Caramon opened his eyes to find himself once again in Tas's bedroom. He was sprawled on the floor, the blood red gem glistening still clutched tightly in his hand. Gazing at it in horror, he flung it across the room with all his might. It clattered off the wall and landed on the floor, lazily laughing at him with its twinkling red light.
"Cursed thing," he breathed, scrambling away from it. "You did this to my brother. You caused everything that happened to him!" Suddenly, resolutely, he pushed himself up and strode over to the gem, scooping it up none-too-gently with an angry fist. "Cursed Fistandantilus," he cried. "I'll have Dalamar destroy this, the bane of my brother's existence! This time, you will be gone for good!"
You know that's not true, a sly voice whispered into his ear.
Caramon whirled. "Who's there!" he demanded, whipping his head this way and that.
No one, as of now. But that will change soon enough. However, I regret to say that you yourself will not be around long enough to witness my glorious return. And, for giving me this chance, I will open the portal for my Queen, and she will enter the world, as she was supposed to all those many years ago!
"What are you talking about?" Caramon called desperately. His world was once again starting to reel around him, pitching him this way and that though he never moved. Sinking to the ground, he felt his hand tighten involuntarily around the cursed necklace.
I am now going to exact the revenge my former host craved all those years ago. I will inhabit your strong body, and I will rule, as he was meant to rule! Laughter echoed through Caramon's spinning mind. What irony it is that the one he sought to protect by giving up everything that was precious to us is now my slave. I hope you're watching this, Raistlin Majere! I hope you endure the torture you should have felt for all eternity!
The spinning world faded into darkness, and Caramon Majere faded with it, leaving behind nothing but a lifeless vessel waiting to be filled.
Chapter 4: Awakening.
"So," Nuitari said softly, gazing once more into his crystal ball, "he has shown himself at last. Solinari, Lunitari! Come to me. The time has come."
Solinari looked up from his restless pacing. Lunitari bounded into the room in a flurry of ruby robes. They both hurried over to their cousin, their expressions identical – determined, anxious, and somewhat afraid.
"What do we do?" Solinari asked, watching his cousin expectantly.
"It is only a matter of time," Nuitari replied. With a flick of his wrist, he transported them to a building that soared into the lifeless heavens that glowed with an eerie light.
"The Final Resting Place?" Lunitari frowned, her pretty head tilited back to take in the awesome sight.
"Yes, dear Cousin. It is here that we will find our answer."
The Final Resting Place was a building made of black granite, torn from the heart of Krynn, made up of the stones of every tomb erected since the creation of the world. Here were housed the souls of the dead, the ones who had completed their duties to the living, but were not blessed enough to enter into other planes of existence. As Mishakal called it, the Prison of the Dead. Ruled by Takhisis and her legion of dark gods, it was a fiendish place of terror, torture, and pain.
"Why are we here?" Solinari demanded. "Raistlin Majere moved on because of his selfless sacrifice. We will not find him here."
"That is where you are wrong, Solinari," Nuitari said softly, his eyes trained on the door of the enormous building. "This place is the closest the souls of evil will ever get to reaching the light they so desperately crave. Though it may be the final terrible resting place of these souls, it is also the portal to the next plane of existence. Those seeking eternity must pass through here."
"How do you know this?"
Nuitari momentarily took his gaze from the gargantuan doors, giving his cousin a scornful look. "Do you forget who my parents are?" he asked icily.
Solinari fell silent, averting his gaze. Nuitari returned his eyes to the Prison of the Dead.
Suddenly the ground began to shake. The sky of the Abyss, ever a haunting shade of pink, seemed to tear open as light blasted through the roiling heavens. The light struck the Final Resting Place, sending Solinari and Lunitari tumbling to the ground. Nuitari alone remained standing, his eyes not bothered in the least by the light. The door was cracked open by the blast.
"Thus does the portal open," he murmured, watching the light fade away, "and thus does it begin."
Raistlin Majere was sprawled on the mosaic floor of the Final Resting Place. His white hair splayed around his gold-tinged face, and his golden hourglass eyes stared blankly into space. He groaned, shaking his head from side to side in attempt to clear his muddled thoughts.
"Where…am I?" he mumbled through stiffened lips. The reflection of a brilliant light stained the back of his eyelids, obscurring his vision. He blinked rapidly, though it hurt his eyes to do so. Eventually the blue and purple splotches of blindness faded. Even as his sight returned, he found himself longing for the light to come back and take him away once more.
"Caramon…" Raistlin slowly sat up, pain searing through every part of him, tearing right down to his soul. He put his head in his hands, trying to place himself. "My brother, what has happened?" he rasped. "You were right here…you gave me peace…"
A light appeared behind him, painstakingly becoming visible in the mage's faltering sight Turning toward it, he crawled toward it longingly, hoping to lose himself once again in painless oblivion. As he drew nearer, he realized that the light was not that of a heavenly portal, but of a slightly cracked door. The door was immense, carved with intricate runes that he did not recognize. Intrigued, Raistlin pushed himself to his feet and stumbled over to them.
Reaching the door, Raistlin ran his supple fingers across the runes, watching in fascination as they glittered at his touch. Pale, pink-tinged light reflected dully off his metallic skin. Suddenly the door swung open under his hand, and he tumbled through the opening, cursing himself for being so careless.
He landed with a thud and an oath after careening down a long flight of stairs. Strangely, he did not hurt as he had upon first finding himself in this strange place. The fall was an inconvenience, nothing more.
"Of course it did not hurt, you fool," he told himself bitterly, "you are dead; you are nothing more than a spirit, transparent and ethereal as a cloud of mist."
"Raistlin Majere," a voice rang out above him. Raistlin instinctively started to rise, but fell back again when he found himself face to face with the god of dark magic, Nuitari. Bowing low before him, Raistlin once more cursed himself and his foul luck.
"What am I doing here, Great One?" Raistlin asked, allowing the right amount of reverence and awe creep into his voice, though he felt none. "I was at rest, waiting for my brother to join me, when suddenly I was torn from him and cast here. I must inquire as to what is going on."
Nuitari shot him an amused look. "Of course you must inquire as such, my dear servant." His face grew shadowed. "Rise. I have much to tell you."
"I'll just bet you do," Raistlin muttered into the hem of his robe. Keeping his head bowed, he cautiously rose to his feet.
"The reason you have been so suddenly wrenched from your eternal rest is simply because your brother is no longer there to hold you to your peace," Nuitari explained quickly. "Your counterpart, Fistandantilus, has found another host. You have one guess as to who that may be."
Raistlin raised his eyes. Then he laughed. "Surely you jest," he spat viciously, though in his voice there was a hint of what might have been fear. "Fistandantilus is only drawn to those of immense magical prowess. He would not be interested in my bumbling fool of a brother."
"And yet it is your 'bumbling fool of a brother's' body he prepares to enter," Nuitari said impatiently. "As we speak, your brother's body is being readied for his entry."
"Impossible!" Raistlin shrieked, causing Nuitari to cast him an annoyed look. "There is no way! My brother does not possess any magic whatsoever! This cannot be!"
"If you would allow me to speak," Nuitari interrupted testily, "I would alleviate your concerns."
Raistlin fell silent, turning away from the god.
"You will face me when I address you!" Nuitari roared, losing all patience. Whirling the mage around with sheer force of will, he magically threw him to the ground. "Caramon Majere possesses no magic. You know this, and I know it. But the magic Fistandantilus sapped from you, my dear servant, is so vast that he needs no one of magical ability."
Raistlin stared defiantly up at the god, even as he quaked in fear. His worries erased, he could once more face the magic lord with dignity.
Nuitari glared down at him, furious that he should be so humiliated in front of his cousins, who stood off to the side. Using his magic to set the mage on his feet, the god grabbed Raistlin by the collar. "You will find a way back to Krynn," he hissed. "You will defeat Fistandantilus once and for all. My cousins and I will assist you in any way you deem necessary. Should you succeed, you will be granted eternal salvation; salvation you yourself earned, not that which you stole from your brother."
Raistlin smirked. "I did not know the gods could be so afraid of a mortal."
"We do not fear a mortal," Nuitari sneered. "We fear who the mortal represents."
"Your dear mother, I believe," the mage snorted. "Very well. I will find a way back to Krynn. The only assistance I require is the ability to communicate with my servant, Dalamar. To ask more of you, Great One, would be to overstep my boundaries – to take that which I do not deserve." Raistlin bowed low. "I am deeply grateful of that which you offer me, but I fear that even if I succeed, it is a reward I cannot accept. I must pay for my sins, as does every being. Let my brother achieve his path to the next plane. My only reward will be to know that he is safe…" he trailed off, then added, almost inaudibly, "…and my debt is repaid."
"As you wish. Access to the wizard Dalamar, granted." Nuitari handed Raistlin a small orb of magic. "Simply speak into the orb, and you will be able to speak to Dalamar."
"Thank you, Great One," Raistlin murmured, turning the magical sphere round and round in his fingers. Closing his fist around it, he looked up at the dark god of magic, a strange smile gracing his lips. It contained none of its usual guile, but was almost genuine. "My lord," he said softly, "you knew that my salvation is impossible if I do not accept the assistance of my brother. Why did you offer it?"
"One does what one must," Nuitari replied. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and placed an icy hand upon Raistlin's shoulder. "You carry my blessing, Raistlin Majere. I have never before indulged in such a frivolous practice, so consider yourself lucky." The dark god eyed his servant for a moment, then ever so slightly inclined his head. "The world owes you much. It is truly too bad that you did everything in the name of your own ambition."
"I care nothing for the world," Raistlin grumbled. "All it ever did was pain me." With one last bow, he turned and shuffled off to begin his arduous task.
Nuitari watched him go. Solinari and Lunitari drifted over to stand beside him.
"How can we trust him to do as he says?" Solinari asked quietly, his wary eyes following the mage's retreating form.
"Because he is our only hope," Nuitari replied. "We cannot run the risk of undertaking this task ourselves. Queen Takhisis must never know of our involvement."
"Why not?" Lunitari gave him a dubious look. "We have always openly opposed her in the past. Why should this time be any different?"
"Because there are those that still depend on us," the dark god said simply. "The Dark Temptress will not take lightly to our meddling. We can only stand back and watch from the sidelines, giving what aid we can to those on the battlefield."
They fell silent for a time. Raistlin vanished in a cloud of mist.
"Do you think he can do it?" Solinari asked finally.
Nuitari appeared thoughtful. Then, nodding his head, he said, "Yes, dear Cousin. I know he can do it. The only question is whether or not he will abandon the path he has always walked in the past to save that which he loves."
"His brother," his cousins said together.
Nuitari smiled to himself. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. There might be something more – a bond stronger than that of brother to brother." That will ultimately determine our fate, he added silently, and said nothing more.
Tika finally threw down her bar rag, her fiery red curls bouncing indignantly as she watched the sun set over the horizon. It had been hours, and Caramon had still not returned from fetching the book. Dalamar was starting to grow impatient. The dark elf paced restlessly, casting dark glances out the window, as if he could somehow search out Caramon Majere. Finally unable to take it any longer, he slammed his fist down on the bar, startling several guests and making Senan jump clear out of her chair.
"What in the Abyss is taking so long?" he thundered.
"I don't know," Tika answered for what must have been the eighth time in the last twenty minutes. "The dolt. He probably got sidetracked somehow. Must have seen something on the house that needed immediate attention. Either that or he's still lollygagging around that room he built for his brother. Old habits die hard." She scowled at the thought.
"I don't have time for this," Dalamar raged, his angry footsteps scaring half the customers out the door.
"Perhaps one of us should go look for him?" Senan ventured, clasping the medallion she wore around her neck.
"A wonderful idea," Tika said hastily. Drying her hands on her apron, she hurried toward the door. "Revered Daughter, if I could ask a favor?"
"Of course," said Senan, slipping to her feet. "What is it?"
"Could you watch the Inn for me while I'm gone? I'll only be a minute."
"I would be honored to be left in the care of such a beautiful place," the girl replied with a slight bow of her head.
"Thank you so much," Tika gushed. "I'll be right back." With that, she rushed out of sight.
Senan rounded on Dalamar. "You should be more considerate. All your banging and grumbling will accomplish nothing except worry the poor girl to death," she scolded Dalamar.
The dark elf snorted and continued to pace, disregarding her words as he would brush away a pestering fly.
Senan shivered suddenly. "This does not bode well," she said softly, turning her gaze to peer through the window.
"You are imagining things," Dalamar said gruffly. "The man is simply in no rush to come back to me with the news."
"I doubt he would stall this long," Senan returned. "He is a man of honor, unlike some--"
Her gibe was cut short by a ear-splitting scream that shattered the peace of the growing twilight. Dalamar reacted quickly, muttering words of magic that would take him directly to the source of the noise. Before he could disappear, Senan sprinted over and grabbed his sleeve, letting herself be transported along with him.
When they reappeared, Senan had to regain her balance, trying to convince herself not to throw up. Dalamar, however, was on his feet and striding toward Tasslehoff's room, his mouth set in a grim line. The cleric tried to follow, but she could only stumble about drunkenly. Through sheer determination, she tugged her dizzy feet in the right direction.
Dalamar reached the room and stopped short. His perfect lips parted, and he let out a strangled cry.
Tika had sunk to the floor, cradling her unconscious husband's head in her freckled arms. Caramon's eyes were wide and staring, never blinking, never moving, as though he were dead. Tika's tears dripped onto his face as she kissed him over and over, softly calling his name over and over as she held him close.
"What happened?" she asked the dark elf, not looking up. Her voice was deadly calm despite her tears. Calm as the grave. "Tell me. What is going on?"
"I…I do not…" Dalamar stammered, his dark eyes wide. In reality, he did know. He recognized the gem clutched in Caramon's hand all too well. Many times he had seen it in his Shalafi's notes, detailing the cursed necklace's purpose and horrors. But he could not very well relate this to Tika, who would probably just make matters worse. Dalamar snapped his mouth shut and forced himself to walk stiffly over to where Caramon lay. Kneeling down, he reached out seemingly to try and pry the gem from the fainted man's hand, when in reality, all he knew he could do was get a closer look.
"What's that?" Tika asked, watching the dark elf's delicate fingers attempting to loosen her husband's hold. She craned her neck to see, her red curls tumbling over Caramon's hand.
"Move away. I cannot see through your infernal mass of hair," Dalamar snarled. Irritably brushing her away, he confirmed his suspicions. Grimacing slightly, he stood up, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robes.
"Well?" Tika demanded, voice raising at last. "Can you do anything for him?"
"I am afraid I cannot," said Dalamar, his face carefully emotionless. "True, this mysterious illness was caused by magic. However, I cannot say more than that."
"Either that or you won't," Tika said bitterly, turning her face back to her husband.
Dalamar gave a coy bow. "I should not like to upset you any more, even if I did have a hunch of some sort."
"What…what…" Senan clung to the polished door frame, green eyes round and staring as she fought to regain some sort of balance.
"Revered Daughter!" Tika exclaimed. "Please, I need your help and healing powers. My husband has fallen ill and I don't know what to--"
"There is nothing the girl can do," Dalamar interrupted testily. "For the time being, there is nothing anyone can do except hoist him into bed."
Tika nodded stiffly, hooking gentle hands under the big warrior's arms and feebly trying to lift him. Caramon's head lolled to the side, but he still kept fast hold of the amulet. Seeing this, Dalamar frowned, then strode over to help heft the enormous man into Tasslehoff's bed. Between the two of them, Tika and the dark elf managed to plop him onto the quilt covered mattress.
"He…he will be alright, won't he, Dalamar?" Tika asked softly, brushing her husband's curly brown hair out of his pale face.
"I do not know," the dark elf replied, his eyes not on the man's face but on his tightly clenched hand. "We shall see."
"Are you sure my healing powers can't help him?" Senan asked tentatively, taking a few steps forward. Her soft footsteps seemed loud in the eerily quiet room. When the black robed mage did not answer, she started to repeat herself, only to have him whirl on her with wild eyes.
"What did you say?" Dalamar demanded.
Taken aback, Senan edged slightly away from him. "I…I asked if…if you're sure my clerical powers won't…"
"No, not that!" the mage snapped. "You called my name."
She blinked. "No," she said slowly, "no I didn't."
"Do not play with me. I am not deaf," he snarled. "I know what I heard; someone called my name!"
"Dalamar, no one called you." Tika regarded the elf worriedly, looking up from her place on the bed where she sat cradling her husband's limp body.
The mage returned her gaze furiously. "I do not like being mocked," he raged. "I know what I heard, and I – see, there it is again!" Whirling, he whipped his head this way and that.
"I don't hear anything," said Senan, peering around as well.
"Neither do I," Tika muttered, giving Dalamar a disapproving glance.
Suddenly Dalamar stopped thrashing and stood still, his eyes turned inward. The women looked at each other uneasily, Tika shifting under her husband's weight, Senan nervously averting her eyes to stare off into a corner.
"Yes, Shalafi," the dark elf murmured abruptly, closing his eyes. "I am here."
Senan cast a look at Tika, to find that her hostess's face had gone porcelain pale. "What's wrong?" the cleric whispered, slipping down to kneel at the bedside.
"R…Raistlin!" Tika gasped. "But it can't be! He was sealed away in the Abyss!"
"Raistlin?" Senan started. "As in…Raistlin Majere?"
"None other," the red head muttered.
Dalamar turned back to them, a strange look on his elven face. "Forgive me," he said softly. "For a moment, I thought I heard my Shalafi's voice. It appears I was mistaken." He pressed a delicate hand to his temple, almost as if he had a headache; but his eyes remained clear and bright, undulled by pain. "If you will excuse me, I must retire to a room. If you could provide me with a number…"
"Er…room seven," Tika said stiffly. "The keys are behind the bar on the rack."
"Thank you." With a swift, vacant nod, Dalamar departed through the corridors of magic.
When the elf had gone, Senan turned back to Tika. "You don't suppose he's…mad, do you?" she asked worriedly.
"Mages are always a bit mad if you ask me," Tika snorted. "And that was the biggest load of ogre vomit that I've ever heard. No one says 'yes, I am here' if they're hearing things. Maybe something along the lines of 'who's talking to me' or 'are you saying something to me', but not something that specific."
"I suppose not," Senan said dubiously. "Do you want me to go find out?"
"He will no more tell you than his Shalafi will come back to life," Tika sniffed, her hand absently stroking her husband's cheek. "Better if you go in stealth. There's a small hole in the closet of that room. If you go into room eight and stand by the east wall, you'll be able to see and hear everything that goes on."
Senan smiled knowingly. "The tales about your quick mind do not lie, Tika Waylan Majere," she chuckled. "I suppose you did not give him that room idly."
"No," Tika said gravely. "But I really wish I had. If…" Her voice broke, but she cleared her throat and went on. "If he says anything about my husband's…condition…make sure you remember it, alright?"
"Of course," the cleric promised, taking the woman's hand and giving it a squeeze.
Dalamar didn't even bother to take the key off the hook. Instead, he simply muttered a spell under his breath, and, upon hearing the lock click open, entered the room. He quickly shut the door behind him, placing a hasty wizard's lock upon the heavy wooden door.
"Shalafi?" he asked aloud as he sank into the leather chair by the bed. His heart pounded with excitement.
I am here.
"How? You were confined to the Abyss! How is this possible?"
A faint, raspy chuckle echoed through the dark elf's mind. You should have learned long ago that anything is possible if you have the will to make it so. As it were, I was…released, under interesting circumstances.
"Such as…?"
As you have noticed, my dear brother has fallen victim to one quite familiar to us both. And as such, he is no longer able to hold me to a peaceful death.
"I…I see," Dalamar stammered. "But…I was under the impression that you were to be tortured for all eternity as the Dark Queen's--"
I was vindicated, Raistlin cut his apprentice off hotly. Or pardoned, if you will. My brother's goodness of heart and my sacrifice were enough to ward the Dark Queen away…for a time. Now that my dear brother is no longer conscious, I must flee the Dark Queen and attempt to redeem him from the clutches into which he has fallen.
"Fistandantilus," Dalamar murmured.
Precisely.
"But how? The archmage only targets those of magical power--"
Do not ask such fool questions! Have you any doubt whose pendant that is? If so, you are as bumbling as my brother!
Dalamar fell into brooding silence.
I have spoken with the god Nuitari, Raistlin went on, his disembodied voice once more resuming a semblance of calm. The weight of the world rests heavily on our shoulders. I want you to listen to everything I am going to tell you, and I want you to follow my instructions without question.
"But what of the gods of good?" the dark elf ventured. "Why do they skulk about, not offering any help to those who need them?"
The gods of magic strive to keep this matter hidden. As it were, Fistandantilus is the result of a magical mishap sparked by the Dark Queen. He possesses the one artifact that is beyond our beloved gods' control. The mistake was their own, and they are ready to take full responsibility for it.
"If that is in fact the case, why do they themselves sit back and let us do their dirty work?"
They do not wish to draw the attention of their parents and the other gods. In this time of delicate, fragile faith, the gods cannot afford a war among their own. There are other matters that have arisen, and the gods of magic desire to fulfill this mission on their own. Now, if you are through asking questions, I would like to continue.
"Yes, Shalafi," Dalamar murmured. "Speak. I am yours to command." He felt a warm surge of magic flow through his veins, and he reveled in its grip. The Shalafi was pleased.
The information I have gathered is as follows. Though the wretch has taken what he needs from my magical reserves, Fistandantilus still requires a substantial amount of time to fully inhabit a body that is not gifted with the Art. He will not have to wait long – a week, at the very most. In that time, I must reenter the world in a physical body.
"Impossible!" gasped the dark elf. Slipping unconsciously to his feet, he began to pace the length of the candlelit room. "I am no necromancer, nor have I ever had the misfortune of encountering one. And even if I were a master of the dead, I would only be able to raise your body from the sleep of death, not your soul."
Did I not just tell you not to question! A magical hand slapped Dalamar across the face, making him reel. Sinking back into the soft leather chair, the elf massaged his cheek.
"Forgive me, Shalafi," he mumbled, bowing his head in acquiesce. "Please, go on. I will not interrupt."
About time, Raistlin said dryly. You picked up that book Caramon fetched for you, did you not?
Dalamar snorted. "Of course I picked it up. Of how much use it can be, however, is a different matter." Reaching into the folds of his robes, the dark mage withdrew the tattered volume labeled The Art of Divination. Turning it over in his hands, he tossed it onto the bed with disgust. "It is no more than a gypsy's book of tricks."
Perhaps it is so to those who thinks things are always what they seem. Raistlin's voice, whispering and cracked even from the depths of the Abyss, oozed contempt at his servant's ineptitude. Open it.
Now eyeing the worn leather book with a bit more caution, the dark elf hesitated.
Do it!
Trembling fingers caught up the ancient volume. Dalamar was about to open it, when he heard his Shalafi speaking the spidery language of magic in the depths of his mind. The book glowed, the gold inlaid title shimmering brightly in the light of the spell. Soon, the book's cover had changed completely. Where it had once read The Art of Divination, it now read Beyond the Grave: A Further Step into Necromancy. Once more Dalamar dropped the book onto the floor, this time recoiling in horror rather than disgust.
Peace, my apprentice. I assure you that magic I have performed in the past delved far deeper into the Dark Arts than this simple spellbook. Now open it, as I instructed.
"What page?" Dalamar inquired, still eyeing the book warily.
If you are afraid, perhaps I should turn instead to that cleric hiding in the next room.
"What!" the dark elf flicked his eyes across the room. "Where?"
Through the hole in the closet, dolt! No, don't look. She should consider herself safe…for the time being. Suddenly the book flew out of Dalamar's hands and thunked onto the hardwood floor, its pages fluttering in the wind of its fall. The leaves of paper began to flow across one another in an eerie dance, settling slowly on page 659. Bending over, Dalamar read the title of the spell that had surfaced.
" 'Return of the Restless'," he read aloud, his dry lips barely able to form the words. "Shalafi, you cannot be serious…"
I am quite serious, my dear Dalamar. If I must return to this wretched world through the darkest of necromancy to save my brother and repay my debt…so be it. I have many wrongs for which to account.
"Yes, Shalafi. But I do not know if even I can accomplish this," the dark elf said uneasily, his void-like eyes sweeping rapidly over the intricate incantation and lengthy components.
I have no doubt that you cannot. Therefore, I must help you.
"How?"
Lift your face to the heavens.
Dalamar complied. Immediately a surge of magic entered his veins, coursing through him like a lover's ecstasy, sending every nerve in his body tingling with excitement. He gasped, watching in wonder as the magic danced about his fingertips.
Now, for a time, you possess a great portion of the magic I held in life. Even so, I fear this spell might drain your reserves to the point of exhaustion. You must be prepared to fight for the magic until the very end.
The dark elf clenched his fists, feeling the power course through his hands. An ecstatic smile crept across his lips. "I am prepared, Shalafi. I will not fail you."
I hope not, my dear apprentice. Time grows short, and there is so very much to do. Fetch the cleric. She will be needed for this particular spell.
"What?" Dalamar frowned, the satisfied grin fading from his face. "Why do we need a cleric of Paladine? It does not say here that we need--"
That book was written before the Cataclysm, when the arcane arts flowed freely from the three gods of magic. It was written before the Wizards of the Conclave placed the restrictions upon the portal between this realm and the next.
"But that is the Portal, not a necromancy spell!"
If you keep referring to this incantation as a spell of necromancy, then you are a bigger fool than I could ever have imagined. The laws of the Portal apply to every point of entry, else the Dark Queen break through somewhere a meeting between a dark wizard and a cleric of the light would be more common. It was not likely that another hole in space and time would be created aside from the Portals, but our need is most dire.
"My head reels," the mage muttered, pressing his middle finger to his temple.
No time for that, my apprentice. Request the help of the cleric and bring her back to the Tower. The spell components you need will be there. I will be waiting, Dalamar. Do not fail me.
Dalamar bowed his head. "I will not."
Then the essence left, leaving the dark elf to himself in the confines of the small room. Sighing, he got to his feet and strode purposefully toward the closet. As he approached, he could just make out the small hole about the size of a kender's fist that was punched through the middle of the wall. He smirked, then rapped his knuckles against the wood.
"I would like to talk to you, Revered Daughter. You needn't hide anymore." His grin grew wider in satisfaction as he heard the girl bump her head against the door of the closet in surprise. Hurried footsteps sounded, and a shy knock came at his door.
"Come in," he ordered impatiently, adding a sarcastic, "I am already expecting you."
Having been released from the wizard's lock, the knob turned easily under the girl's shaking fingers. She walked into the room, her head bowed in shame, her cheeks flushed a rosy red.
"Forgive me," she mumbled, not meeting his eyes. "I only wanted to know what was going on."
"Spare me," he sneered. "The only reason I do not transform you into a newt for spying on me is because I require your assistance."
Her eyes flicked nervously over his face. "My…my assistance?"
Dalamar rolled his eyes to heaven in exasperation. He did not have much patience for humans, especially those who walked so blindly in the light. "That is what I said, is it not?" he retorted icily, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robes. "I take it you have heard most of the predicament. Well, my part, at least. I find it highly doubtful you heard the voice of my Shalafi."
"Y…yes," she stuttered, turning a deeper shade of pink. "Um, actually…"
"What?" he demanded, frustrated with the girl's halting manner.
"Iheardhisvoicetoo," she rushed, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair.
The dark elf stared. Then he laughed – a harsh, grating laugh that held no mirth and resounded eerily off the living walls of the vallenwood.
"Impossible," he chortled, eyeing her with disgusted amusement, his lips curling into a sneer. "The Shalafi spoke only to me through telepathy."
Senan drew herself up a little straighter, forcing herself to meet his scornful gaze. "I heard him," she said evenly, willing herself not to blink. "I heard his plans. I heard what he wanted you to do. And I will help you." Her fingers traveled to the platinum medallion that had been a gift from her mentor. "I can feel Paladine's gentle hand guiding me, his loving voice telling me that this is right," she added softly.
Dalamar frowned. Something about the last bit she had said sounded wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he was sure it was there. After chasing the thought around in his head for a moment, he gave up and let it slide.
"Very well. I must request that you accompany me to the Tower of High Sorcery. There we will find the spell components necessary to complete the spell." The mage reached out to take her arm, preparing in his mind the words of magic that would transport them back to Palanthas.
"Must we leave immediately?" Senan asked, casting a worried glance toward the Majeres' house. Her arm slipped just out of his reach as she nervously tugged at her robes.
"I am afraid so. We do not have the time for meaningless goodbyes." He impatiently made another grab for her arm, but she pulled it out of his way. "Hold still!"
"I want to say goodbye to Tika," she said stubbornly, planting her feet and folding her arms. "I want to tell her that help is on the way."
"Help will only come if we can complete the spell in time!" Dalamar nearly screeched. "Come on!" Gripping her painfully around the wrist, the dark elf spoke the spidery words and sent them tumbling through time and space. Senan shrieked and grasped at him wildly, burying her face in his shoulder to avoid the swirling images that leapt up around them.
For a moment, the mage almost faltered. Her soft, lithe body pressed tightly against him, and the fragrance of her hair tingled his senses like a bright summer day, making him dizzier than any magic spell. He shook his head violently and concentrated once more on the magic, trying to forget that his blood had stirred into a simmer beneath his porcelain flesh.
The corridors of the wizards deposited the pair gently in Dalamar's laboratory. Feeling solid stone beneath her feet at last, Senan breathed a deep sigh of relief, vaguely aware that it had smelled faintly of ash.
"We are here," Dalamar stated gruffly. "You can let go."
"Oh!" Senan pulled her hands away, nearly ripping the fabric from the dark elf's shoulder's in the process. She stared her fingertips as if they had acted on their own, then clasped them tightly behind her. "Sorry," she mumbled.
"No harm done," he muttered. Turning on his heel, he strode to the table in the middle of the room. Fashioned from a huge slab of rose quartz, the table was nearly seven feet long and four feet wide, its sides inlaid with golden runes. It had been a gift to Dalamar from one of his apprentices, who had long since moved out. It was at this table that he seated himself, flipping open the ancient text to the right page. Running his fingertip down the lines of magical runes, his feathery eyebrows arched slightly, then a light frown creased his brow.
"This is certainly the most unusual set of ingredients I have ever seen," he murmured, not looking up. He was still acutely aware of the burning in his chest, still able to feel her hips pressed so very close… Pursing his lips, he forced her out of his mind. "Bring me that stand of chemicals behind you," he commanded, waving his hand in their general direction. "And grab that large bag of components from that shelf, the ones beside the skull." Opening a drawer carved into the quartz, he pulled out a small, glass hourglass and put it on the desk, studying it with a scrutinizing eye.
"This lab is amazing," Senan murmured, staring around in awe. She gathered up the components and carried them to Dalamar, setting them neatly on the table in front of him. This done, she crossed the bare stone floor to examine the draconian skeleton that had been arranged and pegged to the wall. Her eyes scanned the bones not in horror, but in fascination. "Truly amazing," she repeated softly, her finger tracing the thick femur of the dead draconian.
The dark mage briefly looked up from his work, a faint smile upon his lips. "There are few that would call it amazing, and I am surprised to find you as one of them."
"I always pictured evil as being a lot more grotesque," Senan continued, either not hearing his comment or choosing to ignore it. "This seems almost…scientific." Turning away from the skeleton, she backed up to admire the rows upon rows of spellbooks that lined the walls.
"Even the powers of darkness grow curious," Dalamar chuckled, going back to laying out various components in a row in front of him. "If anyone ever took the time to look back into history, they would find that the Black Robes have made far more advances in the arcane arts than any other Order. No one ever sees the good things, though. The good things aren't interesting enough." He dusted bits of lint from a chunk of raw silver he had taken from the pouch.
"I suppose not." Idly fingering her medallion, she headed back over to stand beside the dark mage, who pointedly kept his gaze fixed on his work. She regarded the components with interest, eyes flicking over the neat rows of herbs, precious metals, and powders. "So…what do I need to do to help you cast this spell?"
"I am not entirely sure," said the dark elf, his finger skimming once more down the list of supplies. "But I am sure my Shalafi will tell me when I have readied the components."
"Why so late? I want to be ready."
"The Shalafi has strange ways, Revered Daughter." Satisfied that he had every component, he began to measure them with tiny golden spoons and a set of silver scales. "We cannot question. We can only trust."
Watching him measure out a quantity of a foul-smelling root, Senan nodded reluctantly, like a child who has been told she must wait to open her Yule gifts. "I suppose. Is…there anything I can help you with?"
"No."
"Oh. Alright…" She perched herself on a stool that stood by the desk, snaking her feet around the legs to keep herself from swinging them in her impatience. A few minutes rolled by, the only sound the incessant drip of the waterclock and the occasional clink of golden spoons. Senan occupied herself with looking around the room, taking in as much of the fascinating sight as possible.
Another half hour passed in silence. Every once in a while, Senan would clear her throat and look pointedly at the mage; but he was too wrapped up in his work to notice. She saw that his lips formed the names of the components as he measured them into precise amounts, the strange arcane words sounding breathy through his open mouth. He is used to working alone, she realized, giving him a pitying look. No more silence. I can't take it.
"So…" she ventured. "What is your Shalafi like? I know the stories, but I would like to hear the opinion of one who knew him personally."
Dalamar paused, halting the flow of a vial into a beaker for a moment. Then he put it down and looked up at her, lips pursed. "The Shalafi was exactly as he is portrayed by the legends," he said finally. "Sly, uncaring, hateful, and ambitious to the point of his own destruction." Picking up the vial, he poured the rest of the prescribed amount into the beaker and plugged the mouth with a rubber stopper.
"I don't want to hear what he was like in the legends. I told you I knew that. Answer me truly; don't evade the question. I know you think there is something more than what the world perceives."
"I cannot deny your words," the mage said softly. Rubbing a wetted finger in a fine white powder, he began to trace arcane symbols onto the cool, quartz surface. "I do believe there was more to the Shalafi than the legends say. Indeed, as I said before, Raistlin Majere was a man driven by desire for power. But fueling that desire…festering in wounds so deep they never showed…was pain. Jealousy. Envy. Years of scrutiny. All hidden beneath a mask of bitterness that became his true face all to quickly." He glanced up to find the look of pity he had seen on the face of two others. His delicate features twisted into a grimace.
"Wipe that look of pity off your face. It is unwanted," he snarled, echoing the words he heard his master speak in his mind.
"I will wear whatever look I want," Senan returned, eyes flaring. Then her expression softened. "Do you suppose Raistlin is coming back for the sake of Lady Crysania?" she murmured quietly. "Oh, I do hope so…"
Dalamar frowned into the vial of nightshade. Shalafi, he called mentally, did you not clearly state your purpose for returning to the world in our previous conversation?
I did.
Then what is she talking about? Dalamar demanded, studying the girl.
Perhaps she was not listening as intently as she had imagined.
Doubtful, the dark elf replied. She seemed to have memorized your every word.
Indeed, Raistlin remarked coldly. In any case, it does not matter. Let us proceed with the spell.
Dalamar nodded. "Senan," he interrupted her wishful thoughts. "I…we, I should say…are ready to begin."
The girl nearly catapulted herself off her stool in excitement. "Finally!" she exclaimed, moving to stand in front of the desk.
Have her stand with her hands placed palms-up on the nightshade.
Dalamar nodded, looking up in case Senan needed to be shown which herb was which. When she did not move, he cleared his throat impatiently, making her jump.
"What?" she asked, shifting under his gaze.
"What are you waiting for?" the mage demanded.
"Instructions!"
"They were already given, foolish girl!"
"By whom?"
Dalamar's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't tell me you didn't hear the instructions, my good little listener," he said menacingly, the candlelight glinting and dancing through his dark irises. "You heard the Shalafi's voice before."
"He wasn't speaking!"
The dark elf threw up his hands in exasperation. "Fine! Just place your hands face-up on the nightshade and await my directions."
Frowning, Senan did as she was told, her mouth set in a grim, indignant line.
What do I do now, Shalafi? Dalamar asked silently, closing his eyes.
Light the candle of beeswax and lilac. Use it to melt away the top of the hourglass.
The mage nodded, uttering a quick word of magic to cast a hot flame upon the wick of the candle. The sweet scent of lilac permeated the stifling room. Lifting the hourglass with the tips of two slender fingers, Dalamar held it over the magical blue flame, watching as the brass base melted away and dripped into the flame, hissing and crackling. Soon the entire base was gone, leaving only the thin glass of the timepiece, its ends curling slightly from the heat. He pulled it away from the heat, blowing gently upon the heated glass to help it cool.
Good. Now set it upside down in the center of the arcane symbol for Nuitari.
Dalamar obeyed, overturning the base-less hourglass inside the symbol. The sands of the timepiece, made to count out a short fifteen minutes, began to flow. Small white grains sprinkled onto the table and turned black.
Until that point, the cleric had been watching intently, her set mouth parting just a bit to allow a small gasp of wonder when the candle seemingly lit itself. Now, she let out a startled cry as black smoke rose from the fallen sand like a wraith. Her round eyes saw the smoke twist and writhe, almost as if it were alive. The nightshade beneath the backs of her hands began to burn and glow. With another yelp, she started to draw her hands away.
"No!" Dalamar caught her wrists, forcing her to remain as she was. "The spell is beginning," he hissed.
Senan wildly looked up at him, the fear in her emerald eyes constricting his heart. He almost hesitated; almost let her pull away.
Almost.
"Stay put," he commanded, turning back to the table. She did not move – nor did she think she could have, even had she wanted to do so. Letting her eyes train themselves once again upon the table, she held her breath to keep from crying out as the nightshade burned ever hotter.
Now what? Dalamar inquired, purposefully keeping his eyes set upon his work. He had almost weakened once. He would not let it happen again.
Raistlin did not answer right away. For a fleeting moment, the dark elf thought with a wild panic that the connection had somehow been severed – that he was on his own. Frantically he called again.
Patience, came the reply at last. Dalamar could not suppress an immense sigh of relief. Raistlin's knife-edged chuckle hissed through his apprentice's mind. You disappoint me, Dalamar the Dark. I would have thought you had a bit more faith in me.
"I do, Shalafi," the dark elf murmured aloud, his eyes still closed in concentration. As such, he did not see Senan's startled glance. "Forgive me." His delicate hand traveled absently to his chest, where five oozing, bleeding holes still remained.
All is well. More sand fell to the table, and the black smoke began to filter out from beneath the overturned hourglass. The other spell components began to glow with the same eerie light as the nightshade.
Senan gulped and squeezed her eyes shut.
It is time. Apprentice, I want you to speak the words with me.
"How?"
Read them.
Fiery words appeared, suspended in the air before the dark elf's face. The feathery runes arced across his line of sight, obliterating everything around them to draw on his full attention. Swallowing hard and praying to every god that he would not make some sort of mistake, Dalamar began to read.
An unfinished duty
Awakens the dead
An endless expanse
Still winds on ahead.
A whisper of life
Calls them down from above;
From the throes of ambition
To the sweetness of love.
They owe a great debt
To the world they once knew
One that must be repaid;
Their repentance is due.
But they must heed the warning-
For life flickers and dies
They must never forget
Lest their truth become lies.
No thing is eternal
No embrace is forever
No man is immortal
No god is that clever.
So finish the duty
You so desperately crave
Fulfill now your wishes
Then return to the grave.
As he spoke, Dalamar could hear his master speaking with him. Their voices entwined – became one as the magic welded and sealed them together. Senan's eyes were lifted to heaven, and it seemed as if she were mouthing the words as well, though there was no way she could have known them. Dalamar felt the ecstasy of his craft engulf him, and he reveled in its burning touch. The quartz table appeared to catch fire as the last grain of sand fell from the hourglass. The inferno engulfed the two standing beside it, racing along the runes the dark elf had traced upon it with the white powder. Soon the entire room was awash with the magical firelight.
"It…is…finished!" Dalamar shouted above the blaze. Acting sheerly on magical instinct, the dark mage brought his hand crashing down upon the hourglass that stood in the middle of the table. The other brass base had melted away, and the fragile glass shattered under his blow. Blood dripped from his fingers and palm, running out to encase the shimmering shards, congealing around it as if to capture the very essence of the timepiece within its crimson grasp.
The dark elf reeled as if he had been struck. His heartbeat seemed to multiply as it pounded in his head. Clutching his temples with bloodies hands, Dalamar sank to his knees, sweet darkness coming to take him away to rest. As he closed his eyes, he could barely see the Staff of Magius materialize within the fire, held tight by a porcelain white hand that somehow seemed tinged with gold.