CHAPTER 8

The silvermoon, Solinari, flickered on the horizon. Rising up over the central tower of the Temple of the Kingpriest, the moon looked like a candle flame burning on a tall, fluted wick. Solinari was full and bright this night, so bright that the services of the lightwalkers were not needed and the boys who earned their living lighting party-goers from one house to another with their quaint, silver lamps spent the night at home, cursing the bright moonlight that robbed them of their livelihood.

Solinari's twin, the blood-red Lunitari, had not risen, nor would it rise for several more hours, flooding the streets with its eerie purplish brilliance. As for the third moon, the black one, its dark roundness among the stars was noted by one man, who gazed at it briefly as he divested himself of his black robes, heavy with spell components, and put on the simpler, softer, black sleeping gown. Drawing the black hood up over his head to blot out Solinari's cold, piercing light, he lay down on his bed and drifted into the restful sleep so necessary to him and his Art.

At least that is what Caramon envisioned him doing as he and the kender walked the moonlit, crowded streets. The night was alive with fun.They passed group after group of merrymakers—parties of men laughing boisterously and discussing the games; parties of women, who clung together and shyly glanced at Caramon out of the corners of their eyes. Their filmy dresses floated around them in the soft breeze that was mild for late autumn. One such group recognized Caramon, and the big man almost ran, fearing they would call guards to take him back to the arena.

But Tas—wiser about the ways of the world—made him stay. The group was enchanted with him. They had seen him fight that afternoon and, already, he had won their hearts. They asked inane questions about the Games, then didn't listen to his answers—which was just as well. Caramon was so ner vous, he made very little sense. Finally they went on their way, laughing and bidding him good fortune. Caramon glanced at the kender wonderingly at this, but Tas only shook his head.

"Why did you think I made you dress up?" he asked Caramon shortly.

Caramon had, in fact, been wondering about this very thing. Tas had insisted that he wear the golden, silken cape he wore in the ring, plus the helmet he had worn that afternoon. It didn't seem at all suitable for sneaking into Temples—Caramon had visions of crawling through sewers or climbing over rooftops. But when he balked, Tas's eyes had grown cold. Either Caramon did as he was told or he could forget it, he said sharply.

Caramon, sighing, dressed as ordered, putting the cape on over his regular loose shirt and leather breeches. He put the bloodstained dagger in his belt. Out of habit, he had started to clean it, then stopped. No, it would be more suitable this way.

It had been a simple matter for the kender to unlock their door after Raag locked them in that night, and the two had slipped through the sleeping section of the gladiators' quarters without incident; most of the fighters either being asleep or—in the case of the minotaurs—roaring drunk.

The two walked the streets openly, to Caramon's vast discomfort. But the kender seemed unperturbed. Unusually moody and silent, Tas continually ignored Caramon's repeated questions. They drew nearer and nearer the Temple. It loomed before them in all its pearl and silver radiance, and finally Caramon stopped.

"Wait a minute, Tas," he said softly, pulling the kender into a shadowy corner, "just how do you plan to get us in here?"

"Through the front doors," Tas answered quietly.

"The front doors?" Caramon repeated in blank astonishment. "Are you mad? The guards! They'll stop us—”

"It's a Temple, Caramon," Tas said with a sigh. "A Temple to the gods. Evil things just don't enter."

"Fistandantilus enters," Caramon said gruffly.

"But only because the Kingpriest allows it," Tas said, shrugging. "Otherwise, he couldn't get in here. The gods wouldn't permit it. At least that's what one of the clerics told me when I asked."

Caramon frowned. The dagger in his belt seemed heavy, the metal was hot against his skin. Just his imagination, he told himself. After all, he'd worn daggers before. Reaching beneath his cloak, he touched it reassuringly. Then, his lips pressed tightly together, he started walking toward the Temple. After a moment's hesitation, Tas caught up with him.

"Caramon," said the kender in a small voice, "I-I think I know what you were thinking. I've been thinking the same thing. What if the gods won't let us in'"

"We're out to destroy evil," Caramon said evenly, his hand on the dagger's hilt. "They'll help us, not hinder us. You'll see."

"But, Caramon—” Now it was Tas’s turn to ask questions and Caramon's turn to grimly ignore him. Eventually, they reached the magnificent steps leading up to the Temple.

Caramon stopped, staring at the building. Seven towers rose to the heavens, as if praising the gods for their creation. But one spiraled above them all. Gleaming in Solinari's light, it seemed not to praise the gods but sought to rival them. The beauty of the Temple, its pearl and rose-colored marble gleaming softly in the moonlight, its still pools of water reflecting the stars, its vast gardens of lovely, fragrant flowers, its ornamentation of silver and of gold, all took Caramon's breath away, piercing his heart. He could not move but was held as though spellbound by the wonder.

And then, in the back of his mind, came a lurking feeling of horror. He had seen this before! Only he had seen it in a nightmare—the towers twisted and misshapen . . .. Confused, he closed his eyes. Where? How? Then, it came to him. The Temple at Neraka, where he'd been imprisoned! The Temple of the Queen of Darkness! It had been this very Temple, perverted by her evil, corrupted, turned to a thing of horror. Caramon trembled. Overwhelmed by this terrible memory, wondering at its portent, he thought for a moment of turning around and fleeing.

Then he felt Tas tug at his arm. "Keep moving!" the kender ordered. "You look suspicious!"

Caramon shook his head, clearing it of stupid memories that meant nothing, he told himself.The two approached the guards at the door.

"Tas!" Caramon said suddenly, gripping the kender by the shoulder so tightly he squeaked in pain. "Tas, this is a test! If the gods let us in, I'll know we're doing the right thing! We'll have their blessing!"

Tas paused. "Do you think so?" he asked hesitantly.

"Of course!" Caramon's eyes shone in Solinari's bright light. "You'll see. Come on." His confidence restored, the big man strode up the stairs. He was an imposing sight, the golden, silken cape fluttering about him, the golden helmet flashing in the moonlight. The guards stopped talking and turned to watch him. One nudged the other, saying something and making a swift, stabbing motion with his hand. The other guard grinned and shook his head, regarding Caramon with admiration.

Caramon knew immediately what the pantomime represented and he nearly stopped walking, feeling once again the warm blood splash over his hand and hearing the Barbarian's last, choked words. But he had come too far to quit now. And, perhaps this too was a sign, he told himself. The Barbarian's spirit, lingering near, anxious for its revenge.

Tas glanced up at him anxiously. "Better let me do the talking," the kender whispered.

Caramon nodded, swallowing nervously.

"Greetings, gladiator," called one of the guards. "You're new to the Games, are you not? I was telling my companion on watch, here, that he missed a pretty fight today. Not only that, but you won me six silver pieces, as well. What is it you are called?"

"He's the 'Victor,' " Tas said glibly. ”And today was just the beginning. He's never been defeated in battle, and he never will be."

"And who are you, little cutpurse? His manager?"

This was met by roars of laughter from the other guard and nervous high-pitched laughter from Caramon.Then he glanced down at Tas and knew immediately they were in trouble. Tas's face was white. Cutpurse! The most dreadful insult, the worst thing in the world one could call a kender! Caramon's big hand clapped over Tas's mouth.

"Sure," said Caramon, keeping a firm grip on the wriggling kender, "and a good one, too."

"Well, keep an eye on him," the other guard added, laughing even harder. "We want to see you slit throats—not pockets!"

Tasslehoff's ears—the only part visible above Caramon's wide hand—flushed scarlet. Incoherent sounds came from behind Caramon's palm. "I-I think we better go on in," the big warrior stammered, wondering how long he could hold Tas. "We're late."

The guards winked at each other knowingly, one of them shook his head in envy. "I saw the women watching you today," he said, his gaze going to Caramon's broad shoulders. "I should have known you'd be invited here for—uh—dinner."

What were they talking about? Caramon's puzzled look caused the guards to break out in renewed laughter.

"Name of the gods!" One sputtered. "Look at him! He is new!"

"Go ahead," the other guard waved him on by. "Good appetite!"

More laughter. Flushing red, not knowing what to say and still trying to hold onto Tas, Caramon entered the Temple. But, as he walked, he heard crude jokes pass between the guards, giving him sudden clear insight into their meaning. Dragging the wriggling kender down a hallway, he darted around the first corner he came to. He hadn't the vaguest idea where he was.

Once the guards were out of sight and hearing, he let Tas go. The kender was pale, his eyes dilated.

"Why, those-those—I'll—They'll regret—”

"Tas!" Caramon shook him. "Stop it. Calm down. Remember why we're here!"

"Cutpurse! As if I were a common thief!" Tas was practically frothing at the mouth. "I—”

Caramon glowered at him, and the kender choked. Getting control of himself, he drew a deep breath and let it out again slowly. "I'm all right, now," he said sullenly. "I said I'm all right," he snapped as Caramon continued to regard him dubiously.

"Well, we got inside, though not quite the way I expected," Caramon muttered. "Did you hear what they were saying?"

"No, not after 'cu-cut' . . . after that word. You had part of your hand over my ears," Tas said accusingly.

"They . . . they sounded like . . . the ladies invited m-men here for-for . . . you know . . ."

"Look, Caramon," Tas said, exasperated. "You got your sign. They let us in. They were probably just teasing you. You know how gullible you are. You'll believe anything! Tika's always saying so."

A memory of Tika came to Caramon's mind. He could hear her say those very words, laughing. It cut him like a knife. Glaring at Tas, he shoved the memory away immediately.

"Yeah," he said bitterly, flushing, "you're probably right. They're having their joke on me. And I fell for it, too! But"—he lifted his head and, for the first time, looked around at the splendor of the Temple. He began to realize where he was—this holy place, this palace of the gods. Once more he felt the reverence and awe he had experienced as he stood gazing at it, bathed in Solinari's radiant light—"you're right—the gods have given us our sign!"

There was a corridor in the Temple where few came and, of those that did, none went voluntarily. If forced to come here on some errand, they did their business quickly and left as swiftly as possible.

There was nothing wrong with the corridor itself. It was just as splendid as the other halls and corridors of the Temple. Beautiful tapestries done in muted colors graced its walls, soft carpets covered its marble floors, graceful statues filled its shadowy alcoves. Ornately carved wooden doors opened off of it, leading to rooms as pleasingly decorated as other rooms in the Temple. But the doors opened no longer. All were locked. All the rooms were empty—all except one.

That room was at the very far end of the corridor, which was dark and silent even in the daytime. It was as if the occupant of this one room cast a pall over the very floor he walked, the very air he breathed. Those who entered this corridor complained of feeling smothered. They gasped for breath like someone dying inside a burning house.

This room was the room of Fistandantilus. It had been his for years, since the Kingpriest came to power and drove the magicusers from their Tower in Palanthas—the Tower where Fistandantilus had reigned as Head of the Conclave.

What bargain had they struck—the leading powers of good and of evil in the world? What deal had been made that allowed the Dark One to live inside the most beautiful, most holy place on Krynn? None knew, many speculated. Most believed it was by the grace of the Kingpriest, a noble gesture to a defeated foe.

But even he—even the Kingpriest himself—did not walk this corridor. Here, at least, the great mage reigned in dark and terrifying supremacy.

At the far end of the corridor stood a tall window. Heavy plush curtains were drawn over it, blotting out the sunlight in the daytime, the moons' rays at night. Rarely did light pene trate the curtains' thick folds. But this night, perhaps because the servants had been driven by the Head of Household to clean and dust the corridor, the curtains were parted the slightest bit, letting Solinari's silver light shine into the bleak, empty corridor. The beams of the moon the dwarves call Night Candle pierced the darkness like a long, thin blade of glittering steel.

Or perhaps the thin, white finger of a corpse, Caramon thought, looking down that silent corridor. Stabbing through the glass, the finger of moonlight ran the length of the carpeted floor and, reaching the length of the hall, touched him where he stood at the end.

"That's his door," the kender said in such a soft whisper Caramon could barely hear him over the beating of his own heart. "On the left."

Caramon reached beneath his cloak once more, seeking the dagger's hilt, its reassuring presence. But the handle of the knife was cold. He shuddered as he touched it and quickly withdrew his hand.

It seemed a simple thing, to walk down this corridor. Yet he couldn’t move.Perhaps it was the enormity of what he contemplated—to take a man's life, not in battle, but as he slept. To kill a man in his sleep—of all times, the time we are most defenseless, when we place ourselves in the hands of the gods. Was there a more heinous, cowardly crime?

The gods gave me a sign, Caramon reminded himself, and sternly he made himself remember the dying Barbarian. He made himself remember his brother's torment in the Tower. He remembered how powerful this evil mage was when awake. Caramon drew a deep breath and grasped the hilt of the dagger firmly. Holding it tightly, though he did not draw it from his belt, he began to walk down the still corridor, the moonlight seeming now to beckon him on.

He felt a presence behind him, so close that, when he stopped, Tas bumped into him.

"Stay here," Caramon ordered.

"No—” Tas began to protest, but Caramon hushed him.

"You've got to. Someone has to stand on watch at this end of the corridor. If anyone comes, make a noise or something."

“But –“

Caramon glared down at the kender. At the sight of the big man's grim expression and cold, emotionless glare, Tas gulped and nodded. "I-I'll just stand over there, in that shadow." He pointed and crept away.

Caramon waited until he was certain Tas wouldn't "accidentally" follow him. But the kender hunched miserably in the shadow of huge, potted tree that had died months ago. Caramon turned and continued on.

Standing next to the brittle skeleton whose dry leaves rustled when the kender moved, Tas watched Caramon walk down the hallway. He saw the big man reach the end, stretch out a hand, and wrap it around the door handle. He saw Caramon give it a gentle push. It yielded to his pressure and opened silently. Caramon disappeared inside the room.

Tasslehoff began to shake. A horrible, sick feeling spread from his stomach throughout his body, a whimper escaped his lips. Clasping his hand over his mouth so that he wouldn't yelp, the kender pressed himself up against the wall and thought about dying, alone, in the dark.

Caramon eased his big body around the door, opening it only a crack in case the hinges should squeak. But it was silent. Everything in the room was silent. No noise from anywhere in the Temple came into this chamber, as if all life itself had been swallowed by the choking darkness. Caramon felt his lungs burn, and he remembered vividly the time he had nearly drowned in the Blood Sea of Istar. Firmly, he resisted the urge to gasp for air.

He paused a moment in the doorway, trying to calm his racing heart, and looked around the room.Solinari's light streamed in through a gap in the heavy curtains that covered the window. A thin sliver of silver light slit the darkness, slicing through it in a narrow cut that led straight to the bed at the far end of the room.

The chamber was sparsely furnished. Caramon saw the shapeless bulk of a heavy black robe draped over a wooden chair. Soft leather boots stood next to it. No fire burned in the grate, the night was too warm. Gripping the hilt of the knife, Caramon drew it slowly and crossed the room, guided by the moon's silver light.

A sign from the gods, he thought, his pounding heartbeat nearly choking him. He felt fear, fear such as he had rarely experienced in his life—a raw, gut-wrenching, bowel-twisting fear that made his muscles jerk and dried his throat. Desperately, he forced himself to swallow so that he wouldn't cough and wake the sleeper.

I must do this quickly! he told himself, more than half afraid he might faint or be sick. He crossed the room, the soft carpet muffling his swift footsteps. Now he could see the bed and the figure asleep within it. He could see the figure clearly, the moonlight slicing a neat line across the floor, up the bedstead, over the coverlet, slanting upward to the head lying on the pillow, its hood pulled over the face to blot out the light.

"Thus the gods point my way,” Caramon murmured, unaware that he was speaking. Creeping up to the side of the bed, he paused, the dagger in his hand, listening to the quiet breathing of his victim, trying to detect any change in the deep, even rhythm that would tell him he had been discovered.

In and out . . . in and out . . . the breathing was strong, deep, peaceful. The breathing of a healthy young man. Caramon shuddered, recalling how old this wizard was supposed to be, recalling the dark tales he had heard about how Fistandantilus renewed his youth. The man’s breathing was steady, even. There was no break, no quickening. The moonlight poured in, cold, unwavering, a sign . . .

Caramon raised the dagger. One thrust—swift and neat— deep in the chest and it would be over. Moving forward, Caramon hesitated. No, before he struck, he would look upon the face—the face of the man who had tortured his brother.

No! Fool! a voice screamed inside Caramon. Stab now, quickly! Caramon even lifted the knife again, but his hand shook. He had to see the face! Reaching out a trembling hand, he gently touched the black hood. The material was soft and yielding. He pushed it aside.

Solinari's silver moonlight touched Caramon’s hand, then touched the face of the sleeping mage, bathing it in radiance. Caramon's hand stiffened, growing white and cold as that of a corpse as he stared down at the face on the pillow.

It was not the face of an ancient, evil wizard, scarred with countless sins. It was not even the face of some tormented being whose life had been stolen from his body to keep the dying mage alive.

It was the face of a young magic-user, weary from long nights of study at his books, but now relaxed, finding welcome rest. It was the face of one whose tenacious endurance of con stant pain was marked in the firm, unyielding lines about the mouth. It was a face as familiar to Caramon as his own, a face he had looked upon in sleep countless times, a face he had soothed with cooling water . . ..

The hand holding the dagger stabbed down, plunging the blade into the mattress. There was a wild, strangled shriek, and Caramon fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching at the coverlet with fingers curled in agony. His big body shook convulsively, wracked with shuddering sobs.

Raistlin opened his eyes and sat up, blinking in Solinari's bright light. He drew his hood over his eyes once more, then, sighing in irritation, reached out and carefully removed the dagger from his brother's nerveless grip.