.
The spirit raged against the magical wall blocking him from
his quarry. It thrust itself against the shield and began to move
through it with deafening shrieks and screams. That won't hold him
long, thought Raistlin, but long enough to prepare a final spell.
He ran through the spell in his mind over and over again, ignoring
the pain of his wound.
With a blaze of brilliance, the Guardian broke through the
shield, damaged and weaker, but still ready to protect the dominion
set by the dark elf, Dalamar. Raistlin raised his hands and roared
the incantation of the final spell he would be able to cast. "Wych
dominos Elctranium." The energy of the spell filled his body...
Then it bled away, lost to his control. "No!" he screamed as
the spectre thrust his hand through the mage's chest.
...Little mage...little mage...
Takhisis taunted him even now as he stood here dying after all
he had accomplished. Originally, he had resigned himself to pass on
believing his job finished here on Krynn. But over the past five
months, he had become obsessed with his escape, knowing that all
was not as it should be. Had the Dark Queen spent all of this time
persecuting him just to watch him die at the hands of the Guardian,
broken and beaten by his own inability?
...No, little mage, you are not finished here...I will assist
you in defeating the spectre on your oath that when you leave this
room, you will take up the Red Robes you wore initially, before
Fistandantilus...The balance of power swings freely now and you
must be a force to preserve that balance...I shall pass the Key of
Fistandantilus to Dalamar and I will deal with you no longer...
Raistlin felt very much like the Dark Queen so many centuries
ago at the point of Huma's Dragonlance, unable to refuse the oath
presented. "I accept," he swore quietly as the Guardian prepared to
finish his task. Magical energy filled the sorcerer and the words
to the incantation returned to his mind. "Wych dominos Elctranium."
Bolts of electricity erupted from his fingertips and struck the
spectre. Its wraith-like form dissipated, leaving only the glowing
eyes to stare at the mage.
"Farewell, Master. We are both free now of the torment." And
the orbs winked out of existence.
Pain coursed through Raistlin's body as he staggered through
the remanence of the door. The magician stumbled to the floor of
staircase landing, just outside of the laboratory. He propped
himself against the wall and stared into his prison.
The ruddy light of the setting sun fell upon his face and
Raistlin smiled.
Dalamar climbed the stairs slowly, afraid of what he could
find at the top of the Tower. As he reached the laboratory, the
dark elf found a mass of robe huddled against the wall across from
the blasted doorway.
"Shalifi?" he queried. "Have you returned to us?"
The form on the floor chuckled. "You didn't know you were
powerful enough to snatch me from the Abyss itself, did you, my
apprentice? No, how could you?" Raistlin coughed, then rested to
regain his strength before continuing. "But I believe you had some
help, Dalamar."
"How are you, Master? What has happened?" The dark elf could
feel his position as apprentice slipping back into place.
"Worry not for me, elf. I have survived another Test only
barely, much like the first. But this time, my lesson is learned."
Raistlin looked into the dark elf's eyes. "I am tired and weak,
Dalamar. Please help me to my chambers."
At the end of two weeks, Raistlin was well rested and had
regained his original spellbooks. It would take him a long time to
return to his former power, but his first instructional spellbooks
would set him on the correct path. He wore the Red Robes of
Neutrality again as he had during the years spent with his friends
in Solace: Tanis Half-Elven, Sturm Brightblade, Tasslehoff
Burrfoot, and Flint Fireforge. As he had worn with his brother,
Caramon.
Raistlin looked up at the Tower of High Sorcery from beyond
the Shoikan Grove. He felt the new Master of the Tower's farewell
and the mage said his goodbye in return.
The sorcerer planned to travel south through Solamnia to the
home of his youth. He started walking, followed by the mule bearing
his packs and spellbooks. The journey ahead was long, but he drove
himself forward with his fantastic will.
"Brother, I am coming home."
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