CHAPTER 7

"I'm dead," said Tasslehoff Burrfoot.

He waited expectantly a moment.

"I'm dead," he said again. "My, my. This must be the Afterlife."

Another moment passed.

"Well," said Tas, "one thing I can say for it—it certainly is dark."

Still nothing happened. Tas found his interest in being dead beginning to wane. He was, he discovered, lying on his back on something extremely hard and uncomfortable, cold and stony feeling.

"Perhaps I'm laid out on a marble slab, like Huma's," he said, trying to drum up some enthusiasm. "Or a hero's crypt, like where we buried Sturm "

That thought entertained him a while, then, "Ouch!" He pressed his hand to his side, feeling a stabbing pain in his ribs and, at the same time, he noticed another pain in his head. He also came to realize that he was shivering, a sharp rock was poking him in the back, and he had a stiff neck.

"Well, I certainly didn't expect this," he snapped irritably. "I mean, by all accounts when you're dead, you're not supposed to feel anything." He said this quite loudly, in case someone was listening. "I said you're not supposed to feel anything!" he repeated pointedly when the pain did not go away.

"Drat!" muttered Tas. "Maybe it's some sort of mix-up. Maybe I'm dead and the word just hasn't gotten around my body yet. I certainly haven't gone all stiff, and I'm sure that's supposed to happen. So I'll just wait."

Squirming to get comfortable (first removing the rock from beneath his back), Tas folded his hands across his chest and stared up into the thick, impenetrable darkness. After a few minutes of this, he frowned.

"If this is being dead, it sure isn't all it's cracked up to be," he remarked sternly. "Now I'm not only dead, I'm bored, too. Well," he said after a few more moments of staring into the darkness, "I guess I can't do much about being dead, but I can do something about being bored. There's obviously been a mix— up. I'll just have to go talk to someone about this."

Sitting up, he started to swing his legs around to jump off the marble slab, only to discover that he was—apparently—lying on a stone floor. "How rude!" he commented indignantly. "Why not just dump me in someone's root cellar!"

Stumbling to his feet, he took a step forward and bumped into something hard and solid. "A rock," he said gloomily, running his hands over it. "Humpf! Flint dies and he gets a tree! I die and I get a rock. It's obvious someone's done something all wrong.

"Hey!—" he cried, groping around in the darkness. "Is anyone— Well, what do you know? I've still got my pouches! They let me bring everything with me, even the magical device. At least that was considerate. Still"—Tas's lips tightened with firm resolve—"someone better do something about this pain. I simply won't put up with it."

Investigating with his hands, since he couldn't see a thing, Tas ran his fingers curiously over the big rock. It seemed to be covered with carved images—runes, maybe? And that struck him as familiar. The shape of the huge rock, too, was odd.

"It isn't a rock after all! It's a table, seemingly," he said, puzzled. "A rock table carved with runes—" Then his memory returned. "I know!" he shouted triumphantly. "It's that big stone desk in the laboratory where I went to hunt for Raistlin and Caramon and Crysania, and found that they'd all gone and left me behind. I was standing there when the fiery mountain came down on top of me! In fact, that's the place where I died!"

He felt his neck. Yes, the iron collar was still there—the collar they had put on him when he was sold as a slave. Continuing to grope around in the darkness, Tas tripped over something. Reaching down, he cut himself on a something sharp.

"Caramon's sword!" he said, feeling the hilt. "I remember. I found it on the floor. And that means," said Tas with growing outrage, "that they didn't even bury me! They just left my body where it was! I'm in the basement of a ruined Temple." Brooding, he sucked his bleeding finger. A sudden thought occurred to him. "And I suppose they intend for me to walk to wherever it is I'm going in the Afterlife. They don't even provide transportation! This is really the last straw!"

He raised his voice to a shout. "Look!" he said, shaking his small fist. "I want to talk to whoever 's in charge!"

But there was no sound.

"No light," Tas grumbled, falling over something else. "Stuck down in the bottom of a ruined temple—dead! Probably at the bottom of the Blood Sea of Istar. . . . Say," he said, pausing to think, "maybe I'll meet some sea elves, like Tanis told me about. But, no, I forgot"—he sighed—"I'm dead, and you can't, as far as I'm able to understand, meet people after you're dead. Unless you're an undead, like Lord Soth." The kender cheered up considerably. "I wonder how you get that job? I'll ask. Being a death knight must be quite exciting. But, first, I've got to find out where I'm supposed to be and why I'm not there!"

Picking himself up again, Tas managed to make his way to what he figured was probably the front of the room beneath the Temple. He was thinking about the Blood Sea of Istar and wondering why there wasn't more water about when something else suddenly occurred to him.

"Oh, dear!" he muttered. "The Temple didn't go into the Blood Sea! It went to Neraka! I was in the Temple, in fact, when I defeated the Queen of Darkness."

Tas came to a doorway—he could tell by feeling the frame and peered out into the darkness that was so very dark.

"Neraka, huh," he said, wondering if that was better or worse than being at the bottom of an ocean.

Cautiously, he took a step forward and felt something beneath his foot. Reaching down, his small hand closed over— "A torch ! It must have been the one over the doorway. Now, somewhere in here, I've got a tinderbox—" Rummaging through several pouches, he came up with it at last.

"Strange," he said, glancing about the corridor as the torch flared to light. "It looks just like it did when I left it—all broken and crumbled after the earthquake. You'd think the Queen would have tidied up a bit by now. I don't remember it being in such a mess when I was in it in Neraka. I wonder which is the way out."

He looked back toward the stairs he had come down in his search for Crysania and Raistlin. Vivid memories of the walls cracking and columns falling came to his mind. "That's no good, that's for sure," he muttered, shaking his head. "Ouch, that hurts." He put his hand to his forehead. "But that was the only way out, I seem to recall." He sighed, feeling a bit low for a moment. But his kender cheerfulness soon surfaced. "There sure are a lot of cracks in the walls, though. Perhaps something's opened up."

Walking slowly, mindful of the pain in his head and his ribs, Tas stepped out into the corridor. He carefully checked out each wall without seeing anything promising until he reached the very end of the hall. Here he discovered a very large crack in the marble that, unlike the others, made an opening deeper than Tas's torchlight could illuminate.

No one but a kender could have squeezed into that crack, and, even for Tas, it was a tight fit, forcing him to rearrange all his pouches and slide through sideways.

"All I can say is—being dead is certainly a lot of bother!" he muttered, squeezing through the crack and ripping a hole in his blue leggings.

Matters didn't improve. One of his pouches got hung up on a rock, and he had to stop and tug at it until it was finally freed. Then the crack got so very narrow he wasn't at all certain he would make it. Taking off all his pouches, he held them and the torch over his head and, after holding his breath and tearing his shirt, he gave a final wiggle and managed to pop through. By this time, however, he was aching, hot, sweaty, and in a bad mood.

"I always wondered why people objected to dying," he said, wiping his face. "Now I know!"

Pausing to catch his breath and rearrange his pouches, the kender was immensely cheered to see light at the far end of the crack. Flashing his torch around, he discovered that the crack was getting wider, so—after a moment—he went on his way and soon reached the end—the source of the light.

Reaching the opening, Tas peered out, drew a deep breath, and said, "Now this is more what I had in mind!"

The landscape was certainly like nothing he had ever seen before in his life. It was flat and barren, stretching on and on into a vast, empty sky that was lit with a strange glow, as if the sun had just set or a fire burned in the distance. But the whole sky was that strange color, even above him. And yet, for all the brightness, things around him were very dark. The land seemed to have been cut out of black paper and pasted down over the eerie—looking sky. And the sky itself was empty—no sun, no moons, no stars. Nothing.

Tas took a cautious step or two forward. The ground felt no different from any other ground, even though—as he walked on it—he noticed that it took on the same color as the sky. Looking up, he saw that, in the distance, it turned black again. After a few more steps, he stopped to look behind him at the ruins of the great Temple.

"Great Reorx's beard!" Tas gasped, nearly dropping his torch.

There was nothing behind him! Wherever it was he had come from was gone! The kender turned around in a complete circle. Nothing ahead of him, nothing behind him, nothing in any direction he looked.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot's heart sank right down to the bottom of his green shoes and stayed there, refusing to be comforted. This was, without a doubt, the most boring place he'd ever seen in his entire existence!

"This can't be the Afterlife," the kender said miserably. "This can't be right! There must be some mistake. Hey, wait a minute! I'm supposed to meet Flint here! Fizban said so and Fizban may have been a bit muddled about other things, but he didn't sound muddled about that!

"Let's see—how did that go? There was a big tree, a beautiful tree, and beneath it sat a grumbling, old dwarf, carving wood and— Hey! There's the tree) Now, where did that come from?"

The kender blinked in astonishment. Right ahead of him, where nothing had been just a moment before, he now saw a large tree.

"Not exactly my idea of a beautiful tree," Tas muttered, walking toward it, noticing—as he did so—that the ground had developed a curious habit of trying to slide out from under his feet. "But then, Fizban had odd taste and so, come to think of it, did Flint."

He drew nearer the tree, which was black—like everything else—and twisted and hunched over like a witch he'd seen once. It had no leaves on it. "That thing's been dead at least a hundred years!" Tas sniffed. "If Flint thinks I'm going to spend my After— life sitting under a dead tree with him, he's got another think coming. I— Hey, Flint!" The kender cried out, coming up to the tree and peering around. "Flint? Where are you? I— Oh, there you are," he said, seeing a short, bearded figure sitting on the ground on the other side of the tree. "Fizban told me I'd find you here. I'll bet you're surprised to see me! I—"

The kender came round the tree, then stopped short. "Say," he cried angrily, "you're not Flint! Who— Arack!"

Tas staggered backward as the dwarf who had been the Master of the Games in Istar suddenly turned his head and looked at him with such an evil grin on his twisted face that the kender felt his blood run cold—an unusual sensation; he couldn't remember ever experiencing it before. But before he had time to enjoy it, the dwarf leaped to his feet and, with a vicious snarl, rushed at the kender.

With a startled yelp, Tas swung his torch to keep Arack back, while with his other hand he fumbled for the small knife he wore in his belt. But, just as he pulled his knife out, Arack vanished. The tree vanished. Once again, Tas found himself standing smack in the center of nothing beneath that fire-lit sky.

"All right now," Tas said, a small quiver creeping into his voice, though he tried his best to hide it, "I don't think this is at all fun. It's miserable and horrible and, while Fizban didn't exactly promise the Afterlife would be one endless party, I'm certain he didn't have anything like this in mind!" The kender slowly turned around, keeping his knife drawn and his torch held out in front of him.

"I know I haven't been very religious," Tas added with a snuffle, looking out into the bleak landscape and trying to keep his feet on the weird ground, "but I thought I led a pretty good life. And I did defeat the Queen of Darkness. Of course, I had some help," he added, thinking that this might be a good time for honesty, "and I am a personal friend of Paladine and—"

"In the name of Her Dark Majesty," said a soft voice behind him, "what are you doing here?"

Tasslehoff sprang three feet into the air in alarm —a sure sign that the kender was completely unnerved—and whirled around. There—where there hadn't been anyone standing a moment before—stood a figure that reminded him very much of the cleric of Paladine, Elistan, only this figure wore black clerical robes instead of white and around its neck—instead of the medallion of Paladine—hung the medallion of the Five Headed Dragon.

"Uh, pardon me, sir," stammered Tas, "but I'm not at all sure what I'm doing here. I'm not at all sure where here is, to be perfectly truthful, and—oh, by the way, my name's Tasslehoff Burrfoot." He extended his small hand politely. "What's yours?"

But the figure, ignoring the kender's hand, threw back its black cowl and took a step nearer. Tas was considerably startled to see long, iron—gray hair flow out from beneath the cowl, hair so long, in fact, that it would easily have touched the ground if it had not floated around the figure in a weird sort of way, as did the long, gray beard that suddenly seemed to sprout out of the skull-like face.

"S-say, that's quite . . . remarkable," Tas stuttered, his mouth dropping open. "How did you do that? And, I don't suppose you could tell me, but where did you say I was? You s-see—" The figure took another step nearer and, while Tas certainly wasn't afraid of him, or it, or whatever it was, the kender found that he didn't want it or him coming any closer for some reason. "I-I'm dead," Tas continued, trying to back up only to find that, for some unaccountable reason, something was blocking him, "and—by the way"—indignation got the better of fear—"are you in charge around here? Because I don't think this death business is being handled at all well! I hurt!" Tas said, glaring at the figure accusingly. "My head hurts and my ribs. And then I had to walk all this way, coming up out of the basement of the Temple—"

"The basement of the Temple!" The figure stopped now, only inches from Tasslehoff. Its gray hair floated as if stirred by a hot wind. Its eyes, Tas could see now, were the same red color as the sky, its face gray as ash.

"Yes!" Tas gulped. Besides everything else, the figure had a most horrible smell. "I—I was following Lady Crysania and she was following Raistlin and—"

"Raistlin!" The figure spoke the name in a voice that made Tas's hair literally stand up on his head. "Come with me!"

The figure's hand—a most peculiar—looking hand—closed over Tasslehoff's wrist. "Ow!" squeaked Tas, as pain shot through his arm. "You're hurting—"

But the figure paid no attention. Closing its eyes, as though lost in deep concentration, it gripped the kender tightly, and the ground around Tas suddenly began to shift and heave. The kender gasped in wonder as the landscape itself took on a rapid, fluid motion.

We're not moving, Tas realized in awe, the ground is!

"Uh," said Tas in a small voice, "where did you say I was?"

"You are in the Abyss," said the figure in a sepulchral tone.

"Oh, dear," Tas said sorrowfully, "I didn't think I was that bad." A tear trickled down his nose. "So this is the Abyss, I hope you don't mind me telling you that I'm frightfully disappointed in it. I always supposed the Abyss would be a fascinating place. But so far it isn't. Not in the least. It—it's awful boring and . . . ugly . . . and, I really don't mean to be rude, but there is a most peculiar smell." Sniffling, he wiped his nose on his sleeve, too unhappy even to reach for a pocket handkerchief. "Where did you say we were going?'

"You asked to see the person in charge," the figure said, and its skeletal hand closed over the medallion it wore around its neck.

The landscape changed. It was every city Tas had ever been in, it seemed, and yet none. It was familiar, yet he didn't recognize a thing. It was black, flat, and lifeless, yet teeming with life. He couldn't see or hear anything, yet all around him was sound and motion.

Tasslehoff stared at the figure beside him, at the shifting planes beyond and above and below him, and the kender was stricken dumb. For only the second time in his life (the first had been when he found Fizban alive when the old man was supposed to have been decently dead), Tas couldn't speak a word.

If every kender on the face of Krynn had been asked to name Places I'd Most Like To Visit; the plane of existence where the Queen of Darkness dwelled would have come in at least third on many lists.

But now, here was Tasslehoff Burrfoot, standing in the waiting room of the great and terrible Queen, standing in one of the most interesting places known to man or kender, and he had never felt unhappier in his life.

First, the room the gray—haired, black—robed cleric told him to stay in was completely empty. There weren't any tables with interesting little objects on them, there weren't any chairs (which was why he was standing). There weren't even any walls! In fact, the only way he knew he was in a room at all was that when the cleric told him to "stay in the waiting room," Tas suddenly felt he was in a room.

But, as far as he could see, he was standing in the middle of nothing. He wasn't even certain, at this point, which way was up or which way was down. Both looked alike—an eerie glowing, flame-like color.

He tried to comfort himself by telling himself over and over that he was going to meet the Dark Queen. He recalled stories Tanis told about meeting the Queen in the Temple at Neraka.

"I was surrounded by a great darkness," Tanis had said, and, even though it was months after the experience, his voice still trembled, "but it seemed more a darkness of my own mind than any actual physical presence. I couldn't breathe. Then the darkness lifted, and she spoke to me, though she said no word. I heard her in my mind. And I saw her in all her forms—the Five Headed Dragon, the Dark Warrior, the Dark Temptress—for she was not completely in the world yet. She had not yet gained control."

Tas remembered Tanis shaking his head. "Still, her majesty and might were very great. She is, after all, a goddess—one of the creators of the world. Her dark eyes stared into my soul, and I couldn't help myself—I sank to my knees and worshipped her. . . .”

And now he, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, was going to meet the Queen as she was in her own plane of existence—strong and powerful. "Perhaps she'll appear as the Five—Headed Dragon," Tas said to cheer himself up. But even that wonderful prospect didn't help, though he had never seen a five—headed anything before, much less a dragon. It was as if all the spirit of adventure and curiosity were oozing out of the kender like blood dripping from a wound.

"I'll sing a bit," he said to himself, just to hear the sound of his own voice. "That generally raises my spirits."

He began to hum the first song that came into his head—a Hymn to the Dawn that Goldmoon had taught him.

Even the night must fail

For light sleeps in the eyes

And dark becomes dark on dark

Until the darkness dies.

Soon the eye resolves

Complexities of night

Into stillness, where the heart

Falls into fabled light.

Tas was just starting in on the second verse when he became aware, to his horror, that his song was echoing back to him only the words were now twisted and terrible. . ..

Even the night must fail

When light sleeps in the eyes,

When dark becomes dark on dark

And into darkness dies.

Soon the eye dissolves,

Perplexed by the teasing night,

Into a stillness of the heart,

A fable of fallen light.

"Stop it," cried Tas frantically into the eerie, burning silence that resounded with his song. "I didn't mean to say that! I—"

With startling suddenness, the black—robed cleric materialized in front of Tasslehoff, seeming to coalesce out of the bleak surroundings.

"Her Dark Majesty will see you now," the cleric said, and, before Tasslehoff could blink, he found himself in another place.

He knew it was another place, not because he had moved a step or even because this place was different from the last place, but that he felt he was someplace else. There was still the same weird glow, the same emptiness, except now he had the impression he wasn't alone.

The moment he realized this, he saw a black, smooth wooden chair appear—its back to him. Seated in it was a figure dressed in black, a hood pulled up over its head.

Thinking perhaps some mistake had been made and that the cleric had taken him to the wrong place, Tasslehoff—gripping his pouches nervously in his hand—walked cautiously around the chair to see the figure's face. Or perhaps the chair turned to around to see his face. The kender wasn't certain.

But, as the chair moved, the figure's face came into view.

Tasslehoff knew no mistake had been made.

It was not a Five-Headed Dragon he saw. It was not a huge warrior in black, burning armor. It was not even the Dark Temptress, who so haunted Raistlin's dreams. It was a woman dressed all in black, a tight-fitting hood pulled up over her hair, framing her face in a black oval. Her skin was white and smooth and ageless, her eyes large and dark. Her arms, encased in tight black cloth, rested on the arms of her chair, her white hands curved calmly around the ends of the armrests.

The expression on her face was not horrifying, nor terrifying, nor threatening, nor awe—inspiring; it was, in fact, not even an expression at all. Yet Tas was aware that she was scrutinizing him intensely, delving into his soul, studying parts of him that he wasn't even aware existed.

"I-I'm Tasslehoff Burrfoot, M-majesty," said the kender, reflexively stretching out his small hand. Too late, he realized his offense and started to withdraw his hand and bow, but then he felt the touch of five fingers in his palm. It was a brief touch, but Tas might have grabbed a handful of nettles. Five stinging branches of pain shot through his arm and bored into his heart, making him gasp.

But, as swiftly as they touched him, they were gone. He found himself standing very close to the lovely, pale woman, and so mild was the expression in her eyes that Tas might well have doubted she was the cause of the pain, except that looking down at his palm—he saw a mark there, like a five pointed star.

Tell me your story.

Tas started. The woman's lips had not moved, but he heard her speak. He realized, also, in sudden fright, that she probably knew more of his story than he did.

Sweating, clutching his pouches nervously, Tasslehoff Burrfoot made history that day—at least as far as kender storytelling was concerned. He told the entire story of his trip to Istar in under five seconds. And every word was true.

"Par-Salian accidentally sent me back in time with my friend Caramon. We were going to kill Fistandantilus only we discovered it was Raistlin so we didn't. I was going to stop the Cataclysm with a magical device, but Raistlin made me break it. I followed a cleric named Lady Crysania down to a laboratory beneath the Temple of Istar to find Raistlin and make him fix the device. The roof caved in and knocked me out. When I woke up, they had all left me and the Cataclysm struck and now I'm dead and I've been sent to the Abyss."

Tasslehoff drew a deep, quivering breath and mopped his face with the end of his long topknot of hair. Then, realizing his last comment had been less than complimentary, he hastened to add, "Not that I'm complaining, Your Majesty. I'm certain whoever did this must have had quite a good reason. After all, I did break a dragon orb, and I seem to recall once someone said I took something that didn't belong to me, and . . . and I wasn't as respectful of Flint as I should have been, I guess, and once, for a joke, I hid Caramon's clothes while he was taking a bath and he had to walk into Solace stark naked. But"—Tas could not help a snuffle—"I always helped Fizban find his hat!"

You are not dead, said the voice, nor have you been sent here. You are not, in fact, supposed to be here at all.

At this startling revelation, Tasslehoff looked up directly into the Queen's dark and shadowy eyes. "I'm not?" he squeaked, feeling his voice go all queer. "Not dead?" Involuntarily, he put his hand to his head—which still ached. "So that explains it! I just thought someone had botched things up—"

Kender are not allowed here, continued the voice.

"That doesn't surprise me," Tas said sadly, feeling much more himself since he wasn't dead. "There are quite a number of places on Krynn kender aren't allowed."

The voice might not have even heard him. When you entered the laboratory of Fistandantilus, you were protected by the magical enchantment he had laid on the place. The rest of Istar was plunged far below the ground at the time the Cataclysm struck. But I was able to save the Temple of the Kingpriest. When I am ready, it will return to the world, as will I, myself. "

"But you won't win," said Tas before he thought. "I—I k-know," he stuttered as the dark—eyed gaze shot right through him. "I was th-there."

No, you were not there, for that has not happened yet. You see, kender, by disrupting Par-Salian's spell, you have made it possible to alter time. Fistandantilus—or Raistlin, as you know him—told you this. That was why he sent you to your death or so he supposed. He did not want time altered. The Cataclysm was necessary to him so that he could bring this cleric of Paladine forward to a time when he will have the only true cleric in the land.

It seemed to Tasslehoff that he saw, for the first time, a flicker of dark amusement in the woman's shadowy eyes, and he shivered without understanding why.

How soon you will come to regret that decision, Fistandantilus, my ambitious friend. But it is too late. Poor, puny mortal. You have made a mistake—a costly mistake. You are locked in your own time loop. You rush forward to your own doom.

"I don't understand," cried Tas.

Yes, you do, said the voice calmly. Your coming has shown me the future. You have given me the chance to change it. And, by destroying you, Fistandantilus has destroyed his only chance of breaking free. His body will perish again, as he perished long ago. Only this time, when his soul seeks another body to house it, I will stop him. Thus, the young mage, Raistlin, in the future, will take the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery, and he will die there. He will not live to thwart my plans. One by one, the others will die. For without Raistlin's help, Goldmoon will not find the blue crystal staff. Thus—the beginning of the end for the world.

"No!" Tas whimpered, horror—stricken. "This—this can't be! I-I didn't mean to do this. I-I just wanted to-to go with Caramon on-on this adventure! He-he couldn't have made it alone. He needed me!"

The kender stared around frantically, seeking some escape. But, though there seemed everywhere to run, there was nowhere to hide. Dropping to his knees before the blackclothed woman, Tas stared up at her. "What have I done? What have I done?" he cried frantically.

You have done such that even Paladine might be tempted to turn his back upon you, kender.

"What will you do to me?" Tas sobbed wretchedly. "Where will I go?" He lifted a tear—streaked face. "I don't suppose you c-could send me back to Caramon? Or back to my own time?"

Your time no longer exists. As for sending you to Caramon, that is quite impossible, as you surely must understand. No, you will remain here, with me, so I may insure that nothing goes wrong.

"Here?" Tas gasped. "How long?"

The woman began to fade before his eyes, shimmering and finally vanishing into the nothingness around him. Not long, I should imagine, kender. Not long at all. Or perhaps always. . . .

"What do you—what does she mean?" Tas turned to face the gray-haired cleric, who had sprung up to fill the void left by Her Dark Majesty. "Not long or always?"

"Though not dead, you are—even now—dying. Your lifeforce is ebbing from you, as it must for any of the living who mistakenly venture down here and who have not the power to fight the evil that devours them from within. When you are dead, the gods will determine your fate."

"I see," said Tas, choking back a lump in his throat. He hung his head. "I deserve it, I suppose. Oh, Tanis, I'm sorry! I truly didn't mean to do it. . .. . .

The cleric gripped his arm painfully. The surroundings changed, the ground shifted away beneath his feet. But Tasslehoff never noticed. His eyes filling with tears, he gave himself up to dark despair and hoped death would come quickly.