The Magic Of Krynn (35 page)

'“No!” Palin cried, struggling to free himself from Raistlin's grasp. “I don't believe
you!”

“Why not?” Raistlin kept hold of the young man. His voice grew stronger. “You told them
yourself. Don't you remember, Palin? 'A man must put the magic first, the world second . .
. ' That's what you said to them in the Tower. The world doesn't matter to you anymore
than it does to me! Nothing matters- your brothers, your father! The magic! The power!
That's all that means anything to either of us!”

“I don't know!” Palin cried brokenly, his hands clawing at Raistlin's. “I can't think! Let
me go! Let me go . . .” His fingers fell nervelessly from Raistlin's wrists, his head sank
into his hands. Tears filled his eyes.

“Poor young one,” Raistlin said smoothly. Laying his hand on Palin's head, he drew it
gently into his lap and stroked the auburn hair soothingly.

Wracking sobs tore at Palin's body. He was bereft, alone. Lies, all lies! Everyone had
lied to him-his father, the mages, the world! What did it matter, after all? The magic.
That was all he had. His

uncle was right. The burning touch of those slender fingers; the soft black velvet beneath
his cheek, wet with his tears; the smell of rose petals and spice. That would be his life.
. . . That and this bitter emptiness within. An emptiness that all the world could not
fill.

“Weep, Palin,” Raistlin said softly. “Weep as I wept once, long, long ago. Then you will
realize, as I did, that it does no good. No one hears you, sobbing in the night alone.”

Palin lifted his tear-stained face suddenly, staring into Raistlin's eyes.

“At last you understand.” Raistlin smiled. His hand stroked back the wet hair from Palin's
eyes. “Get hold of yourself, young one. It is time for us to go, before the Dark Queen
comes. There is much to be done-”

Palin regarded Raistlin calmly, though the young man's body still shuddered from his sobs
and he could see his uncle only through a blur of tears. “Yes,” he said. “At last I
understand. Too late, it seems. But I understand. And you are wrong, uncle,” he murmured
brokenly. “Someone die? hear you crying in the night. My father.”

Rising to his feet, Palin brushed his hand across his eyes, keeping his gaze steadfastly
on his uncle. “I am going to close the Portal.”

“Don't be a fool!” Raistlin said with a sneer. “I won't let you! You know that!”

“I know,” said Palin, drawing a shivering breath. “You will stop me-”

“I will kill you!”

“You will. . . kill me. . . .” Palin continued, his voice faltering only slightly. Turning
around, he reached out his hand for the Staff of Magius that stood leaning against the
desk beside Raistlin's chair. The light of the crystal beamed white and cold as his hand
closed over it.

“What a waste!” Raistlin hissed, twisting out of his chair. "Why die in such a meaningless
gesture? For it will be meaningless, I assure you, my dear nephew. I will do all I
planned. The world will be mine! You will be dead-and who will know

or care?“ ”You will," said Palin in a low voice. Turning his back upon his uncle, Palin
walked with firm,

steady steps over to stand before the Portal. The shadow was deeper and darker, making the
wall within the Abyss stand out by hideous contrast. Palin could feel the evil now,

feel it seeping through the Portal like water flowing into a wrecked ship. He thought of
the Dark Queen, able to enter the world at last. Once more, the flames of war would sweep
across the land as the forces of good rose to stop her. He saw his father and mother die
by his uncle's hand, his brothers fall victim to their uncle's magical charm. He saw them
dressed in dragonscale armor, riding evil dragons into battle, leading troops of hideous
beings spawned of darkness.

No! With the help of the gods, he would stop this if he could. But, raising the staff,
Palin realized helplessly that he hadn't the vaguest idea how to close the Portal. He
could sense the power in the staff, but he could not control it. Raistlin was right-what a
stupid, meaningless gesture.

Behind him, Palin heard his uncle laugh. It wasn't mocking laughter this time, however. It
was bemused, almost angry.

“This is senseless, Palin! Stop! Don't make me do this!”

Drawing a deep breath, Palin tried to concentrate his energy and his thoughts upon the
staff. “Close the Portal,” he whispered, forcing himself to think about nothing else,
though his body quivered with fear. It was not a fear of dying, he could tell himself that
with quiet pride. He loved life, never so much as now, he realized. But he could leave it
without regret, though the thought of the grief that his death would cause those who loved
him filled him with sorrow. His mother and father would know what he had done, however.
They would understand. No matter what his uncle said.

And they'll fight you, Palin knew. They will fight you and your Dark Queen as they fought
once before. YOU WILL NOT WIN.

Palin gripped the staff, his hand sweating, his body trembling. He wasn't afraid of dying.
He was afraid of ... of the pain.

Would it hurt . . . very much ... to die?

Shaking his head angrily, the young man cursed himself for a coward and stared hard at the
Portal. He had to concentrate! To put this out of his mind. He must make fear serve him!
Not master him. There was a chance, after all, that he might close the Portal before his
uncle . . . before . . .

“Paladine, help me,” said Palin, his gaze going to the silvery light gleaming atop the
staff with steadfast, unwavering brilliance in the shadowy darkness.

“Palin!” Raistlin shouted harshly. “I warn you-” Lightning crackled from Raistlin's
fingertips. But Palin kept

his eyes upon the staff. Its light grew brighter, shining with a radiance whose beauty and
clarity eased Palin's last fears.

“Paladine,” he murmured.

The name of the god mercifully obliterated the sound of magical chanting Palin heard
rising behind him.

The pain was swift, sudden . . . and soon over.

Raistlin stood alone in the laboratory, leaning upon the Staff of Magius. The light of the
staff had gone out. The archmage stood in darkness as thick as the dust that lay,
undisturbed, upon the stone floor, upon the spellbooks, upon the chair, upon the drawn,
heavy curtain of purple velvet.

' Almost as deep as the darkness was the silence of the place.

Raistlin stilled his breathing, listening to the silence. The sound of no living being
disturbed it-neither mouse nor bat nor spider- for no living being dared enter the
laboratory, guarded by those whose vigilance would last unto the end of the world and
beyond. Almost Raistlin thought he could hear one sound-the sound of the dust falling, the
sound of time passing. . . .

Sighing wearily, the archmage raised his head and looked into the darkness, broke the
ages-long silence. “I have done what you wanted of me,” he cried. “Are you satisfied?”

There was no answer; only the gently sifting dust drifting down into the perpetual night.

“No,” Raistlin murmured. “You cannot hear me. And that is just as well. Little did you
think, Dalamar, that when you conjured my illusion for this purpose, you would conjure me!
Oh, no, apprentice”-Raistlin smiled bitterly-“do not pride yourself. You are good, but not
that good. It was not your magic woke me from my sleep. No, it was something else. . . .”
He paused, trying to remember. "What did I tell the young man? 'A shadow on my mind'? Yes,
that's what it was.

“Ah, Dalamar, you are lucky.” The archmage shook his hooded head. For a brief moment, the
darkness was lit by a fierce glint in the golden eyes, gleaming with their inner flame.
"If he had been what I was, you would have found

yourself in sad straits, dark elf. Through him, I could have returned. But as his
compassion and his love freed me from the darkness into which I cast myself, so it binds
me there still."

The light of the golden eyes faded, the darkness returned.

Raistlin sighed. “But that is all right,” he whispered, leaning his head against the staff
that supported him. “I am tired, so very tired. I want to return to my sleep.” Walking
across the stone floor, his black robes rustling about his ankles, his soft unheard
footsteps leaving no trail at all in the thick dust, the archmage came to stand before the
velvet curtain. Placing his hand on it, he stopped and looked around the laboratory that
he could not see except in his memories, in his mind.

“I just want you to know,” Raistlin cried, “that I didn't do this for you, mages! I didn't
do it for the Conclave. I didn't do it for my brother! I had one more debt to pay in my
lifetime. Now I have discharged it. I can sleep in peace.”

In the darkness, Raistlin could not see the staff he leaned upon, but he didn't need to.
He knew every curve of the wood, every tiny imperfection in the grain. Lovingly he
caressed it, his delicate fingers touching the golden dragon's claw, running over each
facet of the cold, dark crystal it held. Raistlin's eyes stared into the darkness, stared
into the future he could glimpse by the light of the black moon.

“He will be great in the Art,” he said with quiet pride. “The greatest that has yet lived.
He will bring honor and renown to our profession. Because of him, magic will live and
flourish in the world.” The arch-mage's voice lowered. "Whatever happiness and joy was in
my life, Palin, came from the magic.

“To the magic, I give you. . . .”

Raistlin held the staff an instant longer, pressing the smooth wood against his cheek.
Then, with a word of command, he sent it from him. It vanished, swallowed up by the
endless night. His head bowed in weariness, Raistlin laid his hand upon the velvet curtain
and disappeared, becoming one with the darkness and the silence and the dust.

Palin came slowly to consciousness. His first thought was one

of terror. The fiery jolt that had burned and blasted his body had not killed him! There
would be another. Raistlin would not let him live. Moaning, Palin huddled against the cold
stone floor, waiting fearfully to hear the sound of magical chanting, to hear the crackle
of the sparks from those thin fingertips, to feel once again the searing, exploding pain.
. . .

All was quiet. Listening intently, holding his breath, his body shivering in fear, Palin
heard nothing.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes. He was in darkness, such deep darkness that nothing
whatever was visible, not even his own body.

“Raistlin?” Palin whispered, raising his head cautiously from the damp, stone floor.
“Uncle?”

“Palin!” a voice shouted. Palin's heart stilled in fear. He could not breathe. “Palin!”
the voice shouted again, a voice filled with love and

anguish. Palin gasped in relief and, falling back against the stone floor,

sobbed in joy. He heard booted footsteps clambering up stairs. Torchlight lit

the darkness. The footsteps halted, the torchlight wavered as though the hand holding it
shook. Then the footsteps were running, the torchlight burned above him.

“Palin! My son!” and Palin was in his father's arms.

“What have they done to you?” Caramon cried in a choked voice. Dropping the torch, he
lifted his son's body from the floor and cradled it against his strong breast.

Palin could not speak. He leaned his head against his father's chest, hearing the heart
beating rapidly from the exertion of climbing the Tower stairs, smelling the familiar
smells of leather and sweat, letting- for one last moment- his father's arms shelter and
protect him. Then, with a soft sigh, Palin raised his head and looked into his father's
pale, anguished face.

“Nothing, Father,” he said softly, gently pushing himself away. “I'm all right. Truly.”
Sitting up, he looked around, confused in the feeble light cast by the torch flickering on
the floor. “But where are we?”

“Out-outside that . . . that place,” Caramon growled, letting go of his son, but watching
him dubiously, anxiously.

“The laboratory,” murmured Palin, puzzled, his gaze going to the closed door and the two,
white, disembodied

eyes that hovered before it. The young man started to stand up. “Careful!” said Caramon,
putting his arm around him

again. “I told you, father. I'm all right,” Palin said firmly,

shaking off his father's help and getting to his feet without assistance. “What happened?”
He looked at the sealed laboratory door.

The two eyes of the spectre stared back at him un- blinking, unmoving.

“You went in ... there,” Caramon said, his brow creasing into a frown as his gaze shifted
to the sealed door as well. “And . . . the door slammed shut! I tried to get in ...
Dalamar cast some sort of spell on it, but it wouldn't open. Then more of those . . .
those THINGS”-he gestured at the eyes with a scowl-“came and I ... I don't remember much
after that. When I came to, I was with Dalamar in the study. . . .”

“Which is where we will return now,” said a voice behind them, “if you will honor me by
sharing my breakfast.”

“The only place we're going now,” said Caramon in a stern, low voice as he turned to face
the dark elf, who had materialized behind them, “is home. And no more magic!” he snarled,
glaring at Dalamar. “We'll walk, if need be. Neither my son nor I are ever coming back to
one of these cursed Towers again-”

Without a glance at Caramon, Dalamar walked past the big man to Palin, who was standing
silently next to his father, his hands folded in the sleeves of his white robes, his eyes
downcast as was proper in the presence of the high- ranking wizard.

Dalamar reached out his hands and clasped the young man by the shoulders.

“QUITHAIN, MAGUS,” the dark elf said with a smile, leaning forward to kiss Palin on the
cheek as was the elven custom.

Palin stared at him in confusion, his face flushed. The words the elf had spoken tumbled
about in his mind, making little sense. He spoke some elven, learned from his father's
friend, Tanis. But, after all that had happened to him, the language went right out of his
head. Frantically, he struggled to remember, for Dalamar was standing in front of him,
looking at him, grinning.

“QUITHAIN . . .” Palin repeated to himself. “Means . . . congratulations. Congratulations,
MAGUS...”

He gasped, staring at Dalamar in disbelief.

“What does it mean?” demanded Caramon, glaring at the dark elf. “I don't understand-”

“He is one of us now, Caramon,” said Dalamar quietly, taking hold of Palin's arm and
escorting him past his father. “His trials are over. He has completed the Test.”

“We are sorry to have put you through this again, Caramon,” Dalamar said to the big
warrior. Seated opposite the ornately carved desk in the dark elf's luxuriously appointed
study, Caramon flushed, his brow still lined with the signs of his concern and fear and
anger.

“But,” Dalamar continued, “it was fast becoming apparent to all of us that you would do
your best to prevent your son from taking the Test.”

“Can you blame me?” Caramon asked harshly. Rising to his feet, he walked over to the large
window, staring out into the dark shadows of the Shoikan Grove below him.

“No,” said Dalamar. “We could not blame you. And so we devised this way of tricking you
into it.”

Scowling angrily, Caramon turned, jabbing his finger at Dalamar. “You had no right! He's
too young! He might have died!”

“True,” said Dalamar softly, “but that is a risk we all face. It is a risk you take every
time you send your older sons to battle. . . .”

“This is different.” Caramon turned away, his face dark.

Dalamar's gaze went to Palin, who sat in a chair, a glass of untasted wine in his hand.
The young mage was staring dazedly around as though he could still not believe what had
occurred.

“Because of Raistlin?” Dalamar smiled. “Palin is truly gifted, Caramon. As gifted as his
uncle. For him, as for Raistlin, there could have been only one choice-his magic. But
Palin's love for his family is strong. He would have made the choice, and it would have
broken his heart.”

Caramon bowed his head, clasping his hands behind him.

Palin, hearing a muffled choke behind him, set his wine glass down and, rising to his
feet, walked over to stand beside his father. Reaching out his hand, Caramon drew his son
close. “Dalamar's right,” the big man said huskily. “I only wanted what was best for you
and-and I was afraid . . . afraid I might lose you to the magic as I lost him. . . . I-I'm
sorry, Palin. Forgive me.”

Palin's answer was to embrace his father, who wrapped both his

great arms around the white-robed mage and hugged him tight. “So you passed! I'm proud of
you, son!” Caramon whispered.

“So proud-” “Thank you, father!” Palin said brokenly. "There is nothing to

forgive. I understand at last-" The rest of the young mage's words were squeezed from him
by his father's hug. Then, with a clap on the back, Caramon let his boy go and returned to
staring out the window, frowning down at the Shoikan Grove.

Turning back to Dalamar, Palin looked at the dark elf, puzzled.

“The Test,” he said hesitantly. “It-it all seems so real! Yet, I'm here. . . . Raistlin
didn't kill me . . .”

“Raistlin!” Caramon glanced around in alarm, his face pale.

“Be at ease, my friend,” Dalamar said, raising his slender hand. “The Test varies for each
person who takes it, Palin. For some, it is very real and can have real and disastrous
consequences. Your uncle, for example, barely survived an encounter with one of my kind.
Justarius's Test left him crippled in one leg. But, for others, the Test is only in the
mind.” Dalamar's face grew tense, his voice quivered in remembered pain. “That, too, can
have its effects. Sometimes worse than the others . . .”

“So-it was all in my mind. I didn't go into the Abyss? My uncle wasn't really there?”

“No, Palin,” Dalamar said, regaining his composure. “Raistlin is dead. We have no reason
to believe otherwise, despite what we told you. We do not know for certain, of course, but
we believe that the vision your father described is a true one, given to him by Paladine
to ease his grief. When we told you we had signs that Raistlin was still alive, that was
all part of the ruse to bring you here. There have been no such signs. If Raistlin lives
today, it is only in our legends. . . .”

“And our memories,” Caramon muttered from the window.

“But he seemed so real!” Palin protested. He could feel the soft black velvet beneath his
fingertips; the burning touch of the golden-skinned hands; the cool, smooth wood of the
Staff of Magius. He could hear the whispering voice, see the golden, hour- glass eyes,
smell the rose petals, the spice, the blood. . . .

Lowering his head, he shivered.

“I know,” said Dalamar with a soft sigh. “But it was only illusion. The Guardian stands
before the door, the door is still sealed. It will be, for all eternity. You never even
went inside the laboratory, much less the Abyss.”

“But I saw him enter-” Caramon said. "All part of the illusion. I alone saw through it. I
helped create

it, in fact. It was designed to be very real to you, Palin. You will never forget it. The
Test is meant to judge not only your skill as a magic-user but, more importantly, to teach
you something about yourself. You had two things to discover-the truth about your uncle,
and the truth about yourself."

KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT YOURSELF . . . Raistlin's voice.

Palin smoothed the fabric of his white robes with his hands. “I know now where my
loyalties lie,” he said softly, remembering that bitter moment standing before the Portal.
“As the Sea Wizard said, I will serve the world and, in so doing, serve myself.”

Smiling, Dalamar rose to his feet. “And now, I know you are eager to return to your home
and your family, young mage. I will detain you no longer. I al most regret that you did
not make another choice, Palin,” the dark elf said with a shrug. “I would have enjoyed
having you as my apprentice. But you will make a worthy adversary. I am honored to have
been a part of your success.” Dalamar extended his hand.

“Thank you,” said Palin, flushing. Taking Dalamar's hand in his, he clasped it gratefully.
“Thank you . . . for everything.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Caramon, leaving the window to come stand beside his son. He, too, gripped
Dalamar's hand in his, the elf's slender fingers completely engulfed in the big man's
grip. “I-I guess I will let you use . . . that magic of yours ... to send us back to
Solace. Tika'll be worried sick-”

“Very well,” Dalamar said, exchanging smiles with Palin. “Stand close together. Farewell,
Palin. I will see you at the Tower of Wayreth.”

There came a soft knock upon the door.

Dalamar frowned. “What is it?” he asked irritably. “I gave instructions that we were not
to be disturbed!”

The door opened by itself, apparently. Two white eyes gleamed from out of the darkness.
“Forgive me, Master,” said the spectre, “but I have been instructed to give the young mage
a parting gift.”

“Instructed? By whom?” Dalamar's eyes flashed. “Justarius? Has he dared set foot in my
Tower without my permission-”

“No, Master,” said the spectre, floating into the room. Its chill gaze went to Palin.
Slowly it approached the young mage, its fleshless hand outstretched. Caramon moved
swiftly to stand in front of his son.

“No, Father,” said Palin firmly, putting a restraining hand on his father's sword-arm.
“Stand aside. It means me no harm. What is it you have for me?” the young mage asked the
spectre, who

came to a halt only inches from him. In answer, the fleshless hand traced an arcane symbol
in

the air. The Staff of Magius appeared, held fast in the skeletal fingers.

Caramon gasped and took a step backward. Dala-mar regarded the spectre coldly. “You have
failed in your duties!” The dark elf's voice rose in anger. “By our Dark Queen, I will
send you to the eternal torment of the Abyss for this-”

“I have not failed in my duty,” the guardian replied, its hollow tone reminding Palin
fearfully of the realm he had entered-if only in illusion. 'The door to the laboratory
remains locked and spellbound. The key is here, as you can see.“ The Guardian held out its
other hand, showing a silver key lying in the bony palm. ”All is as it was, undisturbed.
No living being has entered."

“Then who-” Dalamar began in fury. Suddenly, his voice dropped, his face went ashen. “No
living being . . .” Shaken, the dark elf sank back into his seat, staring at the staff
with wide eyes.

“This is yours, Palin, as was promised,” the spectre said, handing the staff to the young
mage.

Reaching out, Palin took hold of the staff with a shaking hand. At his touch, the crystal
on the top flared into light, blazing with a cool, clear radiance, filling the dark room
with a bright, silvery light.

“A gift from the true Master of the Tower. With it,” the spectre added in its chill tones,
“goes his blessing.”

The white eyes lowered in reverence, then they were gone.

Holding the staff in his hand, Palin looked wonder-ingly at his father.

Blinking rapidly, Caramon smiled through his tears. “Let's go home,” he said quietly,
putting his arm around his son.