The Magic Of Krynn (31 page)

“You have not told your children the truth about their uncle,” Dalamar said as Caramon
glanced at him.

“I've told them,” Caramon retorted, his face flushing, “as much as I thought they should
know. I tried to make them see both sides of him. . . .”

“You have done them a disservice, particularly one of them,” Dalamar replied coldly, his
glance going to Palin.

“What could I do?” Caramon asked angrily. “When the legends started about him-sacrificing
himself for the sake of the world, daring to go into the Abyss to rescue Lady Crysania
from the clutches of the Dark Queen-what could I say? I told them how it was, I told them
the true story. I told them that he lied to Crysania. That he seduced her in spirit, if
not in body, and led her into the Abyss. And I told them that, at the end, when she was of
no more use to him, he abandoned her to let her die alone. I told them. My friend Tanis
has told them. But they believe what they want to believe. . . . We all do, I guess,”
Caramon added with an accusing glance at Dalamar. “I notice you mages don't go out of your
way to refute those stories!”

“They've done us good,” Dalamar said, shrugging his slender shoulders. “Because of the
legends about Raistlin and his 'sacrifice,' magic is no longer feared, we wizards no
longer reviled. Our schools are flour ishing, our services are in demand. The city of
Kala-man has actually invited us to build a new Tower of High Sorcery there.” The dark elf
smiled bitterly. “Ironic, isn't it?”

“What?”

“By his failure, your brother succeeded in what he set out to accomplish,” Dalamar
remarked, his smile twisting. “In a way, he HAS become a god. . . .”

“Palin, I insist on knowing what's going on.” Tanin laid his hand on Palin's shoulder.

“You heard them, Tanin,” Palin hedged, nodding toward Dalamar, who was talking with his
father. “We're going to travel to the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, where the Portal
is located, and . . . and look in. ... That's all.”

“And I'm a gully dwarf!” growled Tanin.

“Sometimes you think like one,” Palin snapped, losing his patience and thrusting his
brother's arm away.

Tanin's face flushed a dull red. Unlike the easygoing Sturm, Tanin had inherited his
mother's temper along with her curls. He also took his role of Elder Brother seriously,
too seriously sometimes to Palin's mind. But it's only because he loves me, the young man
reminded himself.

Drawing a deep breath, he sighed and, reaching out, clasped

his brother by the shoulders. “Tanin, you listen to me for a change. Sturm's right. I
didn't 'blubber' when you went off to battle that first time. At least not when you could
see me. But I cried all night, alone, in the darkness. Don't you think I know that each
time you leave may be the last time we ever see each other? How many times have you been
wounded? That last fight, that minotaur arrow missed your heart by only two
fingersbreadth.”

Tanin, his face dark, stared down at his feet. “That's different,” he muttered.

“As Granpa Tas would say, 'A chicken with its neck wrung is different from a chicken with
its head cut off, but does it matter to the chicken?' ” Palin smiled.

Swallowing his tears, Tanin shrugged and tried to grin. “I guess you're right.” He put his
hands on Palin's shoulders, looked intently into his pale face. “Come home, kid! Give this
up!” he whispered fiercely. “It isn't worth it! If anything happened to you, think what it
would do to Mother . . . and Father. . . .”

“I know,” Palin said, his own eyes filling despite all his best efforts to prevent it. “I
have thought of that! I must do this, Tanin. Try to understand. Tell Mother I... I love
her very much. And the little girls. Tell them I'll ... I'll bring them a present, like
you and Sturm always do . . .”

“What? A dead lizard?” Tanin growled. “Some moldy old bat's wing?”

Wiping his eyes, Palin smiled. “Yeah, tell 'em that. You better go. Dad's watching us.”

“Watch yourself, little brother. And him.” Tanin glanced at his father. “This will be
pretty tough on him.”

“I know.” Palin sighed. “Believe me, I know.”

Tanin hesitated. Palin saw one more lecture, one more attempt to dissuade him in his
brother's eyes.

“Please, Tanin,” he said softly. “No more.”

Blinking rapidly and rubbing his nose, Tanin nodded. Cuffing his little brother on the
cheek and ruffling the auburn hair, Tanin walked across the shadowy chamber to stand near
the entryway with Sturm.

Palin watched him walk away, then, turning, he went the opposite direction, toward the
front of the great hall, to bid his parting respects to the two wizards.

“So Dalamar has spoken to you,” Justarius said as the young man came to stand before him.

“Yes,” said Palin grimly. “HE has told me the truth.” “Has he?” Dunbar asked suddenly.
"Remember this, young one.

Dalamar wears the Black Robes. He is ambitious. Whatever he does, he does because he
believes it will ultimately benefit him."

“Can you two deny what he told me is true? That you are using me as bait to trap my
uncle's spirit if it still lives?”

Justarius glanced at Dunbar, who shook his head.

“Sometimes you have to look for the truth here, Palin,” Dunbar said in answer, reaching
out his hand to touch Palin gently on the chest, “in your heart.”

His lip curled in derision, but Palin knew what respect he must show two such high-ranking
wizards. So he simply bowed. “Dalamar and my father are waiting for me. I bid you both
farewell. The gods willing, I will return in a year or two for my Test, and I hope I will
have the honor of seeing you both again.”

Justarius did not miss the sarcasm, nor the bitter, angry expression on the young man's
face. It made him recall another bitter, angry young man, who had come to this Tower over
thirty years ago. . . .

“May Gilean go with you, Palin,” the archmage said softly, folding his hands in the
sleeves of his robes.

“May Paladine, the god you are named for, guide you, Palin,” Dunbar said. “And consider
this,” he added, a smile creasing his black face, “in case you never see the old Sea
Wizard again. You may learn that-by serving the world-you serve yourself best of all”

Palin did not reply. Bowing again, he turned and left them. The chamber seemed to grow
darker as he walked back across it. He might have been alone, he could see no one for a
moment, not his brothers, not Dalamar and his father. . . . But as the darkness deepened,
the white of his robes gleamed more brightly, like

the first star in the evening sky. For an instant, fear assailed Palin. Had they all left
him?

Was he alone in this vast darkness? Then he saw a glint of metal near him-his father's
armor, and he breathed a sigh of relief. His steps hurried and, as he came to stand beside
his father, the chamber seemed to lighten. He could see the dark elf, standing next to
Caramon, pale face all that was visible from the shadows of his black robes. Palin could
see his brothers, could see them lift their hands in farewell. Palin started to raise his,
but then Dalamar began chanting, and it seemed a dark cloud covered the light of Palin's
robes, of Caramon's armor. The darkness grew thicker, swirling around them until it was so
deep that it was a hole of blackness cut into the shadows of the chamber. Then

there was nothing. The cold, eerie light returned to the Tower, filling up the gap.

Dalamar, Palin, and Caramon were gone.

The two brothers left behind shouldered their packs and began the long, strange journey
back through the magical Forest of Wayreth, thoughts of breaking this news to their
red-haired, fiery-tempered, loving mother hanging around their hearts with the weight of
dwarven armor.

Behind them, standing beside the great stone chairs, Justarius and Dunbar watched in grim
silence. Then, each speaking a word of magic, they, too, were gone, and the Tower of High
Sorcery at Wayreth was left to its shadows, only memories walked the halls.

“'He came in the middle of a still, black night,'” Dalamar said softly. “ The only moon in
the sky was one his eyes alone could see.'” The dark elf glanced at Palin from the depths
of the black hood that covered his head. “Thus runs the legend about your uncle's return
to this Tower.”

Palin said nothing-the words were in his heart. They had been there, secretly, ever since
he was old enough to dream. In awe, he looked up at the huge gates that barred the
entrance, trying to imagine his uncle standing where he now stood, commanding the gates to
open. And when they did- Palin's gaze went farther upward still to the dark Tower itself.

It was daylight in Palanthas, it had been mid-morning when they left the Tower of High
Sorcery in Wayreth, hundreds of miles to the south. And it was mid-morning still, their
magical journey having taken them no more than the drawing of a breath. The sun was at its
zenith, shining right above the Tower. Two of the blood-red minarets atop the Tower held
the golden orb between them, like blood-stained fingers greedily grasping a coin. And the
sun might well have been nothing more than a coin for all the warmth it shed, for no
sunshine ever warmed this place of evil. The huge black stone edifice-torn from the bones
of the world by magic spells-stood in the shadow of the spell-bound Shoikan Grove, a stand
of massive oak trees that guarded the Tower more effectively than if each tree had been a

hundred knights-at-arms. So powerful was its dread enchantment that no one could even come
near it. Unless protected by a dark charm, no one could enter and come out alive.

Turning his head, Palin glanced from the folds of his white hood at the Grove's tall
trees. They stood un-moving, though he could feel the wind from the sea blowing strong
upon his face. It was said that even the terrible hurricanes of the Cataclysm had not
caused a leaf to flutter in the Shoikan Grove, though no other tree in the city remained
standing. A chill darkness flowed among the trunks of the oaks, reaching out snaking
tendrils of icy fog that slithered along the paved courtyard before the gates, writhing
about the ankles of those who stood there.

Shivering with cold and a fear he could not control, a fear fed by the trees, Palin looked
at his father with new respect. Driven by love for his twin, Caramon had dared enter the
Shoikan Grove, and had very nearly paid for his love with his life.

He must be thinking of that, Palin thought, for his father's face was pale and grim. Beads
of sweat stood upon his forehead. “Let's get out of here,” Caramon said harshly, his eyes
carefully avoiding the sight of the cursed trees. “Go inside, or something. . . .”

“Very well,” replied Dalamar. Though his face was hidden once again by the shadows of his
hood, Palin had the impression the dark elf was smiling. "Although there is no hurry. We
must wait until nightfall, when both the silver moon, Solinari, beloved of Pala-dine, the
black moon, Nuitari, favored by the Dark Queen, and Lunitari, the red moon of Gilean, are
in the sky together. Raistlin will draw upon the black moon for his power. Others- who
might need it- may draw upon Solinari-if they choose. . .

." He did not look at Palin as he spoke, but the young man felt himself flush.

“What do mean-draw upon its power?” Caramon demanded angrily, grabbing hold of Dalamar.
“Palin's not a mage, not yet. You said you would deal with everything-”

“I am aware of my words,” Dalamar interrupted. He wrenched his arm free of Caramon's grip
with an ease astonishing in the slender elf. “And I will deal with . . . what must be
dealt with. But things strange and unexpected may happen this night. It is well to be
prepared.” Dalamar regarded Caramon coolly. “And do not interfere with me again or you
will regret it. Come, Palin. You may need my assistance to enter these gates.” Dalamar
held out his hand.

Glancing back at his father, Palin saw his eyes fixed on him. “Don't go in there,” his
anguished gaze pleaded. "If you do, I will

lose you . . . ." Lowering his own eyes in confusion, pretending he hadn't read

the message that had been as clear as the very first words his father taught him, Palin
turned away and laid his hand hesitantly upon the dark elf's arm. The black robes were
soft and velvety to the touch. He could feel the hard muscles and, beneath, the fine,
delicate bone structure of the elf, almost fragile to the touch, yet strong and steady and
supportive.

An unseen hand opened the gates that had once, long ago, been made of fluted silver and
gold but were now black and twisted, guarded by shadowy beings. Drawing Palin with him,
Dalamar stepped through them.

Searing pain pierced the young man. Clutching his heart, Palin doubled over with a cry.

Dalamar stopped Caramon's advance with a look. “You cannot aid him,” the dark elf said.
“Thus the Dark Queen punishes those not loyal to her who tread upon this sacred ground.
Hold on to me, Palin. Hold on to me tightly and keep walking. Once we are inside, this
will subside.”

Gritting his teeth, Palin did as he was told/moving forward with halting footsteps, both
hands gripping Dalamar's arm.

It was well the dark elf led him on for, left on his own, Palin would have fled this place
of darkness. Through the haze of pain, he heard soft words whisper, “Why enter? Death
alone awaits you! Are you anxious to look upon his grinning face? Turn back, foolish one!
Turn back. Nothing is worth this. . . .” Palin moaned. How could he have been so blind?
Dala-mar had been right . . . the price of ambition was too high. . . .

'“Courage, Palin . . .” Dalamar's voice blended with the whispering words.

The Tower was crushing him beneath the weight of its dark, magical power, pressing the
life from his body. Still Palin kept walking, though he could barely see the stones
beneath his feet through a blood-red film blurring his eyes. Was this how HE felt when HE
first came? Palin asked himself in agony. But no, of course not. Raistlin had worn the
Black Robes when he first entered the Tower. HE came in the fullness of his power. Master
of Past and Present. FOR HIM, THE GATES HAD OPENED. . . . ALL DARK AND SHADOWY THINGS
BOWED IN HOMAGE. Thus went the legend. . . .

For him, the gates had opened. . . .

With a sob, Palin collapsed upon the threshold of the Tower.

“Feeling better?” Dalamar asked as Palin raised himself dizzily from the couch on which he
lay. “Here, a sip of wine. It is elven. A fine vintage. I have it 'shipped' to me from
Silvanesti, unknown to the Silvanesti elves, of course. This was the first wine made
following the land's destruction. It has a dark, faintly bitter taste-as of tears. Some of
my people, I am told, cannot drink it without weeping.” Pouring a glassful, Dalamar held
the deep purple hued liquid out to Palin. “I find, in fact, that even when I drink it, a
feeling of sadness comes over me.”

“Homesick,” suggested Caramon, shaking his head as Dalamar offered him a glass. Palin knew
by the tone of his father's voice that he was upset and unhappy, frightened for his son.
He sat stolidly in his chair, however, trying to appear unconcerned. Palin cast him a
grateful glance as he drank the wine, feeling its warming influence banish the strange
chill.

Oddly enough, the wine WAS making him think about his home. “Homesick,” Caramon had said.
Palin expected Dalamar to scoff or sneer at this statement. Dark elves are, after all,
“cast from the light” of elven society, banned from entering the ancient home- lands.
Dalamar's sin had been to take the Black Robes, to seek power in dark magic. Bound hand
and foot, his eyes blindfolded, he had been driven in a cart to the borders of his
homeland and there thrown out, never more to be admitted. To an elf, whose centuries-long
lives are bound up in their beloved woods and gardens, to be dismissed from the ancestral
lands is worse than death.

Dalamar appeared so cool and unfeeling about everything, however, that Palin was surprised
to see a look of wistful longing and swift sorrow pass over the dark elf's face. It was
gone as quickly as a ripple over quiet water, but he had seen it nonetheless. He felt less
in awe of the dark elf. So something could touch him, after all.

Sipping the wine, tasting the faint bitterness, Palin's thoughts went to HIS home, the
splendid house his father built with his own hands, the inn that was his parent's pride
and joy. He thought about the town of Solace, nestled among the leaves of the great
vallenwood trees, a town he had left only to attend school as

must all young, aspiring magic-users. He thought of his mother, of the two little sisters
who were the bane of his

existence-stealing his pouches, trying to peek under his robes, hiding his spellbooks. . .
. What would it be like- never seeing them again?

. . . never seeing them again . . .

Palin's hand began to tremble. Carefully, he set the fragile glass down upon the table
near his chair, fearing he might drop it or spill his wine. He looked around hurriedly to
see if either his father Dalamar had noticed. Neither had, both being engaged in a quiet
discussion near the window overlooking the city of Palanthas.

“You have never been back to the laboratory since?” Caramon was asking, his voice low.

Dalamar shook his head. He had removed the hood of his robes, his long, silky hair brushed
his shoulders. “I went back the week you left,” he replied, “to make certain all was in
order. And then I sealed it shut.”

“So everything is still there,” Caramon murmured. Palin saw his father's shrewd gaze turn
to the dark elf, who was staring out the window, his face cold and expressionless. “It
must contain objects that would grant a tremendous power to a wizard, or so I would guess.
What is in there?”

Almost holding his breath, Palin rose from his chair and crept silently across the
beautiful, luxurious carpet to hear the dark elf's answer.

“The spellbooks of Fistandantilus, Raistlin's own spellbooks, his notes on herb lore and,
of course, the Staff of Magius-”

“HIS staff?” Palin said suddenly.

Both men turned to look at the young man, Cara-mon's face grave, Dalamar appearing faintly
amused.

“You told me my uncle's staff was lost!” Palin said to his father accusingly.

“And so it is, young one,” Dalamar answered. “The spell I put upon that chamber is such
that even the rats do not come anywhere near it. None may enter on pain of death. If the
famed Staff of Magius were at the bottom of the Blood Sea, it could not be more
effectively lost to this world than it is now.”

“There's one other thing in that laboratory,” Caramon said slowly in sudden realization.
“The Portal to the Abyss. If we can't get in the laboratory, how are we supposed to look
inside the Portal or whatever fool thing you wizards want me to do to prove to you my twin
is dead?”

Dalamar was silent, twirling the thin-stemmed wine glass in

his hand thoughtfully, his gaze abstracted. Watching him, Caramon's face flushed red in
anger. “This was a ruse! You never meant it, any of you! What do mean, bringing us here?
What do you want of me?”

“Nothing of you, Caramon,” Dalamar answered coolly.

Caramon blenched. “No!” he cried in a choked voice. “Not my son! Damn you, wizards! I
won't allow it!” Taking a step forward, he grabbed hold of Dalamar . . . and gasped in
pain. Yanking his hand back, Caramon flexed it, rubbing his arm that felt as though he had
touched lightning.

“Father, please! Don't interfere!” begged Palin, going to his father's side. The young man
then glanced angrily at Dalamar. “There was no need for that!”

“I warned him,” Dalamar said, shrugging. “You see, Caramon, my friend, we cannot open the
door from the outside.” The dark elf's gaze went to Palin. “But there is one here for whom
the door may open from the INSIDE!”