Carceri
Through the crowd I was crying out
In your place were a thousand other faces
No Light No Light, Florence + the Machine
It was only a short distance to the Sentinel Peaks. The landscape looked more ragged than when he had last been here. The mountains were rawer, the ancient stone broken off and huge landslides having buried entire forests during the Cataclysm. It was alien, and familiar. Raistlin looked up at the cave he had left the books and closed his eyes. For a moment, he let his mind slide away back to happier, simpler times – times, hopefully, soon to come.
"Raistlin?"
He opened his eyes. For a moment, he thought he would see red robes, golden skin. He thought he might not be alone.
Tasslehoff was looking back at him from the mouth of the cave. Raistlin took a deep breath and climbed up. The cave, the books. His way home at long last.
The cave had more cracks in it than before, but less than when he had first been here. Maybe he should stay away from the camp, Raistlin considered. He could summon up Tasslehoff when he needed him, and he would be safe here. Safe to create his circle far away from Crysania and his increasingly erratic brother.
It would be a more simplified design, Raistlin decided, heading down the tunnel. He would aim for time rather than space. He would move himself to this cave in his own time, and teleport to Wayreth from there. The staves could come from a tree outside, and any stones from the cave would ground it perfectly. The gemstones in his little treasure trove would turn up the required amount of diamonds and sapphires, and he was confident he could convince Tasslehoff to part with a small portion of blood-
"Um, Raistlin?" Tasslehoff's voice came from ahead, uncertainly. "You should see this."
Something kicked in Raistlin's stomach, something heavy, and cold, and sick. He lit his staff and hurried down the corridor.
He saw what Tasslehoff meant the moment he turned the corner. The wards closest to them were still intact, but the three sets closest to the door had burnt out, black, oily runes splayed across the walls.
No. Raistlin could barely breathe. No no no no. His hands shook as he dismantled the nearest wards, came within a hand-breadth of blowing them all up. He threw himself through the gap in the magic. No. No. No one could have come here. They would have set off the runes; this was some kind of fluke – a rogue magic surge from the Cataclysm.
The great iron doors were even more decrepit, the hinges were gone now. Raistlin didn't even have to slow his pace, charging through into the small room.
In the corner, the chest had burst, spewing spellbooks everywhere. The leather had rotted to pulp, the pages sodden and bloated.
"No!" His voice came high and wild.
Raistlin threw himself down beside the chest. The bag holding Istar's riches had ruptured and a mass of gemstones, statues and jewellery spilled out and around the chest. Raistlin sifted through it desperately. The gems might have protected the books – he might still able about to find the spells – it might have survived-
There! Raistlin sent the rubies scattering across the floor. This was the book, he knew it was. He had poured over it enough times to recognise it. It was whole, and untouched, lying on the ground apparently just as it was when Raistlin had last seen it.
But then he touched it, and the lead was back in his stomach. Heavy, cold, poisoned. The leather was wet, swollen. Raistlin picked it up desperately; maybe the pages had survived, just those few pages, please-
The book opened, the pages spilled out in a flood of smeared ink and curling, decaying parchment. The binding had gone completely, the words blurred and meaningless. Raistlin tore through them, the pages, he just needed those few pages-
They flew across the floor, stuck damply to the stones, the worthless treasures. They clung to Raistlin's hands, sucking and cloying until he had to peel them off. The ink smudged across his skin, left black trails on his fingers.
No. Raistlin looks around. No. There had to be something. Anything. He couldn't be trapped here. He couldn't.
Tasslehoff was standing in the doorway, horrified. He barely understood what was happening, but it was all too clear what this meant.
He would die here. It drummed into Raistlin's head like a desert sun. He would die here. He would march though the rest of Fistandantilus' life like a broken puppet, like gnomish clockwork. Then Zhaman would blow up and he would die. He would never go home. He would never see Dalamar again. He would never see the sun of his time again. He would never be himself again. He would die Fistandantilus, hated and unmourned.
It was too much. Too horrible. His mind simply couldn't fit around it. How had this happened? Who had been here? He ran his hands through the diamonds – useless rocks on the floor. Who had come, destroyed his chest, and yet left treasure enough to buy twenty kingdoms?
Then Raistlin saw the books. A handful of books, clinging to the inside of the chest like survivors from a shipwreck. The lingering magic of the wards had protected them; they were dry when Raistlin touched them. Blindly, he opened the first one.
'A spell to open the dread portal' glared up at him.
The book fell from his numb hands. So that was it. Gods. Gods. Gods. It was them, wasn't it? They couldn't let him escape so easily. No, he had to finish his little role in their mummery. Lie down on their altar of death in Fistandantilus' stead and be slaughtered in the name of fate-
Or would he be? Raistlin's stomach revolted and he felt bile rise up. Would that even be enough to appease them? Fistandantilus hadn't actually died then, of course. He had fled to some hellish sub-plane and waited, devouring young mages taking their Tests, before finding Raistlin. Would they force him into that too? By the Abyss, would that be his fate? To destroy himself and torture Dalamar, and be dragged back into the past to die once and for all, and for his other self to start that same, hideous path all over again?
No. No, by all the damned, immeasurably cruel gods, not that. He would die first. Raistlin drew his dagger from his sleeve, driven by some wild, half-formed compulsion to slit his throat right here and be done with this whole, monstrous, hellish charade-
Then his eyes fell on the book, still open on the floor. A spell to open the dread portal.
Raistlin paused, the knife at his neck. Tasslehoff was saying something, high and terrified, but he didn't hear him. The book. The spell.
A spell to open the dread portal.
And oh, why not? If that was what they all wanted, why the blazes not? Hot fire bit into the back of his throat. He had Fistandantilus' knowledge and power, why couldn't he succeed where the mad lich failed? He could go to the Abyss and he could make them pay. He could start with the Dark Queen and work his way up.
He would make the gods bleed.
He would show them how it felt, to be trapped and helpless and terrified. He would hunt them down, one by one. He would tear them to shreds, burn them to ash, break their bodies across the world, and impale their heads on mountainsides. Their blood would turn the seas red, and when they were all dead he would laugh. He would laugh and laugh and tell the world it was free, free from the yoke of these sickening monsters, who thought mortal lives were nothing but pawns in their eternal, unending chess game. Look, these were the ones you searched for, you prayed to. This is what they truly are. And you are rid of them, now and forever.
And maybe then he could reach through time and reform the world. He could shut the gods out forever, melt down the Disks of Mishakal, cut the world off from their malign plans, and maybe then he could go home.
The dagger hit the ground with a low, dull ring of metal. Raistlin lifted his head. His face was damp, his nose stuffy. He swallowed and tasted salt and despair.
"Are you okay?" Tasslehoff picked his way over gingerly.
Raistlin shook his head. No. And he would never be 'okay' again. The fire burned black and hollow inside him, left him with nothing but ash in his mouth.
"Can you-" Tas started.
"Look around you," Raistlin hissed, savagely. "Can I do anything with this? We can never go home. The gods have trapped us here to our doom."
Tasslehoff's mouth opened. "Are you sure? I mean, I know Paladine, we're close personal friends, he couldn't have-"
"Well, he did!" Raistlin stood up, hugging the handful of surviving books. "Your 'close personal friend' has imprisoned us in this time and intends for us to die here."
"But-"
"Be silent," Raistlin spat. "We must go back, before my idiot brother notices we are missing. We will get nothing more here."
Tasslehoff hesitated for a moment, looked around the ruins of the cave. Raistlin turned his back and walked away, waving a hand to dispel the last few remaining wards. Why bother? He would never return, in this time or any other.
And then, of course, because the gods were nothing but meticulously cruel, Caramon and Crysania were waiting for them when they got back. Raistlin said nothing, strode past them, and ducked into his tent. He didn't want to see them. He didn't want to see anyone. He lay down on his bed and buried his face in his hands.
"You left the camp. You burned my letters and you left the camp." Caramon's voice came from just beside the bed. Raistlin lowered his hands to tell his brother to go to the Abyss-
He had Crysania with him, and a dozen armed guards. The lapsed knights, who had lost none of their hatred of magic users, despite their reduced rank. Raistlin started to sit up-
And Caramon's hand slammed into his chest, crushing him back into his cot. He pressed down and Raistlin gasped – he couldn't breathe. The cot creaked under the pressure of the big man's weight.
"You're trying to find a way out." Caramon continued, strangely calm. "Crysania explained it to me. You want to go back to my time, pretend to be my brother, and destroy everything he's ever worked for. You'd bring back the Dark Queen, open the gate, and hand the world to her on a silver platter."
Raistlin tried to say something, but only choked, struggling to drag in a breath. Behind Caramon, Crysania nodded, her face pale and set with hatred. "You were sent by Her," she put in. "Sent by Her to kill Raistlin before he could challenge Her. She could see he was a threat. She did not want him to live long enough to challenge her."
They were all insane. Black dots blotted in front of Raistlin's eyes. There was no other explanation. They'd all gone mad…
"I don't know where you went, and I don't care." Caramon let go of him and Raistlin curled up on the bed, gasping for breath. When he looked up through streaming eyes, Caramon had his sword out, inches from his stomach. "But you're never leaving the camp again. I've given my men the order, if they see you trying to leave, or casting a spell without me knowing about it, you get a sword in the gut."
The knights nodded, hands on their swords. Raistlin blinked, Caramon's face swimming incoherently. What happened? He wondered, somewhere in the back of his own mind. Once upon a time, he'd woken from a nightmare to see Caramon's hands making bunny shadow puppets on the wall. Now, he was trapped in the nightmare, Caramon's hands at his throat. What had happened between then and now?
Looking into his brother's face, seeing that black loathing in his eyes, he wondered if it had always been there. The first tendrils of it had started when he'd started growing up, learning the magic, meeting Dalamar. Every step he'd taken away from his brother's suffocating embrace, it had grown, until Fistandantilus had come along and twisted it into a new form. The perfect excuse to finally punish his rebellious little twin.
"We're going to Thorbardin," Caramon continued. "You're going to finish what Raistlin started. You'll have a guard in your tent from now on, and you won't leave the camp without one of us with you. You'll stay away from Tasslehoff, and I'll talk to him about the spells you've put on him, getting him to steal my letters."
Raistlin swallowed, didn't say anything. There was nothing he could say.
"We might still need you, Fistandantilus." Caramon spat the name. "But on our terms. From now on, you're our prisoner."
The crossbow lay on the table. Ivory chased in silver, the stock and bow carved with runes of power. It had taken months of work to wind the enchantment he needed around it. Core it out and replace the heart of the weapon with burning, bright magic. It was nearly finished now, only needed the last few spells to tie the enchantments together and ready it for its final purpose.
Dalamar took a deep, steadying breath, and closed his eyes, starting to cast. The weapon had already been blessed by all the wards and curses against undead he could find, but he had a little more to gift it with. The new runes he had cut in the butt gleamed fresh from his knife, glittered from the little shards of sunstone he'd dusted into them.
"Matinir daya benci." He took a breath. "Mati berlua Keawetannit. Daya mati. Hitim mati."
The power flowed out of him in an explosive burst; all the pain, all the suffocating, endless hate of the last few years fuelled it and was carried with it into the crossbow. The runes glowed as though on fire, the ivory crisping and blackening around them. Dalamar waited, holding his breath to see if it worked – or if the spell would prove too much for the weapon and it would crack like an eggshell.
Finally, the glow dimmed a little, lessening but not quite going out. Dalamar let out his breath. It had worked. He picked up the weapon and tested it, weighted it in his hands. He had never used one before and he didn't dare try now. It seemed rather simple anyway; you just pointed it at the target and pulled the trigger.
He looked up at the Portal. It was quiescent for now, still and silent. But it wouldn't be for much longer. The lich would find what it needed, and make its way through. It would fight its way through the Abyss and try and cross back over the threshold, the Dark Queen on its heels.
And if Dalamar were to meet it here, only a few paces from the Portal, it would be a point-blank shot to lodge a bolt or ten into its chest. Blessed silver bolts, beloved of the Gods of light and life and healing, and spurred on by all the hate Dalamar held within him. Magic enough to burn the lich to ash on the spot.
With luck, Dalamar might even survive. With luck, he might even stop the lich before the Dark Queen came through and Dalamar was left facing an enraged Goddess.
But luck had so entirely deserted him that Dalamar would consider himself satisfied with just killing the hideous thing, and leaving others to deal with Takhisis. Let them find a new Huma to deal with Her, he would be dead, and lost to all forever.
Dalamar put the crossbow back down on the table, pushed it aside. He crossed his arms on the bare wood, and lowered his head. He tucked himself away like a broken toy, closed his eyes, and went away, for a while. It wasn't even sleep, not anymore.
The low, deep ringing of the warning bell woke him, some uncertain time later. Dalamar jerked up and nearly fell off the chair, grabbing the crossbow. It was time! The Portal was opening – he would have to-
Rannoch was watching him, bewildered; he shied away as the crossbow wavered in his direction. Dalamar rubbed his face. No, not the Portal. The door. Someone was trying to get in. Who was that likely to be? He tried to pummel his shattered mind into some kind of order. Fistandantilus wouldn't be coming in from the front door, if it had come back. Lady Crysania was gone. That left-
"Oh, Abyss." His voice sounded raw and rusty. "Let her in before something eats her."
Rannoch nodded uncertainly, and flitted away. Dalamar put the bow away – no reason for anyone to know about that, and tried to pull his robes straight. They were worn, and dirty from the last few days, still tatty around the chest where he'd torn them open for the Conclave to goggle at.
Who cared? He pulled a cloak over his robes to hide the worst of it, ran fingers through his knotted hair to try and order it, sighed, and blinked out from the kitchen to the atrium.
"Kitiara," Dalamar said dully. "Your plan failed."
"Is that the reason for my welcome?" she spat, pulling off her helm. "I make my way through those god-cursed trees of yours out there, then I'm attacked at his front door!"
"The Tower's guardians do as they please now the Shalafi is gone." Dalamar crossed his arms. "I was not aware you were paying a visit."
Kitiara paused. "He's gone then? He actually did it? Without the cleric?"
"Did you expect anything else?" Dalamar stood aside to let her in, led her down to the kitchen. "And as to the cleric, she is not dead. Your pet undead failed even at that task."
Kitiara spun around on her heel. "You told me the woman was dead!"
"She was." Lord Soth's voice came as hollow as the armour he was clad in. "No human could survive my assault." Its glowing, amber eyes turned to rest on Dalamar. Dalamar met them easily. If it thought to scare him, after all these years facing Fistandantilus, it was grossly mistaken. "And your master could not have saved her."
"Don't give yourself airs," Dalamar sneered, sat at the kitchen table and let Kitiara find her seat. The kitchen chilled rapidly from Soth's presence. "She was a cleric, and her God saved her. Or have you lived so long as to have forgotten the blessings of deities on their chosen ones, Soth?" He turned back to Kitiara. "Your idiot brother Caramon took her to the Conclave, where they sent them both back to the only cleric powerful enough to save her – the Kingpriest of Istar."
"Imbeciles!" For once, Kitiara echoed his sentiments exactly. "They sent her back to him! That's just what Raistlin wanted!"
Hearing that name, from her, was like a punch to the gut. "Do not speak his name," Dalamar gritted out. Don't sully what little I have left of him.
Kitiara gave him a long, calculating look. "Oh, are you feeling some sentiment there, my dear Dalamar?" She mocked Raistlin's voice, low and sweet, and if just saying his name was a blow, then that was a dagger. "I thought you were over my mad fool of a brother."
Dalamar schooled his features calm. "He is dead," he said flatly, and somehow, just saying those words lifted a weight off him. Maybe he was finally coming to terms with it. Maybe he was just losing the ability to feel anything at all. "He died a long time ago."
"I am sure he did." She was still smiling, but there was something cool and thoughtful in her eyes that Dalamar did not like at all. "If that was the case, then why didn't you stop him? A knife in the back, quick, simple-"
"Do you think I haven't tried?" Dalamar's lip curled. "Do you think he hadn't prepared against it? You have no idea what he's capable of. I took every chance that presented itself, and look where it got us."
"Then clearly your best wasn't good enough." She crossed her arms. "And what he's capable of! That skinny, hacking wretch – are you telling me you're frightened of him?"
"Not only am I frightened of him," Dalamar said calmly, "but you are an utter fool if you are not." He opened his robes. "I made my attempt on his life and this was my reward."
Kitiara blinked, she tried to hide it, but there was a flicker of fear on her face. She didn't understand what she was looking at – but that very mystery alarmed her. "What weapon made those? I don't recogn-"
"His hand," Dalamar said with a growl. "His five fingers. A reward for my audacity and a warning to Par-Salian, who first sent me here to spy."
She was trying to stay calm, but he could see the fear in her eyes. A consummate warrior, Kitiara had no grasp of magic but could see this was not something she could arm herself against, something no steel or armour could protect her from. She tried a mocking smile. "Well, you mages have strange love-play."
It fell flat. Dalamar looked at her, this pathetic creature he was forced to ally with. He watched her face as he laid out Fistandantilus' plans, watched as she flicked thought alarm, fear, terror – and finally took refuge in desperate scorn.
"Mad." Her voice came out little more than a whisper. "He is mad. He has seen Her in this plane when She was but a shadow, when She was blocked from entering completely. He cannot believe what She would be like-"
"He can." Dalamar considered, then – why not try? Just once? "He has attempted to do this before."
Kitiara glanced at him, confused. "What? He has tried-"
"I do not know how often." Dalamar sighed. "But at least once before." He gritted his teeth, what was the worst that could happen? He'd get laughed at. The best, and maybe one more person knew the truth. "Because that is not Raistlin."
Kitiara smirked. "I think I know my own brother, elf. You might think you know him better with his clothes off, but-"
"If you know him so well," Dalamar cut her off, icily. "Then think about how he was when you met him here, only a few days ago. How he was in Neraka. Then remember the man you knew, years ago. Do those people have anything to do with each other?"
For a moment, Kitiara's eyes flickered. No. She could see the truth too. "He… has changed," she admitted, hesitantly. "But I have seen power change many men. And Raistlin's power! That would change any man."
"That much?" Dalamar pressed. "He walks differently, holds himself differently. He even writes with a different hand."
Kitiara didn't answer, shook her head. "What are you saying? That he isn't Raistlin?" She smiled, mockingly. "That someone is pretending to be my dear brother?"
"Yes," Dalamar said heavily, "that is exactly what I am saying-"
But he could not say any more, because Kitiara was laughing. "Oh, you are a sorry sight, Dark elf! Are you so love-blind you cannot see that my little brother has outgrown you? You mean nothing to him! I doubt you ever did; Raistlin was always one to use and discard people. Did you come running out here begging for him to take you back?"
"Get out," Dalamar whispered, mouth numb.
"Don't worry." Kitiara stood, patted Dalamar on the shoulder. "I'm sure you'll find some other mage willing to take you. For a while anyway. I for one wouldn't want my brother's leavings."
"Go," Dalamar snarled.
"Of course." Kitiara turned, Soth falling in behind her. "For now. I will return soon, and await Raistlin's arrival. I'm sure it should be worth seeing." Her narrowed eyes glittered, but she was gone before Dalamar could place it. He nodded to Rannoch – the Dead One would make sure they left promptly – then he sat back down, buried his face in his hands, and closed his eyes.
This was a mistake. He could not trust Kitiara. She was as blind as everyone else, might well decide it was worth more to ally herself with Fistandantilus.
Was she blind? A horrible, whispering voice in the back of his mind. Or was he? He was the only one who thought Fistandantilus was Raistlin. Maybe they were right. Maybe he was the one who had gone mad-
"Shut up." He drove his knuckles in his eyes, gritted his teeth. "Shut up. Shut up."
The world felt so horribly empty. So empty and alone.
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