Dragonlance 09 - Dragons of the Hourglass Mage (37 page)

“I’m sorry, Tanis,” Caramon was mumbling. “I was thinking—about Raist. I—I know I shouldn’t—”

“How in the name of the Abyss does that blasted brother of yours work mischief when he’s not even here?”

“How indeed?” Raistlin asked with a smile and a sigh.

So Tanis
had
captured Berem and was apparently planning to exchange him for Laurana. Only Caramon had lost him. Raistlin wondered if Tanis knew the reason the Dark Queen wanted Berem so desperately. If he knew, would he be so eager to hand him over? Raistlin did not hazard a guess. He did not know these people. They had changed; the war, their trials had changed them.

Caramon, good-natured, cheerful, outgoing, was lost and alone, seeking the part of himself that was missing. Tika Waylan stood beside him, trying to be supportive, but unable to understand.

Pert and pretty Tika, with the bouncing, red curls and hearty laughter. Her red curls might be wet and drooping, but their fire was still bright in the spring rain. She carried a sword, not mugs of ale, and wore pieces of mismatched armor. Raistlin had been annoyed by Tika’s love for his brother. Or perhaps he had been
jealous of that love. Not because Raistlin had been in love with Tika himself, but because Caramon had found someone else to love besides his twin.

“I did you a favor by leaving, my brother,” Raistlin told Caramon. “It is time for you to let go.”

His attention shifted to Tanis, the leader of the group. Once he had been calm and collected, but he was falling apart as Raistlin watched. The woman he loved had been taken from him, and he was desperate to save her, though it meant destroying the world in the process.

Fizban, the befuddled old wizard in the mouse-colored robes, standing apart, watching and waiting quietly, patiently.

Raistlin remembered a question Tanis had asked him once, long in the past, when the autumn winds blew cold.

“Do you believe we were chosen, Raistlin? … Why? We are not the stuff of heroes …”

Raistlin remembered his answer. “But who chose us? And for what purpose?”

He looked at Fizban, and he had his answer. At least that was part of the answer.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot, irrepressible, irresponsible, irritating. If Berem was the Everman, Tas was the Everchild. The child had grown up. Like Mari. More’s the pity.

As Raistlin watched, Tanis angrily ordered the rest of the group to search for Berem. They wearily retraced their steps, backtracking along the trail to see if they could find where Berem had left it. It was Flint who discovered Berem’s footprints in the mud and gave chase, leaving the others behind.

“Flint! Wait up!” Tanis yelled.

Raistlin lifted his head, startled. The shout had not come from the orb. It had come from the other side of the rock wall! Raistlin looked in the direction of Tanis’s voice and saw a narrow, tunnel-like opening in the wall, an opening he could have sworn had not been there earlier.

He had no time for wonder and no more need for the dragon orb, apparently. Kitiara had been right. His friends had been searching for Godshome, and it seemed they had found it.

Raistlin returned the orb to its pouch. Picking up the staff, he hurriedly whispered the words to a spell, hoping as he did so that magic worked in that sacred place.

“Cermin shirak dari mayat, kulit mas ente bentuk.”

Raistlin had cast a spell to make himself invisible. He looked into the stream. He could not see his own reflection, and if he could not see himself, his friends would not be able to see him. The magic had worked.

The one possible exception might be Fizban. Taking no chances, Raistlin glided between the pillars of stone and concealed himself behind them just as a man crawled through the opening in the rocks.

It was the man with the old face and young eyes, the man who had been onboard the ship in Flotsam, the man who had steered them into the whirlpool. As Berem rose to his feet, an emerald, embedded in his chest, flashed green in the morning sun.

Berem Everman. The Green Gemstone Man. Jasla’s brother. The man who could set Queen Takhisis free or keep her forever imprisoned in the Abyss.

Berem looked fearfully behind him. He wore a hunted expression, a fox fleeing the hounds. He ran across the stone floor of the vale. Flint and the others would not be far behind, but for the moment, Berem and Raistlin were alone in Godshome.

A few magical words and Raistlin could spellbind Berem, make him a prisoner. He could use the dragon orb to transport them back to Neraka. He could present Takhisis with a gift of inestimable value. She would be grateful. She would give him whatever his heart desired. He might even be able to bargain for Laurana’s freedom. But he would always have to sleep with one eye open …

Raistlin watched Berem run past him. The Everman had sighted what appeared to be another opening in a far wall. And here came Flint, running after him. The dwarf’s face was flushed with excitement and exertion. Berem had a lengthy head start. It seemed unlikely that Flint would win the race.

Hearing a shout behind him, Raistlin turned to see Tasslehoff crawling through the narrow tunnel. The kender emerged into the vale and was exclaiming loudly over the stone pillars and the stone floor and other wonders. Raistlin heard the voices of his friends on
the other side of the tunnel. He could not make out what they were saying.

“Tanis, hurry!” Tas called.

“There’s no other way?” Caramon’s voice echoed dismally through the narrow hole.

Tasslehoff searched the vale, trying to find Flint, but the pillars stood between the dwarf and the kender, blocking his view. Running back to the opening, Tas bent down and peered inside.

He yelled something into the tunnel, and someone yelled back. By the sounds of it, they had tried to crawl through it. Caramon, it seemed, was stuck.

Flint was actually gaining on Berem. The morning sunlight sent shadows crawling over the rock walls, and Berem had seemingly lost sight of the opening. He was running back and forth, like a rabbit trapped at a fence line, searching for the way out. Then he found it and made a dive for it.

Berem was about to crawl through the hole. Raistlin was pondering what he should do, wondering if he should try to stop Berem, when suddenly Flint gave a terrible cry. The dwarf grabbed at his chest and, moaning in pain, sagged to his knees.

“His heart. I knew it,” Raistlin said. “I warned him.”

He started instinctively to go the dwarf’s aid, then brought himself up short. He was no longer a part of their lives. They were no longer a part of his. Raistlin watched and waited. There was nothing he could do anyway.

Berem heard Flint cry out and turned fearfully around. Seeing the old dwarf drop to the ground, Berem hesitated. He looked at the opening in the wall, and he looked at Flint and then came running to help. Berem knelt beside the dwarf, whose face was ashen.

“What is wrong? What can I do?” Berem asked.

“It’s nothing,” Flint gasped for air. His hand pressed against his chest. “An upset stomach, that’s all. Something I ate. Just … help me stand. I can’t seem to catch my breath. If I walk around a little …”

Berem assisted the old dwarf to his feet.

From the opposite side of the vale, Tasslehoff had finally found them. But, of course, the kender got it wrong. He thought Berem was attacking Flint.

“It’s Berem!” the kender shouted frantically. “And he’s doing something to Flint! Hurry, Tanis!”

Flint took a step and staggered. His eyes rolled up in his head. His legs buckled. Berem caught the dwarf in his arms and laid him down gently on the rocks, then hovered over him, uncertain what to do.

Hearing the sounds of feet pounding toward him, Berem stood up. He seemed relieved. Help was coming.

“What have you done?” Tanis raved. “You’ve killed him!”

He drew his sword and plunged the blade into Berem’s body.

Berem shuddered and cried out. He sagged forward, his body impaled on the sword, falling onto Tanis, his weight nearly carrying them both to the ground. Blood washed over Tanis’s hands. He yanked his blade free and turned, ready to fight Caramon, who was trying to pull him away. Berem was moaning on the ground, blood pouring from the fatal wound. Tika was sobbing.

Flint had seen none of it. He was leaving the world, starting on his soul’s next long journey. Tasslehoff took hold of the dwarf’s hand and urged him to get up.

“Leave me be, you doorknob,” Flint grumbled weakly. “Can’t you see I’m dying?”

Tasslehoff gave a grief-stricken wail and fell to his knees. “You’re not dying, Flint! Don’t say that.”

“I should know if I’m dying or not!” Flint said irately, glowering.

“You thought you were dying before, and you were just seasick,” Tas said, wiping his nose. “Maybe you’re … you’re …” He glanced around at the stone floor of the vale. “Maybe you’re ground-sick …”

“Ground-sick!” Flint snorted. Then, seeing the kender’s misery, the dwarf’s expression softened. “There, there, lad. Don’t waste time blubbering like a gully dwarf. Run and fetch Tanis for me.”

Tasslehoff gave a snuffle and did as he was told.

Berem’s eyelids fluttered. He gave another moan and sat up. He put his hand to his chest. The emerald, soaked with blood, sparkled in the sunlight.

Hope lives. No matter the mistakes we make, no matter our blunders and misunderstandings, no matter the grief and sorrow and loss, no matter how deep the darkness, hope lives.

Raistlin left his place by the pillars and came, unseen, to stand over Flint, who lay with his eyes closed. For a moment, the dwarf was alone. Some distance away, Caramon was trying to restore Tanis to sanity. Tasslehoff was tugging on Fizban’s sleeve, trying to make him understand. Fizban understood all too well.

Raistlin knelt beside the dwarf. Flint’s face was ashen and contorted with pain. His hands clenched. Sweat covered his brow.

“You never liked me,” said Raistlin. “You never trusted me. Yet you were good to me, Flint. I cannot save your life. But I can ease the pain of dying, give you time to say good-bye.”

Raistlin reached into his pouch and drew out a small vial containing juice distilled from poppy seeds. He poured a few drops into the dwarf’s mouth. The lines of pain eased. Flint’s eyes opened.

As his friends gathered around Flint to say good-bye, Raistlin was there with them, though none of them ever knew it. He told himself more than once that he should leave, that he had work to do, that his ambitious plans for his future hung in the balance. But he remained with his friends and his brother.

Raistlin stayed until Flint sighed and closed his eyes and the last breath left the dwarf’s body. Raistlin chanted the magic beneath his breath. The corridor opened before him.

He walked into it and did not look back.

itiara reached Neraka early on the morning of the twenty-fifth, fearing she was late for the council meeting, only to find that Ariakas himself had not yet arrived. The plans for the meeting were thrown into confusion, for none of the other Highlords or their armies could enter the city ahead of the Emperor. Ariakas did not trust his fellow Highlords. If they were allowed inside Neraka, they might shut its gates and fill its walls with warriors and try to keep him out.

Kitiara had been expecting to move into her luxurious quarters in the temple. Instead, she was forced to camp outside the city walls, living in a tent that was so small and cramped, she could not pace about, as she was wont to do when she needed to think.

Kitiara was in a foul mood. She was still suffering a headache from where she’d hit her head on the stone floor of the vault. She was glad for the excuse to leave Dargaard Keep. Though she felt like crap, she had summoned Skie and flown to join her army. The thought of challenging Ariakas for the Crown of Power had eased the pain in
her head. But she had arrived here only to discover that no one knew where Ariakas was or when he would deign to grace them with his presence. And that left Kitiara nothing to do except fume and complain to her aide-de-camp, a bozak draconian named Gakhan.

“Ariakas is doing this deliberately to unsettle the rest of us,” Kitiara muttered. She was sitting hunched over a small table, her head in her hands, massaging her throbbing temples. “He’s trying to intimidate us, Gakhan, and I won’t stand for it.”

Gakhan made a noise, a kind of snort and sneer. The bozak grinned, his tongue flicked out of his mouth.

Kitiara raised her head and looked at him sharply. “You’ve heard something. What’s going on?”

Gakhan had been with Kitiara since before the beginning of the war. Though officially known as her aide-de-camp, his unofficial title was Kitiara’s Knife. Gakhan was loyal to Kitiara and to his Queen, in that order. Some said he was in love with the Blue Lady, though they were always careful to say that behind his back, never to his face. The bozak was smart, secretive, resourceful, and extremely dangerous. He had earned his nickname.

Gakhan glanced out the tent flap, then drew it shut and tied it securely. He leaned over Kitiara and spoke softly, “My lord Ariakas is late because he was wounded. He very nearly died.”