The Magic Of Krynn (28 page)

Caramon stood in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. It was so wide, its perimeter was lost
in shadow, so high its ceiling was obscured in shadow. No pillars supported it. No lights
lit it. Yet light there was, though none could name its source. It was a pale light,
white-not yellow. Cold and cheerless, it gave no warmth.

Though he could see no one in the chamber, though he could hear no sound disturb the heavy
silence that seemed centuries old,

Caramon knew he was not alone. He could feel the eyes watching him as they had watched him
long ago, and so he stood stolidly, waiting patiently until they deemed it time to proceed.

He guessed what they were doing and he smiled, but only inwardly. To those watching eyes,
the big man's face remained smooth, impassive. They would see no weakness in him, no
sorrow, no bitter regret. Though memory was reaching out to him, its hand was warm, its
touch gentle. He was at peace with himself, he had been for twenty-five years.

As if reading his thoughts-which, Caramon supposed, they might well have been-those
present in the vast chamber suddenly revealed themselves. It was not that the light grew
brighter, or a mist lifted, or the darkness parted, for none of that happened. Cara- mon
felt more as though he were the one who had suddenly entered, though HE had been standing
there upwards of a quarter hour. The two robed figures that appeared before him were a
part of this place just like the white, magical light, the ages-old silence. He wasn't-he
was an outsider and would be one forever.

“Welcome once again to our Tower, Caramon Ma-jere,” said a voice.

Caramon bowed, saying nothing. He couldn't-for the life of him-remember the man's name.

“Justarius,” the man said, smiling pleasantly. “Yes, the years have been long since we
last met, and our last meeting was during a desperate hour. It is small wonder you have
forgotten me. Please, be seated.” A heavy, carved, oaken chair materialized beside
Caramon. “You have journeyed long and are weary, perhaps.”

Caramon started to state that he was just fine, a journey like this was nothing to a man
who had been over most of the continent of Ansalon in his younger days. But at the sight
of the chair with its soft, inviting cushions, Caramon realized that the journey HAD BEEN
rather a long one-longer than he remembered it. His back ached, his armor appeared to have
grown heavier, and it seemed that his legs just weren't holding up their end of things
anymore.

Well, what do you expect, Caramon asked himself with a shrug. I'm the proprietor of an inn
now. I've got responsibilities. Someone's got to sample the cooking. . . . Heaving a
rueful sigh, he sat down, shifting his bulk about until he was settled comfortably.

“Getting old, I guess,” he said with a grin.

“It comes to all of us,” Justarius answered, nodding his head. “Well, most of us,” he
amended, with a glance at the figure who sat beside him. Following his gaze, Caramon saw
the figure throw

back its rune-covered hood to reveal a familiar face-an elven face.

“Greetings, Caramon Majere.”

“Dalamar,” returned Caramon steadily with a nod of his head, though the grip of memory
tightened a bit at the sight of the black- robed wizard. Dalamar looked no different than
he had years ago-wiser, perhaps, calmer and cooler. Ninety years of age, he had been just
an apprentice magic-user, considered little more than a hot-blooded youth as far as the
elves were concerned. Twenty- five years mattered no more to the long-lived elves than the
passing of a day and night. Now well over one hundred, his cold, handsome face appeared no
older than a human of thirty.

'The years have dealt kindly with you, Caramon,“ Justarius continued. ”The Inn of the Last
Home, which you now own, is one of the most prosperous in Krynn. You are a hero-you and
your lady-wife both. Tika Majere is well and undoubtedly as beautiful as ever?"

“More,” Caramon replied huskily.

Justarius smiled. “You have five children, two daughters and three sons-”

A sliver of fear pricked Caramon's contentment. No, he said to himself inwardly, they have
no power over me now. He settled himself more solidly in his chair, like a soldier digging
in for battle.

“Your two eldest sons, Tanin and Sturm, are soldiers of renown”-Justarius spoke in a bland
voice, as though chatting with a neighbor over the fence. Caramon wasn't fooled, however,
and kept his eyes closely on the wizard-“bidding fair to outdo their famous father and
mother in deeds of valor on the field. But the third, the middle child, whose name is . .
.” Justarius hesitated.

“Palm,” said Caramon, his brows lowering into a frown. Glancing at Dalamar, the big man
saw the dark elf watching him intently with slanted, inscrutable eyes.

“Palm, yes.” Justarius paused, then said quietly, “It would seem he follows in the
footsteps of his uncle.”

There. It was out. Of course, that's why they had ordered him here. He had been expecting
it, or something like it, for a long time now. Damn them! Why couldn't they leave him
alone! He never would have come if Palin hadn't insisted. Breathing heavily, Cara- mon
stared at Justarius, trying to read the man's face. He might as well have been trying to
read one of his son's spellbooks.

Justarius, Head of the Conclave of Wizards, the most powerful magic-user in Krynn. The
red-robed wizard sat in the great stone

chair in the center of the semicircle of twenty-one chairs. An elderly man, his gray hair
and lined face were the only outward signs of aging. The eyes were as shrewd, the body
appeared as strong-except the crippled left leg-as when Cara-mon had first met the
archmage twenty-five years ago.

Caramon's gaze went to the mage's left leg. Hidden beneath the red robes, the man's injury
was noticeable only to those who had seen him walk.

Aware of Caramon's scrutiny, Justarius's hand went self- consciously to rub his leg, then
he stopped with a wry smile. Crippled Justarius may be, Caramon thought, chilled. But only
in body. Not in mind or ambition. Twenty-five years ago, Justarius had been the leading
spokesman only of his own Order, the Red Robes, those wizards in Krynn who had turned
their backs upon both the Evil and the Good to walk their own path, that of Neutrality.
Now he was Head of the Conclave of Wizards, ruling over all the wizards in the world,
presumably-the White Robes, Red Robes, and the Black. Since magic is the most potent force
in a wizard's life, he swears fealty to the Conclave, no matter what private ambitions or
desires he nurses within his own heart.

Most wizards, that is. Of course, there had been his twin Raistlin . . .

Twenty-five years ago.

Par-Salian of the White Robes had been Head of the Conclave then. . . . Caramon felt
memory's hand clutch him more tightly still.

“I don't see what my son has to do with any of this,” he said in an even, steady voice.
“If you want to meet my boys, they are in that room you magicked us into after we arrived.
I'm sure you can magic them in here anytime you want. So, now that we have concluded
social pleasantries- By the way, where is Par-Salian?” Caramon demanded suddenly, his gaze
going around the shadowy chamber, flicking over the empty chairs next to Justarius.

“He retired as Head of the Conclave twenty-five years ago,” Justarius said gravely,
“following the . . . the incident in which you were involved.”

Caramon flushed, but said nothing. He thought he detected a slight smile on Dalamar's
delicate elven features.

“I took over as Head of the Conclave, and Dalamar was chosen to succeed Ladonna as Head of
the Order of Black Robes in return for his dangerous and valiant work during-”

“The incident,” Caramon growled. “Congratulations,” he added.

Dalamar's lip curled in a sneer. Justarius nodded, but it was obvious he was not to be
distracted from the previous topic of discussion.

“I would be honored to meet your sons,” Justarius said coolly. “Palin in particular. I
understand that the young man is desirous of becoming a mage someday.”

“He's studying magic, if that's what you mean,” Car-amon said gruffly. “I don't know how
seriously he takes it, or if he plans to make it his livelihood, as you seem to imply. He
and I have never discussed it-”

Dalamar snorted derisively at this, causing Justarius to lay his hand on the dark elf's
black-robed arm.

“Perhaps we have been mistaken in what we have heard of your son's ambition, then?”

“Perhaps you have,” Caramon returned coolly. “Palin and I are close. I'm certain he would
have confided in me.”

“It is refreshing to see a man these days who is honest and open about his love for his
sons, Caramon Ma-jere,” began Justarius mildly.

“Bah!” Dalamar interrupted. “You might as well say it is refreshing to see a man with his
eyes gouged out!” Snatching his arm from the old wizard's grasp, he gestured at Caramon.
“You were blind to your brother's dark ambition for years, until it was almost too late.
Now you turn sightless eyes to your own son-”

“My son is a good boy, as different from Raistlin as the silver moon and the black! He has
no such ambition! What would you know of him anyway, you . . . you outcast?” Caramon
shouted, rising to his feet in anger. Though well over fifty, the big man had kept himself
in relatively good condition through hard work and training his sons in the arts of
battle. His hand went reflexively to his sword, forgetting as he did so, however, that in
the Tower of High Sorcery he would be as helpless as a gully dwarf facing a dragon. “And
speaking of dark ambition, you served your master well, didn't you, Dalamar? Raistlin
taught you a lot. Perhaps more than we know-”

“And I bear the mark of his hand upon my flesh still!” Dalamar cried, rising to his feet
in turn. Ripping his black robes open at the neck, he bared his breast. Five wounds, like
the marks of five fingers, were visible on the dark elf's smooth skin. A thin trickle of
blood trailed down each, glistening in the cold light of the Chamber of Wizards. “For
twenty-five years, I've lived with this pain. . . .”

“And what of my pain?” Caramon asked in a low voice, feeling

memory's hand dig sharp nails into his soul. “Why have you brought me here? To cause my
wounds to open and bleed as well as your own!”

“Gentlemen, please,” said Justarius softly. “Dalamar, control yourself. Caramon, please
sit down. Remember, you two owe your lives to each other. This establishes a bond between
you that should be respected.”

The old man's voice penetrated the shouts that still echoed in the vast chamber, its cool
authority silencing Caramon and calming Dalamar. Clasping his torn robes together, the
dark elf resumed his seat next to Justarius.

Caramon, too, sat down, ashamed and chagrined. He had sworn he would not let this happen,
these people would have no power to shake him. And already he'd lost control. Trying to
assume a relaxed expression, he leaned back in the chair. But his hand clenched over the
hilt of his sword.

“Forgive Dalamar,” Justarius said, his hand once again on the dark elf's arm. “He spoke in
haste and anger. You are right, Caramon. Your son, Palin, IS a good man-I think we must
say MAN and not BOY. He is, after all, twenty-”

“Just turned twenty,” Caramon muttered, eyeing Justarius warily.

The red-robed archmage waved it aside. “And he is, as you say, different from Raistlin.
How not? He is his own person, after all. Born to different parents, under different,
happier circumstances than faced you and your twin. From all we hear, Palin is handsome,
likeable, strong, and fit. He does not have the burden of ill health to bear, as did
Raistlin. He is devoted to his family, especially his two elder brothers. They, in turn,
are devoted to him. Is all this true?”

Caramon nodded, unable to speak past the sudden lump in his throat.

Looking at him, Justarius's mild gaze suddenly became sharp and penetrating. He shook his
head. “But in'some ways you are blind, Caramon. Oh, not as Da-lamar said,”-seeing
Caramon's face go red with anger-“not the way you were blinded to your brother's evil.
This is the blindness that afflicts all parents, my friend. I know”-Justarius smiled and
gave rueful shrug-“I have a daughter . . .”

Glancing at Dalamar out of the comer of his eye, the archmage sighed. The handsome elf's
lips twitched in a hint of a smile. Dalamar said nothing, however. He simply sat staring
into the shadows.

“Yes, we parents can be blind,” Justarius murmured. “But that is neither here nor there.”
Leaning forward, the archmage clasped his hands together. “I see you growing impatient,
Caramon. As you guessed, we have called you here for a purpose. And, I'm afraid it does
have something to do with your son, Palin.”

This is it, Caramon said to himself, scowling, his sweating hand clenching and unclenching
nervously around the hilt of his sword.

“There is no easy way to say this, so I will be blunt and direct.” Justarius drew a deep
breath, his face became grave and sorrowful, touched with a shadow of fear. “We have
reason to believe that the young man's uncle-your twin brother, Raistlin-is NOT DEAD.”