CHAPTER 12

No one had set foot inside the magical fortress of Zhaman for centuries. The dwarves viewed it with suspicion and distrust for several reasons. One, it had belonged to wizards. Two, its stonework was not dwarven, nor was it even natural. The fortress had been raised—so legend told—up out of the ground by magic, and it was magic that still held it together.

"Has to be magic," Reghar grumbled to Caramon, giving the tall thin spires of the fortress a scathing glance. "Otherwise, it would have toppled over long ago."

The hill dwarves, refusing to a dwarf to stick so much as the tip of their beards inside the fortress, set up camp outside, on the plains. The Plainsmen did likewise. Not so much from fear of the magical building—though they looked at it askance and whispered about it in their own language—but from the fact that they felt uneasy in any building.

The humans, scoffing at these superstitions, entered the ancient fortress, laughing loudly about spooks and haunts. They stayed one night. The next morning found them setting up camp in the open, muttering about fresh air and sleeping better beneath the stars.

"What went on here?" Caramon asked his brother uneasily as they walked through the fortress on their arrival. "You said it wasn't a Tower of High Sorcery, yet it's obviously magical. Wizards built it. And"—the big man shivered—"there's a strange feeling about it—not eerie, like the Towers. But a feeling of . . . of—" He floundered.

"Of violence," Raistlin murmured, his darting, penetrating gaze encompassing all the objects around him, "of violence and of death, my brother. For this was a place of experimentation. The mages built this fortress far away from civilized lands for one reason—and that was that they knew the magic conjured here might well escape their control. And so it did—often. But here, too, emerged great things—magic's that helped the world."

"Why was it abandoned?" Lady Crysania asked, drawing her fur cloak around her shoulders more tightly. The air that flowed through the narrow stone hallways was chill and smelled of dust and stone.

Raistlin was silent for long moments, frowning. Slowly, quietly, they made their way through the twisting halls. Lady Crysania's soft leather boots made no sound as she walked, Caramon's heavy booted footsteps echoed through the empty chambers, Raistlin's rustling robes whispered through the corridors, the Staff of Magius upon which he leaned thumping softly on the floor. As quiet as they were, they could almost have been the ghosts of themselves, moving through the hallways. When Raistlin spoke, his voice made both Caramon and Crysania start.

"Though there have always been the three Robes—good, neutral, and evil—among the magic-users, we have, unfortunately, not always maintained the balance," Raistlin said. "As people turned against us, the White Robes withdrew into their Towers, advocating peace. The Black Robes, however, sought—at first—to strike back. They took over this fortress and used it in experiments to create armies." He paused. "Experiments that were not successful at that time, but which led to the creation of draconians in our own age.

"With this failure, the mages realized the hopelessness of their situation. They abandoned Zhaman, joining with their fellows in what became known as the Lost Battles."

"You seem to know your way around here," Caramon observed.

Raistlin glanced sharply at his brother, but Caramon's face was smooth, guileless—though there was, perhaps, a strange, shadowed look in his brown eyes.

"Do you not yet understand, my brother?" Raistlin said harshly, coming to a stop in a drafty, dark corridor. "I have never been here, yet I have walked these halls. The room I sleep in I have slept in many nights before, though I have yet to spend a night in this fortress. I am a stranger here, yet I know the location of every room, from those rooms of meditation and study at the top to the banquet halls on the first level."

Caramon stopped, too. Slowly he looked around him, staring up at the dusty ceiling, gazing down the empty hallways where sunlight filtered through carved windows to lie in square tiles upon the stone floors. His gaze finally came back to meet that of his twin.

"Then, Fistandantilus," he said, his voice heavy, "you know that this is also going to be your tomb."

For an instant, Caramon saw a tiny crack in the glass of Raistlin's eyes, he saw—not anger—but amusement, triumph. Then the bright mirrors returned. Caramon saw only himself reflected there, standing in a patch of weak, winter sunlight.

Crysania moved next to Raistlin. She put her hands over his arm as he leaned upon his staff and regarded Caramon with cold, gray eyes. "The gods are with us," she said. "They were not with Fistandantilus. Your brother is strong in his art, I am strong in my faith. We will not fail!"

Still looking at Caramon, still keeping his twin's reflection in the glistening orbs of his eyes, Raistlin smiled. "Yes," he whispered, and there was a slight hiss to his words, "truly, the gods are with us!"

Upon the first level of the great, magical fortress of Zhaman were huge, stone-carved halls that had—in past days—been places of meeting and celebration. There were also, on the first level, rooms that had once been filled with books, designed for quiet study and meditation. At the back end were kitchens and storage rooms, long unused and covered by the dust of years.

On the upper levels were large bedrooms filled with quaint, old-fashioned furniture, the beds covered with linens preserved through the years by the dryness of the desert air. Caramon, Lady Crysania, and the officers of Caramon's staff slept in these rooms. If they did not sleep soundly, if they woke up sometimes during the night thinking they had heard voices chanting strange words or glimpsing wisps of ghostly figures fluttering through the moonlit darkness, no one mentioned these in the daylight.

But after a few nights, these things were forgotten, swallowed up in larger worries about supplies, fights breaking out between humans and dwarves, reports from spies that the dwarves of Thorbardin were massing a huge, well-armed force.

There was also in Zhaman, on the first level, a corridor that appeared to be a mistake. Anyone venturing into it discovered that it wandered off from a short hallway and ended abruptly in a blank wall. It looked for all the world as if the builder had thrown down his tools in disgust, calling it quits.

But the corridor was not a mistake. When the proper hands were laid upon that blank wall, when the proper words were spoken, when the proper runes were traced in the dust of the wall itself, then a door appeared, leading to a great staircase cut from the granite foundation of Zhaman.

Down, down the staircase, down into darkness, down—it seemed—into the very core of the world, the proper person could descend. Down into the dungeons of Zhaman.. . .

"One more time." The voice was soft, patient, and it dove and twisted at Tasslehoff like a snake. Writhing around him, it sank its curved teeth into his flesh, sucking out his life.

"We will go over it again. Tell me about the Abyss," said the voice. "Everything you remember. How you entered. What the landscape is like. Who and what you saw. The Queen herself, how she looked, her words. . .. . .

"I'm trying, Raistlin, truly!" Tasslehoff whimpered. "But . . . we've gone over it and over it these last couple of days. I cant think of anything else! And, my head's hot and my feet and my hands are cold and . . . the room's spinning 'round and 'round. If—if you'd make it stop spinning, Raistlin, I think I might be able to recall . . ."

Feeling Raistlin s hand on his chest, Tas shrank down into the bed. "No!" he moaned, trying desperately to wriggle away. "I'll be good, Raistlin! I'll remember. Don't hurt me, not like poor Gnimsh!"

But the archmage's hand only rested lightly on the kender's chest for an instant, then went to his forehead. Tas's skin burned, but the touch of that hand burned worse.

"Lie still," Raistlin commanded. Then, lifting Tas up by the arms, Raistlin stared intently into the kender's sunken eyes.

Finally, Raistlin dropped Tas back down into the bed and, muttering a bitter curse, rose to his feet.

Lying upon a sweat-soaked pillow, Tas saw the black-robed figure hover over him an instant, then, with a flutter and swirl of robes, it turned and stalked out of the room. Tas tried to lift his head to see where Raistlin was going, but the effort was too much. He fell back limply.

Why am I so weak? he wondered. What's wrong? I want to sleep. Maybe I'll quit hurting then. Tas closed his eyes. But they flew open again as if he had wires attached to his hair. No, I cant sleep! he thought fearfully. There are things out there in the darkness, horrible things, just waiting for me to sleep! I've seen them, they're out there! They're going to leap out and-

As if from a great distance, he heard Raistlin's voice, talking to someone. Peering around, trying desperately to keep sleep away from him, Tas decided to concentrate on Raistlin. Maybe I'll find out something, he thought drearily. Maybe I'll find out what's the matter with me.

Looking over, he saw the black—robed figure talking to a squat, dark figure. Sure enough, they were discussing him. Tas tried to listen, but his mind kept doing strange things—going off to play somewhere without inviting his body along. So Tas couldn't be certain if he was hearing what he was hearing or dreaming it.

"Give him some more of the potion. That should keep him quiet," a voice that sounded like Raistlin's said to the short, dark figure. "There's little chance anyone will hear him down here, but I can't risk it."

The short, dark figure said something. Tas closed his eyes and let the cool waters of a blue, blue lake—Crystalmir Lake lap over his burning skin. Maybe his mind had decided to take his body along after all.

"When I am gone," Raistlin's voice came up out of the water, "lock the door after me and extinguish the light. My brother has grown suspicious of late. Should he discover the magical door, he will undoubtedly come down here. He must find nothing. All these cells should appear empty."

The figure muttered, and the door squeaked on its hinges.

The water of Crystalmir suddenly began to boil around Tas. Tentacles snaked up out of it, grasping for him. His eyes flew open. "Raistlin!" he begged. "Don't leave me. Help me!"

But the door banged shut. The short, dark figure shuffled over to Tas's bedside. Staring at it with a kind of dreamlike horror, Tas saw that it was a dwarf. He smiled.

"Flint?" he murmured through parched, cracked lips. "No! Arack!" He tried to run, but the tentacles in the water were reaching out for his feet.

"Raistlin!" he screamed, frantically trying to scramble backward. But his feet wouldn't move. Something grabbed hold of him! The tentacles! Tas fought, shrieking in panic.

"Shut up, you bastard. Drink this." The tentacles gripped him by the topknot and shoved a cup to his lips. "Drink, or I'll pull your hair out by the roots!"

Choking, staring at the figure wildly, Tas took a sip. The liquid was bitter but cool and soothing. He was thirsty, so thirsty! Sobbing, Tas grabbed the cup away from the dwarf and gulped it down. Then he lay back on his pillow. Within moments, the tentacles slipped away, the pain in his limbs left him, and the clear, sweet waters of Crystalmir closed over his head.

Crysania came out of a dream with the distinct impression that someone had called her name. Though she could not remember hearing a sound, the feeling was so strong and intense that she was immediately wide awake, sitting up in bed, before she was truly aware of what it was that had awakened her. Had it been a part of the dream? No. The impression remained and grew stronger.

Someone was in the room with her! She glanced about swiftly. Solinari's light, coming through a small corner at the far end of the room, did little to illuminate it. She could see nothing, but she heard movement. Crysania opened her mouth to call the guard. . . .

And felt a hand upon her lips. Then Raistlin materialized out of night's darkness, sitting on her bed.

"Forgive me for frightening you, Revered Daughter," he said in a soft whisper, barely above a breath. "I need your help and I do not wish to attract the attention of the guards." Slowly, he removed his hand.

"I wasn't frightened," Crysania protested. He smiled, and she flushed. He was so near her that he could feel her trembling. "You just . . . startled me, that's all. I was dreaming. You seemed a part of the dream."

"To be sure," Raistlin replied quietly. "The Portal is here, and thus we are very near the gods."

It isn't the nearness of the gods that is making me tremble, Crysania thought with a quivering sigh, feeling the burning warmth of the body beside hers, smelling his mysterious, intoxicating fragrance. Angrily, she moved away from him, firmly suppressing her desires and longings. He is above such things. Would she show herself weaker?

She returned to the subject abruptly. "You said you needed my help. Why?" Sudden fear gripped her. Reaching out impulsively, she grasped his hand. "You are well, aren't you? Your wound—?"

A swift spasm of pain crossed Raistlin's face, then his expression grew bitter and hard. "No, I am well," he said curtly.

"Thanks be to Paladine," Crysania said, smiling, letting her hand linger in his.

Raistlin's eyes grew narrow. "The god has no thanks of mine!" he muttered. The hand holding hers clenched, hurting her.

Crysania shivered. It seemed for an instant as if the burning heat of the mage's body so near hers was drawing out her own, leaving her chilled. She tried to remove her hand from his, but Raistlin, brought out of his bitter reverie by her movement, turned to look at her.

"Forgive me, Revered Daughter," he said, releasing her. "The pain was unendurable. I prayed for death. It was denied me."

"You know the reason," Crysania said, her fear lost in her compassion. Her hand hesitated a moment, then dropped to the coverlet near his trembling hand, yet not touching him.

"Yes, and I accept it. Still, I cannot forgive him. But that is between your god and myself," Raistlin said reprovingly.

Crysania bit her lip. "I accept my rebuke. It was deserved." She was silent a moment. Raistlin, too, was not inclined to speak, the lines in his face deepening.

"You told Caramon that the gods were with us. So, then, you have communed with my god . . . with Paladine?" Crysania ventured to ask hesitantly.

"Of course," Raistlin smiled his twisted smile. "Does that surprise you?"

Crysania sighed. Her head drooped, the dark hair falling around her shoulders.—The faint moonlight in the room made her black hair glimmer with a soft, blue radiance, made her skin gleam purest white. Her perfume filled the room, filled the night. She felt a touch upon her hair. Lifting her head, she saw Raistlin s eyes burn with a passion that came from a source deep within, a source that had nothing to do with magic. Crysania caught her breath, but at that moment Raistlin stood up and walked away.

Crysania sighed. "So, you have communed with both the gods, then?" she asked wistfully.

Raistlin half-turned. "I have communed with all three," he replied offhandedly.

"Three?" She was startled. "Gilean?"

"Who is Astinus but Gilean's mouthpiece?" Raistlin said scornfully. "If, indeed, he is not Gilean himself, as some have speculated. But, this must be nothing new to you—"

"I have never talked to the Dark Queen," Crysania said.

"Haven't you?" Raistlin asked with a penetrating look that shook the cleric to the core of her soul. "Does she not know of your heart's desire? Hasn't she offered it to you?"

Looking into his eyes, aware of his nearness, feeling desire sweep over her, Crysania could not reply. Then, as he continued to watch her, she swallowed and shook her head. "If she has," she answered in almost inaudible tones, "she has given it with one hand and denied it to me with the other."

Crysania heard the black robes rustle as if the mage had started. His face, visible in the moonlight, was, for an instant, worried and thoughtful. Then it smoothed.

"I did not come here to discuss theology," Raistlin said with a slight sneer. "I have another, more immediate worry."

"Of course." Crysania flushed, nervously brushing her tangled hair out of her face. "Once again, I apologize. You needed me, you said—"

"Tasslehoff is here."

"Tasslehoff?" Crysania repeated in blank amazement.

"Yes, and he is very ill. Near death, in fact. I need your healing skills."

"But, I don't understand. Why— How did he come to be here?" Crysania stammered, bewildered. "You said he had returned to our own time."

"So I believed," Raistlin replied gravely. "But, apparently, I was mistaken. The magical device brought him here, to this time. He has been wandering the world in the manner of kender, enjoying himself thoroughly. Eventually, hearing of the war, he arrived here to share in the adventure. Unfortunately, he has, in his wanderings, contracted the plague:"

"This is terrible! Of course I'll come." Catching up her fur cloak from the end of her bed, she wrapped it around her shoulders, noticing, as she did so, that Raistlin turned away from her. Staring out the window, into the silver moonlight, she saw the muscles of his jaw tighten, as if with some inner struggle.

"I am ready," Crysania said in smooth, businesslike tones, fastening her cloak. Raistlin turned back and extended his hand to her. Crysania looked at him, puzzled.

"We must travel the pathways of the night," he said quietly. "As I told you, I do not want to alert the guards."

"But why not?" she said. "What difference—"

"What will I tell my brother?"

Crysania paused. "I see. . . .”

"You understand my dilemma?" Raistlin asked, regarding her intently. "If I tell him, it will be a worry to him, at a time he can ill afford to add burdens to those he already carries. Tas has broken the magical device. That will upset Caramon, too, even though he is aware I plan to send him home. But—I should tell him the kender is here."

"Caramon has looked worried and unhappy these past few days," Crysania said thoughtfully, concern in her voice.

"The war is not going well," Raistlin informed her bluntly. "The army is crumbling around him. The Plainsmen talk every day of leaving. They may be gone now, for all we know. The dwarves under Fireforge are an untrustworthy lot, pressuring Caramon into striking before he is ready. The supply wagons have vanished, no one knows what has become of them. His own army is restless, upset. On top of all this, to have a kender roaming about, chattering aimlessly, distracting him . . ."

Raistlin sighed. "Still, I cannot—in honor—keep this from him."

Crysania's lips tightened. "No, Raistlin. I do not think it would be wise to tell him." Seeing Raistlin look dubious, she continued earnestly. "There is nothing Caramon can do. If the kender is truly ill, as you suspect, I can heal him, but he will be weak for several days. It would only be an added worry to your brother. Caramon plans to march in a few days' time. We will tend the kender, then have him completely recovered, ready to meet his friend on the field if such is his desire."

The archmage sighed again, in reluctance and doubt. Then, he shrugged. "Very well, Revered Daughter," he said. "I will be guided by you in this. Your words are wise. We will not tell Caramon that the kender has returned."

He moved close to her, and Crysania, looking up at him, caught a strange smile upon his face, a smile that—for just this once—was reflected in his glittering eyes. Startled, upset without quite knowing why, she drew back, but he put his arm around her, enveloping her in the soft folds of his black sleeves, holding her close.

Closing her eyes, she forgot that smile. Nestling close, wrapped in his warmth, she listened to his rapid heartbeat. . . .

Murmuring the words of magic, he transformed them both into nothingness. Their shadows seemed to hover for an instant in the moonlight, then these, too, vanished with a whisper.

"You are keeping him here? In the dungeons?" Crysania asked, shivering in the chill, dank air.

"Shirak. "Raistlin caused the crystal atop the Staff of Magius to fill the room with soft light. "He lies over there," the mage said, pointing.

A crude bed stood up against one wall. Giving Raistlin a reproachful glance, Crysania hurried to the bedside. As the cleric knelt beside the kender and laid her hand on his feverish forehead, Tas cried out. His eyes flared open, but he stared at her unseeing. Raistlin, following more slowly, gestured to a dark dwarf who was crouched in a corner. "Leave us," the mage motioned, then came to stand by the bedside. Behind him, he heard the door to the cell close.

"How can you keep him locked up in the darkness like this?" Crysania demanded.

"Have you ever treated plague victims before, Lady Crysania?" Raistlin asked in an odd tone.

Startled, she looked up at him, then flushed and averted her eyes.

Smiling bitterly, Raistlin answered his own question. "No, of course not. The plague never came to Palanthas. It never struck the beautiful, the wealthy. . . . “ He made no effort to hide his contempt, and Crysania felt her skin burn as though she were the one with the fever.

"Well, it came to us," Raistlin continued. "It swept through the poorer sections of Haven. Of course, there were no healers. Nor were there even many who would stay to care for those who were afflicted. Even their own family members fled them. Poor, pathetic souls. I did what I could, tending them with the herb skill I had acquired. If I could not cure them, at least I could ease their pain. My Master disapproved." Raistlin spoke in an undertone, and Crysania realized that he had forgotten her presence. "So did Caramon—fearing for my health, he said. Bah!" Raistlin laughed without mirth. "He feared for himself. The thought of the plague frightens him more than an army of goblins. But how could I turn my back on them? They had no one . . . no one. Wretched, dying . . . dying alone."

Staring at him dumbly, Crysania felt tears sting her eyes. Raistlin did not see her. In his mind, he was back in those stinking little hovels that huddled on the outskirts of town as though they had run there to hide. He saw himself moving among the sick in his red robes, forcing the bitter medicine down their throats, holding the dying in his arms, easing their last moments. He worked among the sick grimly, asking for no thanks, expecting none. His face—the last human face many would see—expressed neither compassion nor caring. Yet the dying found comfort. Here was one who understood, here was one who lived with pain daily, here was one who had looked upon death and was not afraid. . ..

Raistlin tended the plague victims. He did what he felt he had to do at the risk of his own life, but why? For a reason he had yet to understand. A reason, perhaps, forgotten. . ..

"At any rate"—Raistlin returned to the present—"I discovered that light hurt their eyes. Those who recovered were occasionally stricken blind by—"

A terrified shriek from the kender interrupted him.

Tasslehoff was staring at him wildly. "Please, Raistlin! I'm trying to remember! Don't take me back to the Dark Queen—"

"Hush, Tas," Crysania said softly, gripping the kender with both hands as Tas seemed to be trying, literally, to climb into the wall behind him. "Calm down, Tas. It is Lady Crysania. Do you know me? I'm going to help you."

Tas transferred his wide—eyed, feverish gaze to the cleric, regarding her blankly for a moment. Then, with a sob, he clutched at her. "Don't let him take me back to the Abyss, Crysania! Don't let him take you! It's horrible, horrible. We'll all die, die like poor Gnimsh. The Dark Queen told me!"

"He's raving," Crysania murmured, trying to disengage Tas's clinging hands and force him to lie back down. "What strange delusions. Is this common with plague victims?"

"Yes," Raistlin replied. Regarding Tas intently, the mage knelt by the bedside. "Sometimes it's best to humor them. It may calm him. Tasslehoff—"

Raistlin laid his hand upon the kender's chest. Instantly, Tas collapsed back onto the bed, shrinking away from the mage, shivering and staring at him in horror. "I'll be good, Raistlin." He whimpered. "Don't hurt me, not like poor Gnimsh. Lightning, lightning!"

"Tas," said Raistlin firmly, with a hint of anger and exasperation in his voice that caused Crysania to glance over at him reprovingly.

But, seeing only a look of cool concern on his face, she supposed she must have mistaken his tone. Closing her eyes, she touched the medallion of Paladine she wore around her neck and began to murmur a healing prayer.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Tas. Shhh, lie still." Seeing Crysania lost in her communion with her god, Raistlin hissed, "Tell me, Tas. Tell me what the Dark Queen said."

The kender's face lost its bright, feverish flush as Crysania's soft words flowed over him, sweeter and cooler than the waters of his delirious imaginings. The diminishing fever left Tas's face a ghastly, ashen color. A faint glimmering of sense returned to his eye—. But he never took his gaze from Raistlin.

"She told me . . . before we left. . .. . ." Tas choked.

"Left?" Raistlin leaned forward. "I thought you said you escaped!"

Tas blanched, licking his dry, cracked lips. He tried to tear his gaze away from the mage, but Raistlin's eyes, glittering in the light of the staff, held the kender fast, draining the truth from him. Tas swallowed. His throat hurt.

"Water," he pleaded.

"When you've told me!" Raistlin snarled with a glance at Crysania, who was still kneeling, her head in her hands, praying to Paladine.

Tas gulped painfully. "I . . . I thought we were . . . escaping. We used th-the device and began . . . to rise. I saw . . . the Abyss, the plane, flat, empty, fall away beneath m-my feet. And"—Tas shuddered—"it wasn't empty anymore! There . . . there were shadows and—" He tossed his head, moaning. "Oh, Raistlin, don't make me remember! Don't make me go back there!"

"Hush!" Raistlin whispered, covering Tas's mouth with his hand. Crysania glanced up in concern, only to see Raistlin tenderly stroking the kender's cheek. Seeing Tas's terrified expression and pale face, Crysania frowned and shook her head.

"He is better," she said. "He will not die. But dark shadows hover around him, preventing Paladine's healing light from restoring him fully. They are the shadows of these feverish ramblings. Can you make anything from them?" Her feathery brows came together. "Whatever it is seems very real to him. It must have been something dreadful to have unnerved a kender like this."

"Perhaps, lady, if you left, he would feel more comfortable talking to me," Raistlin suggested mildly. "We are such old friends."

"True," Crysania smiled, starting to rise to her feet. To her amazement, Tas grabbed her hands.

"Don't leave me with him, lady!" He gasped. "He killed Gnimsh! Poor Gnimsh. I saw him di-die!" Tas began to weep. "Burning lightning. . ."

"There, there, Tas," Crysania said soothingly, gently but firmly forcing the kender to lie back down. "No one's going to hurt you. Whoever killed this—uh—Gnimsh can't harm you now. You're with your friends. Isn't he, Raistlin?"

"My magic is powerful," Raistlin said softly. "Remember that, Tasslehoff. Remember the power of my magic."

"Yes, Raistlin," Tas replied, lying quite still, pinned by the mage's fixed and staring gaze.

"I think it would be wise if you remained behind to talk to him," Crysania said in an undertone. "These dark fears will prey on him and hinder the healing process. I will return to my room on my own, with Paladine's help."

"So we agree not to tell Caramon?" Raistlin glanced at Crysania out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes," Crysania said firmly. "This would only worry him unnecessarily." She looked back at her patient. "I will return in the morning, Tasslehoff. Talk to Raistlin. Unburden your soul. Then sleep." Laying her cool hand upon Tas's sweat—covered forehead, she added, "May Paladine be with you."

"Caramon?" Tas said hopefully. "Did you say Caramon? Is he here?"

"Yes, and when you've slept and eaten and rested, I'll take you to him."

"Couldn't I see him now!" Tas cried eagerly, then he cast a fearful sideways glance at Raistlin. "If—if it wouldn't be too much trouble, that is. . . ."

"He's very busy." Raistlin said coldly. "He is a general now, Tasslehoff. He has armies to command, a war to fight. He has no time for kenders."

"No, I—I suppose not," Tas said with a small sigh, lying back on his pillow, his eyes still on Raistlin.

With a final, soft pat on his head, Crysania stood up. Holding the medallion of Paladine in her hand, she whispered a prayer and was gone, vanishing into the night.

"And now, Tasslehoff," Raistlin said in a soft voice that made Tas tremble, "we are alone." With his strong hands, the mage pulled the blankets up over the kender's body and straightened the pillow beneath his head. "There, are you comfortable?"

Tas couldn't speak. He could only stare at the archmage in growing horror.

Raistlin sat down on the bed beside him. Putting one slender hand upon Tas's forehead, he idly caressed the kender's skin and smoothed back his damp hair.

"Do you remember Dalamar, my apprentice, Tas?" Raistlin asked conversationally. "You saw him, I believe at the Tower of High Sorcery, am I correct?" Raistlin's fingers were light as the feet of spiders upon Tas's face. "Do you recall, at one point, Dalamar tore open his black robes, exhibiting five wounds upon his chest? Yes, I see you recall that. It was his punishment, Tas. Punishment for hiding things from me." Raistlin's fingers stopped crawling about the kender's skin and remained in one place, exerting a slight pressure on Tas's forehead.

Tas shivered, biting his tongue to keep from crying out. "I—I remember, Raistlin."

"An interesting experience, don't you think?" Raistlin said offhandedly. "I can burn through your flesh with a touch, as I might burn through, say"—he shrugged—"butter with a hot knife. Kender are fond of interesting experiences, I believe."

"Not—not quite that interesting," Tas whispered miserably. "I'll tell you, Raistlin! I'll tell you everything that—that happened.," He closed his eyes a moment, then began to talk, his entire body quivering with the remembered terror. "We—we seemed not to rise up out of the Abyss so much as . . . as the Abyss dropped away beneath us! And then, like I said, I saw it wasn't empty. I could see shadows and I thought . . . I thought they were valleys and mountains. . . ."

Tas's eyes flared open. He stared at the mage in awe. "It wasn't! Those shadows were her eyes, Raistlin! And the hills and valleys were her nose and mouth. We were rising up out of her face! She looked at me with eyes that were bright and gleamed with fire, and she opened her mouth and I—I thought she was going to swallow us! But we only rose higher and higher and she fell away beneath us, swirling, and then she looked at me and she said . . . she said. . . ."

"What did she say?" Raistlin demanded. "The message was to me! It must have been! That was why she sent you! What did the Queen say?"

Tas's voice grew hushed. "She said, 'Come home. . .' "