The boy looked up from his play to see two strangers, standing at the crossroads, reading the sign. Keeping his eyes on them, the boy continued what he was doing-sailing a makeshift boat in a puddle. But when the larger and stronger of the two men-a warrior, by the number of weapons he carried-ripped the parchment off the post, the boy left the boat to sink slowly into the muddy water. Hidden by a scraggly shrub, the boy crept close to listen.

“Hey, Raist, look at this!” yelled the big man to the other, who stood only a few feet away.

The boy stared at this second man with intense interest. The child had never seen a mage before, he’d only heard about them in tales. He had no trouble recognizing a wizard, however, by his outlandish robes-their color red as blood-the mysterious pouches and feathered amulets that hung from the mage’s simple rope belt, and a black wooden staff on which he leaned when he walked.

“Stop bellowing! I’m not deaf. What have you found?” the mage spoke irritably.

“It says … here, you read it.” The warrior handed over the notice. He watched as the mage studied it. “Well, what do you think? Unless, of course, it’s outdated.”

“This posting is recent. The parchment’s not even weatherworn yet.”

“Oh, yeah. So maybe this is what we’re looking for, huh?”

“Fee negotiable.” The mage frowned. “Still, that’s better than nothing. The reward we earned for ending the curse of Death’s Keep is nearly gone. We’ll never be able to cross New Sea unless we have the means to hire a boat.” He rolled up the parchment and thrust it in the sleeves of his robes.

The warrior sighed. “Another night sleeping on the ground?”

“We need to carefully conserve what little money we have.”

“I guess. I could sure use a mug of ale, though.”

“I’ve no doubt,” said the mage sourly.

“You ever heard of this Mereklar place?” asked the warrior after a pause.

“No, have you?”

“Nope.”

The mage looked from the signpost to the road it indicated. The road was muddy and overgrown with grass and weeds.

“It doesn’t look as if many people have heard of it. I-”

“Whew! Here you are! Finally!”

The boy heard someone gasping in relief. Peering around the hedge, he saw a person, smaller in stature than the other two, pumping up the road as fast as his orange-stockinged legs would carry him.

A kender! recognized the boy and immediately clasped fast in his hand all his worldly possessions, which consisted of a half-eaten apple that had been lunch and a small, broken knife used for whittling boats.

Perhaps the branches of the bush rustled when the boy moved, because he was astonished and alarmed to see the mage suddenly turn his head and cast a piercing glance into the shrubs that concealed him. The boy froze. He’d never seen a face like that, not even in a dream. The mage’s skin had a gold cast to it, and his eyes were golden, the pupils shaped like hourglasses.

Fortunately for the boy, the kender began to talk again.

“I thought I’d never catch up with you two! You left me behind by mistake. Why didn’t you guys tell me you were taking off in the middle of the night? If I hadn’t woken up and seen you two sneaking past my door, carrying your packs, I never would have known which way you were going! As it was, I had to take a moment to gather up all my things and then I had a dreadful time keeping up and once I lost you, but I have a special device that I use for finding my way and it showed me which path you took. Do you want to see it?” The kender began to fumble through innumerable pouches, spilling out various articles and objects into the street. “It’s in here, somewhere.…”

The warrior exchanged a long-suffering glance with the mage. “Uh, no, that’s all right, Earmite-”

“Earwig!” corrected the kender indignantly.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Earwig Nosepicker, isn’t it?”

“Lockpicker!” The kender jabbed the forked stick he was carrying into the ground for emphasis. “Lockpicker. A highly honored name among-”

“Come, Caramon,” said the mage in a voice that would have chilled boiling water. “We must be going.”

“Where are we headed?” asked the kender, cheerfully falling into step.

The mage came to a halt and fixed the kender with his strange eyes.

“We aren’t headed anywhere.”

The boy thought that anyone but a kender would have curled up and sunk into the ground under the mage’s baleful stare. But the kender just gazed up at him solemnly.

“Oh, but you need me, Raistlin. You really do. Wasn’t I a help to you in solving the mystery of Death’s Keep? I was. You said so yourself. I gave you the clue that made you think the maiden was the reason for the curse. And Caramon never would have found his favorite dagger if it hadn’t been for me-”

“I never would have lost it, if it hadn’t been for you,” muttered the warrior.

“And then Tasslehoff told me- You remember my cousin, Tasslehoff Burrfoot? Anyway, he told me that you always took him with you on your adventures and that he was always getting you out of trouble and since he’s not around you should take me to do the same thing. And I can tell you lots of interesting stories, like the one about Dizzy Longtongue and the minotaur-”

“Enough!” The mage pulled his cowl farther down over his head, as if the cloth could shut out the monologue.

“Ah, let him come along, Raist,” said the warrior. “It’d be company for us. You know we get bored, just talking to each other.”

“I know I get bored just talking to you, my brother. But I do not think the situation will be alleviated by taking on a kender!”

The mage started off down the road, leaning heavily on his staff and walking slowly, as if he had just been through a recent illness.

“What did he say?” the kender asked, coming to walk beside the warrior.

“I’m not sure,” said the warrior, shaking his head. “But I don’t think it was a compliment.”

“Oh, well,” said the kender, twirling his forked stick in the air until it made a shrill, whistling sound. “I’m not much used to compliments anyway. Where did you say we were going?”

“Mereklar.”

“Mereklar. Never heard of it,” stated the kender happily.

The boy saw the three well on their way before he ran to an old, dilapidated inn that huddled in the woods near the crossroads. A man sat at a table, an untasted drink in his hand.

The boy went up to the man and told what he had seen.

“A warrior, a mage, and a kender. All three heading for Mereklar. And now that I’ve done what you wanted, where’s my money?” the child demanded boldly. “You promised.”

The man asked a few questions, wanting to know what color robes the mage was wearing and if the warrior appeared to be very old and battle-hardened.

“No,” said the boy, considering. “He’s only about the age of my big brother. Twenty or so if he’s a day. But his weapons seemed well used. I don’t think you’ll pick him off so easily.”

The man fished a steel piece from his pocket and tossed it on the table. Rising from his seat with unusual haste, considering he’d been sitting in the inn for three days-ever since he’d posted the sign-the man ran out into the woods and was soon lost to sight in the shadows.

Raistlin awoke from deep slumber to the sound of pipes-a haunting, eerie sound that reminded him of a time of everlasting pain, a time of torture and torment. Propping himself up on weak elbows from his red, tattered sleeping roll, he stared into the embers of the fire.

The dying coals only served to remind Raistlin of his ill health. How long had it been since he took the test? How much time had passed since the wizards in the Tower of High Sorcery had demanded this sacrifice in return for his magic? Months. Only months. Yet it seemed to him that he’d been suffering like this all his life.

Lying back down, Raistlin lifted his hands up in front of his face, examining the bones, veins, and sinews, barely discernible in the dimly lit grove. The firelight gave his flesh an unearthly reddish tinge, reflecting off his golden skin-the gold skin he had earned in his gambit for personal power, gold skin he had earned fighting for his life.

Smiling grimly, Raistlin clenched his hand into a fist. He’d won. He’d been victorious. He had defeated them all.

But his moment of triumph was short-lived. He began to cough uncontrollably, the spasms shaking and convulsing him like a battered puppet.

The pipes played on while Raistlin managed to catch his breath. He fumbled at his waist to find a small burlap bag filled with herbs. Holding this over his nose and mouth, he breathed the sickly sweet scent of crushed leaves and boiled twigs. The spasms eased, and Raistlin dared let himself hope that this time he’d found a cure. He refused to believe he would be this feeble all of his life.

The herbs left a bitter taste on his lips. He stashed the pungent bag away in a purse under his cloth belt, which was a darker red than the rest of his robes from constant use and wear. He didn’t look for the blood that was beginning to slowly dry on the medicine pouch. He knew it would be there.

Breathing slowly, Raistlin forced himself to relax. His eyes closed. He imagined the many and varied lines of power running through his life-the glowing, golden weave of threads of his magic, his mind, his soul. He held his life in his hands. He was the master of his own destiny.

Raistlin listened to the pipes again. They did not play the eerie, unnatural music he thought he had heard upon waking-the music of the dark elf, the music he dreamed about in his worst nightmares since his indoctrination into the higher orders of sorcery. Instead it was the shrill, lively music of an inconsiderate kender.

Throwing off the heavy blankets piled on top of him, Raistlin shivered in the cold evening air. He clutched his staff with hands eager to feel the smooth wood once again safely in their grip, and pulled himself upright.

“Shirak,” Raistlin said softly.

Power flowed from his spirit into the staff, mingling with the magic already housed in the black-wood symbol of the mage’s victory. A soft white light beamed from the crystal clutched in a dragon’s claw atop the staff.

As soon as the light flooded the grove, the music stopped abruptly. Earwig looked up in surprise to see the red-hooded figure of the magician looming over him.

“Oh, hi, Raistlin!” The kender grinned.

“Earwig,” said the mage softly, “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Well, of course, you are, Raistlin,” answered the kender. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“But I can’t sleep, Earwig, because of the noise.”

“What noise?” The kender looked around the campsite with interest.

Raistlin reached out his gold-skinned hand and snatched the pipe from Earwig’s grasp. He held it up in front of the kender’s nose.

“Oh,” said Earwig meekly. “That noise.”

Raistlin tucked the pipes into the sleeve of his robes, turned, and started back to his bed.

“I can play you a lullaby,” suggested Earwig, leaping to his feet and trotting along behind the mage. “If you give me back my pipes, that is. Or I could sing one for you-”

Raistlin turned and stared at the kender. The firelight flickered in the hourglass eyes.

“Or maybe not,” said Earwig, slightly daunted.

But a kender never stayed daunted for long. “It’s really boring around here,” he added, keeping up with the mage. “I thought being on night watch would be fun, and it was for a while, because I kept expecting something to jump out of the woods and attack us since Caramon said that was why we had to keep watch, but nothing has jumped out and attacked us and it’s really getting boring.”

“Dulak,” Raistlin whispered, starting to cough again. The light from the globe dimmed and died. The mage sank down onto his sleeping mat, his tired legs barely supporting him.

“Here, Raistlin, let me help you,” offered Earwig, spreading out the blankets. The kender stood, gazing down at the mage hopefully. “Would you make the staff light up again, Raistlin?”

The mage hunched his thin body beneath the heavy quilt.

“Could I have my pipes back?”

Raistlin closed his eyes.

Earwig heaved a gusty sigh, his gaze going to the sleeve of the mage’s robes into which he’d seen his pipes disappear.

“Good night, Raistlin. I hope you feel better in the morning.”

The mage felt a small hand pat his arm solicitously. The kender trotted away, small feet making little noise in the dew-wet grass.

Just as Raistlin was finally drifting off to sleep, he heard, once again, the shrill sound of the pipes.

Dawn broke, and Caramon’s optimistic prediction proved correct: it was, indeed, a fine day. The temperature rose to a comfortable level, warm enough for walking, but still cool enough to be pleasant. The sun, bright in a sky that was clear of clouds, clear of chaos, shone down upon the companions.

The dead bodies of the would-be assassins still lay in the clearing. Earwig, to make up for having missed last night’s action, was occupied in searching the bodies, “looking for some clue to tell us who these people were,” as he put it. In one of the thieves’ pockets he found a broach made from strands of gold woven together to look like rope. Opening the broach by a hidden catch only a kender would have discovered, Earwig found inside a collection of miniature musical instruments made of silver, bone, and ebony, perfectly detailed, waiting to be played by a tiny orchestra.

Closing the medallion and tossing it onto a blanket with the other “treasure,” Earwig went over to another body and saw three rings on the dead brigand’s hands, each of gold and glittering with diamonds, sparkling in the morning’s light. But what caught Earwig’s attention was a mysterious twist of wire that had fallen from the thief’s pocket.

The kender picked up the looped metal that twisted around and back into itself with no apparent purpose, with no specific form. Shaking the wire, he heard a small sound come from within-a sound of glass rattling against metal. He held it up to the light and saw a bead in the center of the coils. Earwig gazed at it for many minutes, fascinated by this mysterious object, until he grew bored and added it to his collection.

The kender went from body to body, collecting gold and diamonds and other precious things, holding them in his hand, feeling their weight and shape, only to toss them aside, forgotten, as he reached down to pick up an old writing quill with a bright silver tip, a piece of purple glass, and a wood carving of an eagle, no bigger than the middle of his palm. Worth and values set by other races mean nothing to kender. Curiosity makes them desire anything that enchants their eye, regardless of what they already hold in their hands.

“Well, did you find anything?” Caramon asked.

“That’s it,” said Earwig proudly, pointing at the blanket. “Well, aren’t you going to look at it?” he asked, noting Caramon’s hesitation.

“I guess so,” said the big man heavily, starting to kneel down. “But it shivers my skin to paw through possessions of the dead.”

“Why? You took their weapons.”

“That’s different.”

“How? I don’t understand-”

“It just is! All right?” Caramon glared at the kender.

“You are too squeamish, Brother,” said Raistlin in his soft voice, coming up to stand behind them. “Move over. You’re blocking the light. I have no superstitious fear of a dead man’s personal belongings.”

The mage bent down. His slender, delicate hands ran lightly over the objects scattered before him. Some he lifted and inspected with an expert eye. Earwig watched eagerly.

“Those are the biggest diamonds I’ve ever seen. Did you ever see any that big, Raistlin?”

“Glass,” remarked the mage, tossing the ring aside in contempt.

Earwig appeared slightly crestfallen, but cheered up again. “That golden chain is quite heavy, isn’t it, Raistlin?”

“It should be. It’s lead. What’s this?”

The mage lifted a silver charm between thumb and forefinger. Holding it in his palm, he exhibited it to his brother. Caramon, looking at it, made a face.

“Ugh! Who would wear that?”

“I would!” said Earwig, staring at the trinket longingly.

The charm was shaped into the likeness of a cat’s skull, with tiny rubies in the eye sockets.

“Which one was wearing this?” Raistlin asked.

Earwig thought. “None of them. I found it in the grass, over there.” He pointed near Raistlin’s neatly rolled-up blankets.

“The leader,” grunted Caramon.

“Yes,” Raistlin agreed, staring at the charm. A shudder passed through his body, his hand trembled. “It is evil, Caramon. A thing of darkness. And it is old. Its time stretches back before the Cataclysm.”

“Get rid of it!” said the warrior tersely.

“No, I-” Raistlin hesitated, then turned to Earwig. “Would you truly like to wear this?”

“Oh, yes!” sighed the kender. “Wow! A ‘thing of darkness’!”

“Raist-” began Caramon, but his brother shot him a swift, warning glance, and the big man hushed.

Threading the skull on a silver chain that was among the loot, the mage slipped it over the kender’s neck. Raistlin murmured soft words, touched the metal chain with his fingers. Earwig, his face bright with pleasure, stared at his new necklace in awe.

Raistlin rose and stretched his thin body, then began to cough in the chill morning air. Turning, he made his way back to the fire. Caramon followed.

“What do we do with that stuff?”

“Leave it. There is nothing of value.”

Glancing back, Caramon saw Earwig happily stuffing as much of the treasure as he could into his packs and pouches.

“You’ve made the kender a target, Raistlin,” said the big man.

The mage knelt by the fire, his thin body huddling near for warmth. “Not a target, brother,” he corrected coolly. “Bait.”

“Either way, he’s in danger. Whoever wore that might be looking for it. He’ll know the kender was a witness to his crime. What were those words you said over the necklace? Some sort of protective spell?”

Raistlin snorted. “Don’t be a fool, Caramon. It was a simple cantrip, one that will prevent the kender from removing the necklace. As for the danger, he’s in less danger than either you or I would be, wearing that charm. No one takes kender seriously. They’ll assume he found it and put it on for a lark. We must watch for those who might take an unusual interest in it.”

“I don’t like it, Raist,” persisted Caramon with unusual stubbornness.

“I didn’t like being nearly murdered in my sleep!” his twin snapped. He rose to his feet, leaning on the magical staff. “Come along. It’s time we were going. I want to get there before dark.”

“There? Where? Mereklar?” Caramon scattered the coals of the fire with his booted foot and tossed water on them.

“No. The Inn of the Black Cat.”

The twins descended the stairs from their room on the second floor, Raistlin leaning on both his brother and the staff, the black wood resounding hollowly. Moving around the huge open fire in the main hall, they went to the dining room. But before Caramon could enter, Raistlin stopped him, drawing his hood back to expose one ear.

The fighter recognized this signal-a sign the twins had developed over the years-and quickly ducked back around the corner of the doorway before any of the patrons could notice him. He cocked his ear, listening, hoping to discover what his brother found so interesting. Voices wafted like mist from the room.

“Tis the work of evil, I say!”

“Aye, it’s true!”

“I’ve lived eighty years,” interjected an old man, “and I’ve seen nothing like it! Always we’ve taken care of the cats, as the legend says. And now they’ve left us! Doom will fall on our heads!”

“Probably the work of some foul wizard.”

“Never did trust them.”

“Yeah! Burn ’em all up, I say! Like in the old days.”

“What do you think will happen to Mereklar, then, old man?”

“Mereklar? I fear for the world!”

“I heard there’re no cats at all left in the city,” stated a man, wearing a farmer’s smock and broad-brimmed hat. “Is that true?”

“There are a few left, a hundred or so, perhaps,” said the old man.

“A hundred where there used to be a thousand,” added another.

“And their numbers dwindle daily.”

Everyone began to talk at once, adding rumors they’d heard. They were beginning to work themselves into a frenzy.

Caramon came out from his hiding place to join his brother. He plucked Raistlin’s sleeve.

“I think we’ve wandered into an asylum,” he whispered loudly. “These people are crazy! To get this worked up over a bunch of cats!”

“Hush, Caramon. You should take this matter seriously. I would guess that this has much to do with the job we are seeking.”

“We’re being hired to look for lost cats?” Caramon began to laugh, his booming baritone roaring through the inn. Everyone fell silent, glaring at the brothers with baleful looks.

“Remember, Caramon!” Raistlin closed his thin-fingered hand over his brother’s thick arm. “Someone tried to kill us over it, as well.”

Caramon’s laugh sobered quickly. The two entered the room. Their presence was not welcome. They were outsiders, intruding on a fear they could not understand. No one said a word, no one bade them sit down.

“Hey! Raistlin! Caramon! Over here!” Earwig’s shrill voice split the sullen silence.

The twins walked to the back of the room. The inn’s patrons cast furtive glances at the mage, and there was whispering and shaking of heads and glowering scowls. Raistlin ignored them all with a disdainful air and a slight sneering curl of his lips.

Caramon helped his brother sit down and get as comfortable as possible on the hard, wooden bench. The warrior beckoned to one of the barmaids, who-after a nod from Yost-came over to the table.

Caramon sniffed at the air and wrinkled his nose, not liking much what he smelled cooking.

“Rabbit stew,” said the woman. “Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” said Caramon, thinking regretfully of Otik’s spiced potatoes at the Inn of the Last Home. He looked at his brother. Raistlin covered his mouth with a cloth and shook his head.

“My brother will have some white wine. Do you want something, Earwig?”

“Oh, no, thanks, Caramon. I ate already. You see, there was this plate of stew, just sitting there. My mother always said it was a sin to waste food. ‘People in Solamnia are starving,’ she’d say. So, to help the starving people in Solamnia, I ate the stew. Although just how that helps them I’m not certain. Do you know, Caramon?”

Caramon didn’t. The barmaid hurried off and returned shortly with a plate of food and a mug of ale, which she slapped down in front of Caramon, and a goblet of wine for Raistlin.

Caramon plunged into his dinner with gusto, slurping and chewing and shoveling rapidly. Earwig observed him in round-eyed admiration. Raistlin was watching with disgust when suddenly the mage’s attention focused on Caramon’s half-empty plate.

“Let me see that!” he said, snatching it away.

“Hey! I wasn’t finished! I-”

“You are now,” said Raistlin coldly, scrapping the rest of the food onto the floor.

“What is it? Show me!” Earwig scrambled around to sit beside the mage.

“It’s a poem,” said Raistlin, gazing at the surface of the plate with interest.

“A poem!” Caramon growled. “You ruined my dinner for a poem!”

Raistlin read it to himself, then handed it over to his brother.

Raistlin knew he was dreaming, and the dream terrified him-he’d dreamed it many times before-but he couldn’t force himself to wake. Something inside him, stronger than his own will, demanded that he give in.

The young mage left his bed, went to the door, stepped through the door, opened the door, closed the door, and walked into the gray mist that shrouded the hallway of the inn. Looking back, he could not see Caramon but he could see Caramon breathing peacefully in his sleep.

The mage took to the stairs that led down to the main hall. In his hand was the Staff of Magius, though he didn’t remember taking it with him.

He needed light. The way was terrifyingly dark except for the white line that flowed beneath him with power and for the golden thread that connected him with another. “Shirak,” he whispered.

The line guided him, directing his steps. He wandered the hallways and pathways of the inn and the surrounding areas, which were covered by gray mists that moved and roiled with unseen life. Ahead lay the one he sought, the one who had the answers to so many of his questions, the lifebringer and the destroyer.

Fantastic winged beasts-red, black, green, and blue-flew across his path, disturbed from their dreams by his wanderings, the staff’s light waking them. The beasts gazed at him with hate-filled, hungry eyes. They wanted to destroy him, but could not. Not now, not this day.

Raistlin entered a room. Its four walls were solid, but the ceiling and floor lacked substance. A small table stood in front of him. He took one of the two drinks upon it and gulped it down. The liquid brought cold, soothing relief-a taste of fruit and spirit. He waited for the other to arrive.

A shadowy figure clad in long, black robes, dimly seen, dimly recognized, appeared.

“You are he?” Raistlin asked. His voice sounded strange. He didn’t recognize it as his own. He saw the golden thread run glistening from himself to the other.

“Of course. You don’t remember?” asked the other, as he always did.

“And the price?” Raistlin inquired, as he always did.

“You have already paid a part. The rest will be paid later,” answered the other, as he always answered.

Only this time, there was a difference. The conversation did not end. The room did not vanish. Raistlin was able to ask the one question previously forbidden to him.

“And my reward?”

“Follow the line, as others are.”

“Others?”

“You are watched even now.”

“Who can see me here?”

“A man, though not a man.”

“Does he wish me good or evil?”

“It depends on what you wish him.”

Raistlin left the four walls with the ceiling and floor that didn’t matter, the winged beasts flying from his path. The line led him back to the inn and the safety of his bed. The golden thread flowed backward, shimmering, trailing off into darkness.

The city of Mereklar stood in the middle of a triangle shaped by three huge stone walls, each towering thirty feet high. The stone was pure, unblemished, without seams, cracks, or holes. But the white stone walls that faced outward were etched with symbols, signs, and pictures, each depicting some era of the world. Some of the legends were easily discernible-the Greystone of Gargath, the Hammer of Kharas, Huma and the Silver Dragon. Others had been lost to the memory of human, elf, or dwarf. All were depicted with a skill none now could rival or hope to attain.

When the stories came to an end, the walls were left blank, as if waiting for the original artisan to return and place another piece of history upon them. Those who lived in Mereklar believed that when the outer walls were filled with stories, the world would end and another would be reborn in its place.

Unlike the outer walls, the inner walls of the city held no symbols. The ancient stone could not be cracked by any tool or weapon known to the hands of Krynn. It was a mystery to the citizens how anyone came to build the walls. In fact, the very origin of Mereklar was as much a mystery to the current inhabitants of the city as it was to their ancestors.

Their legends claimed that Mereklar was created by the first gods of good for purposes unknown. Following the Cataclysm, its first inhabitants had come down from the hills and mountains surrounding it, fleeing the chaos in the world, to find the city already built, as if awaiting their arrival. The people moved in and had, from that time until the present, been safe from any outside interference. Even the oldest of Mereklar’s families, who had lived there for hundreds of years, knew nothing of the city’s origins. The world changed, people changed, but Mereklar, City of the White Stone, remained the same.

There were ten noble families of Mereklar, and each lived in a large, opulent estate whose great white spires could be seen rising high above the streets. The ten great families were the first negotiators and coordinators, supervising the fields of grain, orchards of fruit, and pastures for animals, making the city grow and thrive. They maintained their positions with wisdom and foresight, intelligence and flexibility.

Each of the ten great homes had its own park, lush, green, filled with trees and flowers that remained in full bloom the year round. Small streams running through the city created ponds where members of the noble families would occasionally gather for parties or walk alone to relieve the romantic, melancholy needs of a somber heart. The houses themselves were four-storied and four-sided, as were almost all the houses in Mereklar.

The city was prosperous and self-sufficient. Everyone living in Mereklar accepted the legends and prophecies found in ancient tomes left in unused libraries and engraved on the outer protecting walls. That cats would save the world, they had no doubt. All doors were left open. Small paws made hardly a sound as they went from home to home, receiving food and warmth and comfort. The cats were always loved, always revered. They congregated in the parks, sunning themselves lazily, or wandered the streets, rubbing against the legs of a passerby.

Perhaps Lord Alfred Brunswick, Minister of Agriculture, was contemplating this very history of Mereklar, or perhaps he was pondering the absence of the cats. The servants wondered what he was doing, locked up alone in his study, all day and long into the night. His wife wondered as well.

“I never see you anymore, dear,” she complained daily. “I know you’re worried about the cats, but there’s nothing you can do-”

At this point in the conversation, Lord Brunswick always got up and left the room, returning to his study and locking the door.

The study was a large, round room, filled with the books of the lord’s ancestors, each telling a different tale of Mereklar. In the center of the room stood a triangular table, as long on each side as a man is tall, surrounded by ten chairs-one for each of the ministers of Mereklar. On the table was a perfect model of the city, exact in every detail. Each tree was in place, every river and stream flowed in the proper direction, even the carvings on the outside walls were duplicated with unprecedented skill. Like the city, the model’s origins were a mystery. It had been here when the lord’s ancestors moved into the estate.

Surrounding the model were the lands Lord Brunswick controlled-the lands of fruit and grain and corn. The servants had seen him studying at the model, determining when an orchard should be abandoned or expanded, a prairie burned or left to stand. His wife had watched him record notes in books and scrolls. That was before he had taken to locking the door to his study.

“Dinnertime, my lord,” said one of the servants, knocking gently on the door.

Each night, the Brunswick family sat around a white, glass-topped table, father and mother sitting at the far ends, the youngest children sitting to the right, and the two older daughters at the left. The meal always began with thanking the cats, protectors of the lands and world, for their kindness. These last few weeks, however, that custom had been abandoned.

“No,” Lord Brunswick had said abruptly one evening when his wife had begun to recite the words. “Cats will not be mentioned in this house again.”

His wife and children knew, of course, why he was upset. Their cats had been among the first to disappear. And so the Brunswicks said nothing of cats, but talked of other things at dinner. Matters that were not likely to worry Lord Brunswick.

“How were things in the Council today, dear?” his wife asked, dishing up the soup.

“The usual,” Lord Brunswick replied shortly.

“Daddy,” his eldest daughter began, “you know that the Festival of the Eye is in two weeks.”

Lord Brunswick glanced at his daughter sharply but said nothing.

The girl drew a breath, gathering her courage. “When may I buy my new dress for the ball, Papa?”

“You’re not going,” said the minister.

“Oh, but you said I might! Only a month before, didn’t he, Mama?” the daughter cried.

“Yes, dear. You promised,” said Lady Brunswick, looking at her husband strangely. “Don’t you remember?”

“Did I?” said Lord Brunswick vaguely. Suddenly he snapped, “Festival of the Eye! I don’t have time for such foolishness.”

Lady Brunswick shook her head. To her tearful daughter, she said quietly, “We’ll discuss this later.”

The dinner proceeded in silence. After dessert, the girls excused themselves from the table, going back up to their rooms.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” Lady Brunswick turned to her husband, her face lined with concern. “You always enjoy the Festival of the Eye. Surely, even with these dreadful problems, you can relax and participate in it. After all, it occurs only once a year.”

“Why must you always bother me with trivial matters?” the lord exploded.

His wife gazed at him, shocked. “In twenty years of our marriage, you’ve never raised your voice to me,” she cried, her eyes filling with tears.

“I’m going to take a walk for some peace and quiet!”

Night had fallen. This was the same night, in an inn a short distance from the city, that a kender argued with a strange, black-skinned man; a mage gasped for breath; and a warrior shared a bottle of dwarven spirits with an innkeeper. The minister left his estate through the back doors of his house and began to walk his gardens, strolling with his left arm held stiffly behind his back, in the manner of a proper gentleman. The few cats left in Mereklar, who had wandered into the yard, scattered at his approach.

Glancing behind to see that he was not being followed, Lord Brunswick continued walking until he reached the edge of his land. Here stood a tall ceramic urn, one of many that lined the Brunswick property. The lord leaned against it casually. Waiting a few moments to assure himself that he was alone, the minister pushed slightly with his shoulder. The urn slid aside, revealing a hidden passageway into the ground.

Searching the area one last time, the minister stepped down onto the stairway, which began to glow with a strange, eerie light. Reaching out, he tugged on a lever that jutted from the wall. The urn moved back over the entrance, concealing it.

The local patrons of the Inn of the Black Cat stayed up far into the night, discussing the ominous portent of their missing cats, unwilling to let their fears take control of their dreams. Eventually, however, sleep overpowered them and they left for their homes. Only one man remained in the eating hall.

He’d been there all night, sitting alone, holding the same drink he had ordered at the beginning of the evening. No one spoke to him, he spoke to no one. Finally, Yost approached him.

“I’m closing up now. Either rent a room for the night, or leave.”

The man rose to his feet. “You lock the front door, do you? No one can go out … or come in?”

“Not without waking me, they can’t,” Yost snorted. “Think I’d let people just stroll in or out without making certain they’d paid?”

The man nodded and laid down a steel piece, more than enough for what he had not drunk. He unhitched his plain brown horse from a post at the rear of the inn, and rode off into the quiet night.

He traveled swiftly through the fields and lands, avoiding hedgerows and muddy streams. The horse’s harness brought music with every motion of the animal’s long powerful legs, each stretch and toss of its head. Moving at a steady gallop, horse and rider traveled north.

Mereklar slept quietly under the brilliance of the two moons. Solinari’s light rained down, showering the towers with silver, brightening the dimmest corners with heavenly light. Lunitari’s glow spread over the city like a blanket, peaceful and content, throwing red shadows limned with shimmering silver.

The rider galloped up to the town gates and showed the guards an emblem he carried in his hand. Gold flashed in the moonlight. The guards let him pass. Without stopping, the man raced on to his destination.

On a small hill in the very center of the city stood a house unlike any other house in Mereklar. A rectangular shape, the house had a steepled roof, with two turrets rising from the front and back, and was built from yellow-brown stone instead of the pure white stone of Mereklar. Dark wood, weathered from wind and rain, held up the walls. Vines and ivy reached up to grasp the roof. Stained glass windows, shining with myriad colors, were lit from inside, creating strange, shifting patterns that seemed alive.

The rider dismounted and lashed his horse to one of the many trees that surrounded the strange house. He hurried up a path made of crushed white stones that shifted under his feet. Reaching the massive oaken door, apparently cut from a single living tree, he extended his hand to touch the doorknob-a piece of metal forged in the shape of a menacing cat.

The man withdrew his hand quickly. The iron of the handle was cold with the chill night air. Reaching out again, grasping the knob with a steady hand, he pushed slightly. The door did not open. Looking around the house for some sign of life, craning his neck to peer into the colored windows, the rider tried again. This time, the door opened easily at his touch. He had heard nothing. He drew his hand back, fear creeping up his spine.

Walking inside, the rider glanced around uneasily, listening again for any sign of life. There seemed to be none, yet someone-or something-had opened the door. He walked to the far end of the wood-paneled foyer and entered the main waiting room. A plush chair should have been warm, soft, and comforting. But when he sat in it, he felt unwanted, an intruder. He sighed pensively, crossing his legs and looking around nervously, uncertain when his hostess would arrive, uncertain if there was someone else in the dark, expansive home with him.

The only sounds he heard were his heart beating in time with an unseen clock-its water dripping down at regular, measured intervals-and the sighing of the wind through an open window. He had the eerie impression that the house was alive with blood and breath. The man started to get up and pace the floor, but changed his mind at the last moment. It was as if he feared disturbing the house.

He couldn’t gauge the number of minutes that passed. Time seemed to have lost all meaning. The man was beginning to get angry. He’d been told to hasten. At the far end of the room was another door, a duplicate to the one the rider had first entered. He grasped the handle and twisted it down, hearing the latch click loudly in the silence of the house.

The door opened into another room, similar in size to the first, lit by a solitary fireplace at the far end. Looking in, he could dimly see bookcases filled with hundreds of books, hinting at the knowledge of ages past. Suits of armor reflected with steel-tinted light, each holding a weapon-a two-handed sword, a halberd, a pike.

“What news do you bring?” a rich voice asked in a tone sensual and feminine.

The man almost jumped back out of the doorway, his hand going to the dagger he kept in his belt. Squinting, he could see the lone robed figure of a woman sitting near him at the end of the table. A black cowl edged in white was thrown over her head. He could have sworn she had not been there when he opened the door.

“The three came to the Inn of the Black Cat, my lady,” the man replied in a low voice. “They discovered the prophecies and asked questions. They asked the way to Mereklar.”

The woman was silent a moment, thoughtful, brooding. “When will they arrive?” she asked at last.

“Tomorrow, my lady.” The man discovered that he was still clutching his knife.

“You have done well,” the woman said, ending the conversation.

He bowed respectfully. Closing the door as quietly as possible so as not to disturb his hostess, the man walked swiftly and thankfully out of the house. Mounting his nervous horse, he rode away into the city, eager to return to the comfort of his own home, where the rooms did not abhor his presence.

The lady in the black cowl had lived in the house atop the only hill in Mereklar all of her life. She felt comfortable in its rooms and hallways, the lights from outside creating patterns through the stained glass as mysterious as the lights shining from within.

After her agent had left, she rose gracefully in a single, fluid motion from her chair and walked confidently through the darkness of the study to a door in the east wall. The unseen waterclock that still ticked away the hours was the only sound in the house. The lady made no noise as she glided through a door into a side hall. Here she came to another door, set at the end of the corridor. She entered an arboretum, moved along a narrow path to the huge glass door facing the outside, then left the garden, closing the door behind her. The cowl of her robes was pulled low, hiding her face from the faces of the moons.

With sure and steady strides in the moonlit darkness, she quickly traversed one of the gardens surrounding her home. Coming to an old tree, dead and brown and pitted, she pushed away bramble with her foot, revealing an entrance leading into the ground-a passage devoid of light. She walked with even steps into the darkness.

Traveling untold distances, finding her way through mazes, paths, and passageways that went in all directions, she finally reached her destination-a cavern of stone flattened at the end opposite the entrance. Torches flickered in sconces, a stage for dancing shadows. In the center of the hall stood a rounded semicircle of stone holding a slab of rock so large it would require hundreds of men to move it. Standing around this altar were nine people, each wearing robes of state and service.

“You are late, Shavas,” Lord Alvin said as he turned to face the entrance.

“Yes,” said the woman in the doorway, stepping into the room, torchlight shadows staining her gown.

The ministers looked at each other, then at the woman.

“What news do you bring us?” asked another when it was obvious the woman was not going to offer an excuse.

The lord who spoke was a short man, stoop-shouldered, a gold medallion shaped like a sunburst weighing down his thin frame. He was dressed in a dark blue coat lined with gold-braided trim. Gold buttons ran down the front of his shirt, partially hidden by a dark blue vest.

“The three men are coming to the city’s aid.”

“And they will solve the mystery of the disappearing cats?” the short man asked again.

“They will try,” corrected Shavas, the hood of her robes still hiding her face.

“We don’t want panic,” remarked a stern-faced, gray-haired woman. “We’re close to that now.”

“There’s no choice,” Lord Alvin spoke shortly. “You must hire these men, Shavas.”

“I concur,” said Lord Brunswick.

The consenting murmurs of the others filled the room, their united voices muffled in the underground cavern.

“What you mean is that you want me to do what is needed to repair your blunder,” Shavas said. She flashed them a scornful glance, turned, and walked from the room. Her right hand gripped tightly a large fire opal she wore around her neck, holding onto it as if she were holding onto her very life.

Caramon awoke the next morning with a pounding in his head that his metal-working friend, Flint Fireforge, would have envied. The steady hammer blows, falling with excruciating regularity, made him wince with pain. The delicate sounds of chirping birds were like the clash of spears, and the shuffling noises of the other patrons at the inn created a wave of agony.

Slowly drawing the sheets back from his head, exposing only his sleep-matted hair and bloodshot, half-closed eyes, the fighter glanced around the room, wincing again as a shaft of light struck him full in the face.

“A cruel blow!” he muttered.

Quickly pulling the sheets back over his head, Caramon lifted the bedspread from the side-avoiding another bright onslaught-and peered across the room to his brother. Still asleep, Raistlin appeared to be in pain-his back was arched slightly, his hands were curled into claws. But he breathed easily. Caramon sighed in relief.

The warrior glanced over to Earwig’s bed, hoping that the kender-with his shrill voice-was also still asleep. He was, if the steady rise and fall of his blankets was any indication.

“Good,” said Caramon to himself. “I’ll go downstairs and use my tried-and-true remedy for overindulgence.”

The warrior eased himself out of bed, his head bent against the morning’s light.

“Good morning, Caramon!” Earwig shrilled cheerfully, his voice piercing Caramon’s skull. The warrior fell over the bed as if toppled by a mighty blow.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so miserable. Thinking of Flint reminded him of one of the old dwarf’s many sayings, “A fighter’s greatest enemy is himself.” He had never understood what that meant until now. He wondered, too, if Flint had been referring to that terrible stuff-dwarf spirits-that had been the warrior’s downfall.

“Earwig,” Caramon began, speaking softly through clenched teeth, his hands slowly clamping his head to ease the pressure. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to have to kill you.”

“What?” Earwig shouted, his voice just as loud as before. “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you. Would you repeat that, please?”

In answer, Caramon grabbed a pillow with his left hand, walked over to the kender, and bagged Earwig’s head with the pillowcase.

“Is this a game? What do I do now?” cried the kender, highly excited.

“Just sit there,” growled Caramon, “till I tell you to move.”

“All right. Say, this is fun.” Earwig, pillowcase over his head, composed himself to wait for whatever wonderful part of the game was going to come next.

Caramon walked out of the room.

Going to the well outside, he brought up a bucket of cold water and immersed his head in it. Sputtering, he shook himself like a dog, wiping his face on his shirt sleeves.

Returning indoors, still rubbing himself dry, Caramon went into the eating hall, where breakfast was being served. The smell of eggs, bacon, and hot muffins helped ease the unrelenting pain in his head and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since dinner last night-and that had been interrupted.

It’s a good thing I never get sick when I drink, he thought to himself with pride.

The room was practically empty. The few sullen patrons seated there glanced at the big man, scowled, and glanced away.

Caramon ignored them. Going to the table he had occupied last night, he plopped his body down with such force that he almost fell over on the bench. Righting himself, the warrior sat very still until the queasiness left him.

“Well, almost never,” he amended.

“What can I get for you this morning?” It was Yost, the innkeeper, a slight smile stealing across his face.

“A drink. Two-thirds grain, one part juice, one part cooking spice, and a green vegetable stalk, something absolutely tasteless. And plenty of pepper,” Caramon added.

“Ah,” said Yost, “a seasoned warrior. The Old Fighter’s Favorite. And I bet you’ll be wanting some breakfast as well. Maggie!”-his yell caused Caramon to groan aloud-“bring something to eat for the gentleman here.”

Caramon drank three Old Fighter’s Favorites, gulping the first two down quickly. The heavy taste of pepper drowned out the horrible taste of the brew. He stirred each one with a vegetable stalk absentmindedly as he poked at his food with a fork, unsure if he could stomach anything.

By the fourth dose of cure, however, Caramon’s appetite came back. He ate slowly at first, building momentum. Eventually, he felt more like himself, and he sat back against the wall, leaning the bench backward, his shoulders propping him up. The other patrons had gone, the fighter was the only one in the tavern.

Yost came over to stand by Caramon and glanced about with a gloomy air. “If this trouble doesn’t end soon, I’ll be ruined. The Festival of the Eye is coming up. A lot of people from Mereklar come to my inn to celebrate. But they won’t this year. Maggie, clear the table.”

Maggie hustled over and began picking up plates and stacking them on a wooden tray. Caramon noted that she was an unusually pretty, red-cheeked girl with a buxom figure and straw-colored hair worn tied up with a yellow ribbon. He seemed to dimly recall that she had smiled at him last night.

“Here, that’s too heavy for you,” he said, taking the tray from her.

“Oh, no, sir. This is my job,” said Maggie, flushing deeply and trying to take the tray back.

During the friendly wrestling match that ensued, Caramon managed to kiss a rosy cheek. Maggie slapped him playfully, and the tray filled with dishes nearly ended up on the floor.

“Which way to the kitchen?” asked Caramon, who had emerged as the victor.

“It’s over here, sir.” Blushing furiously, Maggie led the way. Caramon followed, carrying the tray, and a morose Yost brought up the rear.

The kitchen was large and spotlessly clean. Numerous pots and pans hung from hooks nailed into the whitewashed walls.

“Any more for breakfast?” asked the cook, a small, thin, dark-haired woman.

“No,” said Yost gloomily.

The cook began to make ready for the luncheon guests. Maggie motioned Caramon to one of the sinks. Quickly taking the plates from the tray he carried, she plunged them into the soapy water.

“Well, Master Innkeeper,” Caramon began, talking to Yost but looking Maggie boldly in the eye, causing her to blush again and nearly drop a cup. “If it makes you feel better, my brother and I are going to Mereklar to try to earn that reward.”

“Oh, are you, really?” Maggie turned, her motion sending a spray of bubbles over Caramon. “Lord! I’m sorry, sir!”

Grabbing a towel, she tried to dry the warrior’s expansive chest. Caramon caught hold of her hand and held it fast. The girl’s eyes were brown, with long lashes. Her hair was the color of the leaves of the vallenwood trees in autumn. She didn’t even come up to his shoulder. Caramon’s heart beat fast. He bent down to steal another kiss, but Maggie-with a sidelong glance at her employer-pulled away and began to wash dishes at a furious pace.

Yost nodded. “I figured as much. That mage asking all those questions. He really your brother?”

“My twin brother,” said Caramon proudly. “He took the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery when he was only twenty. The youngest ever. And he passed. Though it cost him … cost both of us,” the warrior added, but only to himself, beneath his breath.

Maggie heard, however, and gave him a warm and sympathetic glance. “He’s real sick, your brother,” she said in a soft voice.

“Yeah. I worry about him a lot. But,” Caramon spoke hastily, seeing Yost’s face grow longer, “he’s stronger than he seems. If anyone can solve this mystery of yours about the cats, Raistlin can. He got all the brains, you see, and I got the muscle,” the big man said cheerfully.

“Why would you bother with us?” Yost asked, staring at Caramon suspiciously.

“We’re low on funds. We can use the job. Though, of course, more personal reasons have come up.” He winked at Maggie, who smiled demurely.

“And what, if I may ask,” Yost continued, “would a mage want with money? I thought they could conjure it out of thin air or something.”

“They don’t do that. It’s just a myth, like touching a frog and getting warts,” Caramon said loftily, showing off his vast knowledge of magic.

“Toad,” the cook corrected quietly under her breath, without looking up from her work, sifting flour into a large bowl.

Caramon glanced at her in astonishment.

“You get warts from a toad,” she repeated. “And we don’t need any magic-users around here.”

“There’s never been one,” agreed Yost, “and we’ve got along fine so far. It seems odd, you know.” His voice hardened. “Our cats disappearing and your brother coming into town about the same time.”

“From what I’ve heard, your cats began disappearing weeks ago. My brother and I weren’t anywhere near-” Caramon began hotly.

“There was a wizard lived here once,” Maggie interposed quickly. “Remember, Yost? That crazy old hermit who had a cave in the mountains?”

“Oh, him,” said the innkeeper, remembering, “I’d almost forgotten about him. He never bothered us. Word was that he died, scared to death by spooks or something like that.”

“Nobody knows for sure,” added the cook ominously, concentrating on her pie crusts.

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Yost frowned, dismissed the subject. “I was just wondering why a wizard would want to help us, that’s all.”

“My brother has his own reasons,” Caramon said curtly. “He’s done a lot of things just to help others, like expose that phoney cleric at Larnish.”

“Larnish!” the cook exclaimed. She dropped a bag of flour on the table in front of her, sending a small, spectral cloud of white into the air.

“You’ve heard of it?” Caramon asked.

“I had people there,” the cook answered.

The warrior waited, but she said nothing more.

“Well, I say it bodes no good! Mages! Huh!” muttered Yost, and walked out of the kitchen.

“Here, I can dry those for you,” said Caramon, grabbing a dishtowel and sidling up beside Maggie.

“Oh, no, sir! This is woman’s work! Besides, you might break-”

Maggie stopped, noting that Caramon was drying the plates swiftly, deftly.

“My mother was sick a lot,” said Caramon quietly, by way of explanation. “My brother and I got used to fending for ourselves. Raist always washed and I dried. It was fun. We enjoyed it. We used to talk …” His voice died as the warrior remembered happier times.

But Maggie was smiling at him, a smile that lit the room more brightly than the sun shining through the window.

It was night when they reached Mereklar. The city’s white walls glowed eerily in the silver moonlight. The bas-reliefs on the walls- raised patterns of the history of Krynn expanded into huge shapes, actors forever frozen- threw strange, shifting shadows over the surrounding grounds.

Earwig was fascinated. He’d never, in all his travels, seen anything so marvelous. He loved stories, and this was like having every one he’d ever heard come real before his eyes. The kender ran his hands along the walls, walking slowly, gazing in wonder.

“There’s Huma and the Silver Dragon,” he said, pointing to the hero and his tragic love, each perfectly inscribed, every line, curve, and angle in exact proportions. “I don’t recognize that one, though. Or that one either. That guy’s a wizard, isn’t he, Raistlin? Like you. Why, he is you! Look, Raistlin, you’re fighting another wizard-a real, real old wizard. And that warrior there looks sort of like you, Caramon. The one in the arena, battling a minotaur. And”-Earwig’s mouth dropped-“I’ll swear that’s Cousin Tas! There! Talking to a five-headed dragon! Look, Raistlin, look!”

“Nonsense!”

The mage gasped for breath. He barely glanced at the walls. His strength was failing fast. It always did, with the coming of night. He had been leaning on his brother’s strong arm for the last few miles.

“Hurry up, Earwig!” snapped Caramon, anxious to get his brother to a place where he could rest.

“I’m coming,” murmured the kender, moving along slowly, feet dragging. “I wonder why these walls are blank.… I know! I’ll bet they’re waiting-waiting for great deeds of the future to be recorded on them. Maybe”-he heaved an ecstatic sigh-“maybe I’ll be up there someday!”

Each pass of his fingers over the slate sent thrilling chills down his arms and back. He could almost see himself, immortalized in stone, joining the rest of Krynn’s famous and heroic.

“Earwig!” Caramon called irritably.

The kender paused, glancing back at the wall. The wizard certainly did resemble Raistlin. But how could the mage be here and be bacl in the past at the same time? He’d have to remember to ask.

“Kender!” Caramon shouted in a voice that meant no nonsense. “Get up here now, or we’ll leave you behind!”

Earwig hurried to catch up. He might have a chance, in this wondrous city, to be a hero and have his picture on the wall. Imagining his adventures, he forgot all about asking Raistlin how he could be master of the past and the present.

“Wait a moment, Caramon!” Raistlin clutched his chest. “Let me … catch my breath.”

“Sure, Raist.”

Caramon stopped walking. Raistlin, gripping the staff to support himself, stood before the city walls. He wasn’t coughing, however. Looking closer, the fighter saw that his brother was staring down at the ground, intently, concentrating. Raistlin’s face could not be seen behind the red cowl, hiding from the silver moonlight.

Caramon experienced a feeling he often had around his brother, the sense that nobody in the entire world could ever intrude upon the young mage’s thoughts, that no force in the world would ever shake Raistlin’s ambition. Caramon found himself wondering, with a feeling of uneasiness, just what Raistlin’s ambitions were.

Raistlin glanced up, turning to face his brother. Red moonlight filled the mage’s hood, making his gold skin blaze with fire-a brazier of inner strength, indomitable, unquenchable. The hourglass eyes were filled with crimson, unscarred by the silver of the other moon. Caramon gaped, wondering if the apparition before him was truly his twin.

Raistlin smiled slightly, seeing his brother’s obvious discomfort.

“Aren’t we going in?” Earwig was looking at them anxiously.

Caramon suddenly wanted to shout, “No!” turn around, and walk straight back to the inn. He knew with the intuitive sense that made the brothers nearer twins on the inside than they were on the outside that Raistlin believed great danger lay ahead of them.

Great danger, but also great reward.

“Come on! You were the ones who told me to hurry!” Earwig urged, his shrill voice sounding too loud in the night stillness.

“Magic,” Caramon muttered beneath his breath. “He’ll risk his life for the magic!” And mine, too, the warrior added in silence.

Raistlin held out his left arm, sweeping it toward the open gate that led into Mereklar. His right hand clutched the Staff of Magius near the top, a black line in red and silver moonlight.

“Shall we enter, my brother?”

The huge gate leading into Mereklar was easily large enough to fit five horses riding comfortably abreast, with three more standing on each others’ shoulders. It was raised and lowered by an unseen mechanism, hidden deep within the walls, out of sight. No chains or ropes were visible. Running grooves, one on either side, were used as guides to keep the barrier sliding smoothly. Though the city was old, the iron bars of the portcullis did not show any signs of age or wear. Metal plates, apparently for decorative use, embellished the bars. On each plate was inscribed the head of a cat.

The city wall was five feet thick, and perfectly smooth and unblemished. Even the slots cut into the sides of the portal and ceiling had no imperfections. Not the smallest chip scarred the surface of the stone near the grooves, where anyone who had ever seen a castle’s gate knew that rock began to disintegrate most quickly at those high stress points.

The companions walked inside the open gate. Caramon gazed at the city’s defenses with a soldier’s eye. Earwig stared with wonder at the incredible size of the gate and wall. Raistlin saw only the line of power, shimmering at his feet, extending into the city.

“Halt!” cried a voice. A soldier stepped out of a guardhouse, gesturing for five of his men to follow. They had been sitting out of sight, comfortably reclining in chairs in the cool evening air. Now they ran up to the party, holding their glaives in both hands, their bodies moving with exaggerated swings to the left and right, balancing with the weight of their heavy weapons.

The twins and the kender came to a standstill. Caramon stood with his arms folded across his chest, the hilt of his sword jutting up over his back, the main-gauche sitting at his hip. Raistlin leaned heavily on the staff, his back bent with fatigue. Earwig stepped forward, politely extending his small hand.

“Hi! I really love your walls!”

Caramon caught hold of him and pulled him back. “I’ll do the talking!”

The soldier who called for them to halt was a tall, thin man with large hands. Insignia on his simple blue uniform indicated that he was a sergeant.

“By law, we must question all strangers wanting to enter the city.”

“Certainly, we understand, Sarge,” Caramon said, smiling in a friendly manner.

“Your names?”

“Caramon Majere. Raistlin Majere,” Caramon said, gesturing to his twin with a hand. “And this”-patting the kender on the shoulder-“is Earwig.”

“Earwig. Surname?”

“Uh, just Earwig.”

“No, it’s not ‘just Earwig’!” said the kender indignantly, ignoring the warrior’s attempts to hush him. “My name is Earwig Lockpicker.”

Caramon groaned softly.

“Lockpicker?” The sergeant glowered. “And just what might that name mean, I wonder?”

“Well, if you’re interested, I’ll tell you,” offered Earwig brightly. “You see, when the kender first lived in Kendermore, my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather … I think. I mean, I know it was my grandfather, but I’m not sure if I put enough ‘greats’ in there. Maybe it was my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather who-”

“It is simply a name, officer, and has no meaning outside of tribal identification,” Raistlin said, smoothly breaking into Earwig’s recitation of his family tree. “It’s quite common among kender.”

“Common? It’s not common-” cried Earwig, but Caramon managed to muffle the kender with a large hand over his mouth.

“You seem to know a lot about them, sir. Do you have many kender friends?” The sergeant turned suspicious eyes on the mage, who stood perfectly motionless behind his brother.

“Exactly two more than I’d like,” answered Raistlin dryly. He suddenly began to cough and nearly fell.

Caramon sprang forward to assist him. “Look,” said the big man angrily, “we’ve answered your questions, Sergeant. Now let us pass. Can’t you see that my brother’s ill?”

“I can see it. And I don’t like it. We hear that there’s plague beyond our walls,” said the sergeant, his frown deepening. “I think you three had better just go back to wherever it is you came from.”

“I do not have the plague.” Raistlin was breathing easier. He stood up straight. “And we are going into the city.” The mage slid his left hand into voluminous robes, gliding between the simple hooks that held it closed in the front.

“Even if we have to go through you,” added Caramon grimly, standing to one side of his brother and drawing his sword.

“Stop them!” yelled the sergeant.

The soldiers halfheartedly lowered their weapons, threatening the companions with the broad blades of their glaives. None actually moved to stop the mage. None wanted to get that close.

“Come on!” cried Earwig, swinging his hoopak in the air until it whistled. “We’ll take you all on!”

“Wait, Sergeant!” called a voice.

A man motioned from the shadows where he must have been standing the entire time. The sergeant, glancing at the companions balefully, walked over. The two conversed briefly, then the sergeant nodded. He returned, looking relieved, and the man melted back into the shadows.

“Please excuse my suspicion, gentlemen,” said the sergeant, bowing. “These are troubled times. You are welcome in our city.”

“We are?” said Caramon dubiously.

“Yes. Rooms have been arranged for you at Barnstoke Hall.”

“How did anyone know we would be com-” Caramon began, but fell silent when he felt his brother’s hand close over his arm.

The sergeant handed Caramon an ornate scrollcase.

“Here. This is for you.”

Caramon handed it to his twin, who hid it within his robes.

“Where might we find the home of Councillor Shavas?” inquired Raistlin.

“Councillor Shavas’s house is in the exact center of town. Follow any of the main roads. They all lead right to it. The lodging-house, Barnstoke Hall, is on this road, just a short distance away.”

Raistlin had begun to cough again. Caramon took his brother’s arm.

“Thank you, Sergeant. We’ll be going now,” the warrior said. They walked slowly up the street, leaving the guards to stare after them, shaking their heads and muttering in low voices.

Absorbed in discussing the arrival of a wizard, the guards never noticed a dark form scale the white walls of Mereklar. The figure, dressed all in black, used no ropes or tools of any kind, but climbed the wall with ease, finding foot- and hand-holds in the carvings. Gliding over the top of the wall, he dropped down lightly onto the street below, landing silently on all fours. Keeping to the shadows, he slinked past the guards and crept down the street, keeping the companions in his sight.

“How the devil did anyone in Mereklar know we were coming?” Caramon demanded when his brother could breathe again.

“The man standing in the shadows,” Raistlin whispered. “He was at the inn with us. Remember the horse’s hoofprints on the road?”

“Was he?” Caramon glanced around, pausing. “Maybe I should go back and-”

“No, you shouldn’t!” snapped Raistlin. “I’m growing weaker by the moment. Would you leave me to die in the gutter?”

“No, Raist. Of course not,” said Caramon patiently, helping his brother through the quiet streets.

Every building was constructed of the same white stone as the walls, every street was a perfect white slate, smooth and even. It seemed to have all been carved from a single mountain of rock.

“Flint would love this place,” muttered Caramon.

“Hey! Look at that!” Earwig cried, pointing.

Motes of light were swelling out of the ground like water bubbling up from moist soil. After a few moments, the lights began to rise into the air, hovering above the walks and streets, flooding them with a radiant glow that illuminated the way for late-night travelers.

The lights were wasted tonight, however. No one was about, a fact Caramon thought strange, considering that it was not yet late. He peered constantly down the shadowy alleys and glanced sharply into each dark doorway they passed. The sharp-eyed kender noticed the warrior’s nervousness.

“Do you think someone’s going to jump out at us, Caramon?” Earwig asked eagerly. “You owe me a fight, you know, since you let me sleep through the one in the-”

“Keep quiet, kender!” Raistlin snarled.

Caramon glanced around. “Raist,” he said in a low voice, for his brother’s ears alone, “someone tried to stop us from coming to Mereklar that night. Why haven’t they tried again?”

The mage nodded his head wearily. “A good question, my brother. Look at it this way. That night, no one knew we were coming to Mereklar except the assassin. We may assume, I believe, that someone saw you remove the sign from the post at the crossroads. If we had died that night-” The mage coughed, struggled to draw breath.

“If we had died that night,” he repeated, when he could talk, “no would have known or cared. But, when we reached the inn, we made no secret of our interest in this city. People knew we were coming. If anything had happened to us on the way, questions would have been asked. Curiosity aroused.”

“That’s true,” said Caramon, regarding his brother with admiration. “So you think we’re safe now?”

Raistlin looked down at the white line, shimmering at his feet. It was very bright. He could see it clearly. No need for wine in his eyes. “No, Caramon, I do not-”

Pain seized Raistlin. Agony ran through his body like fiery darts. The motes of light left the streets and came to dance in his vision. The mage doubled over, the pain twisting his body into grotesque forms, squeezing the breath from his lungs, cutting off even his bubbling cry of torment.

Raistlin collapsed, unconscious. The staff clattered to the street. Lifting his brother, who was like a rag puppet in the big man’s arms, the warrior looked frantically around for aid.

“There’s the inn!” cried Earwig. “But it’s all dark!”

“These people must go to bed at sunset! Go get help!” Caramon ordered.

Dashing down the road, the kender reached the door to Barnstoke Hall and began pounding on it.

“Help! Fire! Thieves! Man overboard!” he yelled, adding any other rousing alarm he thought suitable.

Lights flared. Heads poked out of upstairs windows.

“What is it?” demanded a man in a pointed nightcap, coming out on a second-floor balcony.

“Open up!” shouted Caramon.

“It’s past hours. I’m locked up for the night. Come back in the morning-”

Caramon’s lips pressed together grimly. Getting a firm grip on the limp and seemingly lifeless body of his brother, the warrior kicked the door to the lodging-house. Wood splintered, but the door held. Caramon kicked it again. There was a tearing and rending sound as the door shattered beneath the blow. The man on the balcony shrieked in anger and disappeared inside.

Caramon stalked through the wreckage. Looking around, he found a sofa and gently laid his brother down. The scrollcase that Raistlin had placed in the sleeve of his robes clattered to the floor. Caramon paid no attention to it. His brother’s face was pinched, the lips blue. Raistlin had ceased breathing.

“I’ll call the guard!” The innkeeper came clattering down the stairs, shaking his fist. “You’ll pay-”

Caramon glanced at him.

“Hot water! Quickly!” the warrior ordered.

The innkeeper swelled up with fury, then his gaze fell on the scrollcase. He turned pale.

“Well, what are you doing, standing around, you lout?” the proprietor shouted at a sleepy servant. “Didn’t you hear the gentleman? Fetch hot water! And be quick about it!”

The servant raced out and returned with a pot of boiling water, originally used for the evening tea.

Caramon poured steaming water into a cup and shook the contents of one of Raistlin’s pouches inside. The herbs and barks bubbled and snapped. Propping up his brother’s lifeless form, Caramon held the concoction to Raistlin’s lips. The fumes seeped into the mage’s nose and mouth. Raistlin’s breathing began again, though the mage remained unconscious.

Sighing heavily, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his right hand, Caramon gently lifted his brother.

“Your rooms are ready, sir,” said the proprietor, bobbing up and down. “This way. I’ll show you myself.”

“Sorry about the door” Caramon grunted.

“Oh, think nothing of it,” said the innkeeper airily, as if he replaced heavy wooden doors every day. “Will you be needing anything else? Food? Drink?”

The procession wound its way up the stairs. Earwig, forgotten in the excitement, started to follow, when he remembered something.

“Raistlin’s staff! He left it in the street. I’m certain he’d want me to go get it!”

Turning, the kender dashed back outside. There was the staff, lying in the middle of the road. Earwig gazed down at it in awe. The crystal orb, held fast in the dragon’s claw, was as dark and lifeless, it seemed, as its master.

“Maybe I can make it light up,” said the kender, reaching out a trembling hand to take hold of the staff. Of all the interesting things that had happened to him in his life, this was going to be the most wonderful. Carrying a wizard’s staff-

“Hey!” Earwig cried out angrily. “What the-?”

The kender looked up into the air and down at his feet. He glanced around in all directions.

The staff was gone.

“Oops,” said Earwig Lockpicker.

Caramon watched over Raistlin throughout the night, never moving from the mage’s side, never taking his eyes from the steadily rising and falling rhythm of his brother’s breathing. The fighter had witnessed Raistlin this sick only once before, when they were being pursued in a forest by the Cleric of Larnish’s men. The mage had expended most of his energies fending off spear and arrow, creating a glowing shield that could not be penetrated by missiles, protecting the twins from attack until eventually they found safety in a hidden cave.

Caramon had gone out to cover their tracks from the pursuers, and when he came back, he saw his brother, leaning against a wall, head bent at an odd angle, eyes rolled back so that only the whites showed. A few moments later, however, Raistlin had recovered and acted as if nothing had happened. But Caramon knew that his brother had exhausted himself beyond even the endurance of his indomitable will.

This night, however, Raistlin was not recovering, though Caramon was sure he had acted in time, forcing the vapors of the herbs into the mage’s lungs.

“Something’s going on that I don’t understand,” the warrior muttered.

Looking at the still figure on the bed, Caramon gently brushed the long, white hair away from the mage’s face, revealing a mask of metal that gave no clue to the thoughts and feelings behind it. Raistlin was still wrapped in his red robes, a crimson shroud that concealed the weakness of his body.

Caramon, sitting in a large, plush chair near the bed, allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and stretch his huge frame. He was tired, but he had no intention of falling asleep while his twin was in the grip of this strange malady.

Oil lamps hung in each of the four corners of the room, suspended from the ceiling on silver wires, creating steady illumination that covered everything in a white-yellow glow. Moving to the lamps, Caramon blew them out one by one until the room was dark.

Turning from the last, Caramon caught his breath as he looked back to the mage. Raistlin’s body was covered in a faint blue glow, an aura that moved and flickered and danced around the gold of the magician’s skin. Arcs of lightning cracked between and around the fingers of his hands.

“Raist!” Caramon whispered in awe. “What’s going on? Please, tell me! I’ve never seen anything like this before! I’m frightened! Raist! Please!”

But his brother couldn’t answer.

“It’s not real. It’s a trick of my eyes because I’m sleepy.” Caramon rubbed his eyes, but the glow remained.

Hurrying to the bed, the fighter imagined he saw the nimbus growing brighter at his approach. He reached out with an unsteady hand and touched Raistlin’s arm. The lines around the mage’s hands extended toward him, as if groping out blindly to feel another’s presence.

Caramon quickly backed away, unwilling to commune with the power that surrounded the sorcerer’s body.

“You little monster!”

The woman’s scream echoed through the inn, awakening Caramon. The next instant, footsteps pounded up the stair and fists banged on the door.

The fighter turned quickly to observe Raistlin, hoping the mage wouldn’t wake from his slumber. A muscle in his brother’s face twitched, and he stirred restlessly in his sleep.

Caramon leaped to his feet, fatigue leaving his muscles as he stormed toward the door. Flinging it open, he faced the proprietor he had met briefly last night.

“Stop that racket!” whispered Caramon loudly. “My brother is sick!”

“Please, kind sir! I know you are important people-friends of the councillor’s-but you must help me!” The proprietor pointed down the stairs. “Your friend is assaulting my patrons!”

“My friend?” The warrior looked around the room to see if he’d forgotten somebody. Realization glimmered. “Earwig!” he groaned.

“Please, sir, please!” The innkeeper pulled on Caramon’s arm, attempting to tug him out the door.

The fighter came to a dead standstill and looked the proprietor directly in the eye. “Don’t let anything disturb my brother, understand?” He held a thick finger in front of the proprietor’s face for emphasis.

“Of course not,” the innkeeper said, swallowing hard. “Now would you please come reason with your friend, sir?”

“Reason? With a kender? That’ll be a first!” the warrior muttered under his breath, closing the door softly behind him.

Caramon walked into the room, and his eyes widened in disbelief. Earwig stood on a small oaken table in the corner of the dining hall, hoopak in his hand, threatening the staff of the inn. Something white and frilly was on his head.

One of the cooks, a large portly man, brandished a huge butcher knife. “I’ll chop off your ears!” he threatened, advancing on the kender.

“Cut out my eyes, too,” taunted the kender. “Then I won’t have to look at your ugly face!” Thwop! The hoopak flew out and slapped the man on the nose.

“Come on! Who’s next? I’m the mighty warrior, Earwig Lockpicker!” He waved his staff in a wide arc as others attempted to approach. “Admired by men! Beloved by women!”

Heaving a sigh, Caramon moved forward. Seeing his friend, Earwig warned, “Stay away from me, sir. I’m in the throes of the famous Kender Berzerkergang, which has not been seen on Krynn for hundreds of years!”

Caramon grabbed the staff as it arced toward his head, the wood making a loud slap on his palm that caused many in the room to wince in sympathetic pain.

“That’s enough, Earwig.” The warrior wrenched the hoopak from the kender’s hand.

“Draw your sword, Caramon! Cut them down!” Earwig shrieked, jumping from the table. “They attacked me!”

“Attacked you?” Caramon stared at the kender. “What in the name of the Abyss is that on your head?”

Earwig’s face went from righteous anger to bland innocence in less time than it takes to tell it. “It’s my hair, Caramon.”

The warrior eyed the lacy headpiece wrapped around the kender’s topknot. The headpiece looked familiar. It was-

“A garter!” the fighter said suddenly. Caramon’s face flushed deep crimson. Reaching out, he snatched the piece of feminine underclothing from the kender’s head. “I’ve heard of kender swiping lots of things!” he hissed into Earwig’s ear, shaking the kender until his teeth rattled. “But how did you manage to steal this?”

“The problem, sir,” the innkeeper spoke, stepping from the doorway where he had waited until the battle was over, “is that this … person … attempted to … to steal-”

“Steal!” Earwig’s eyes widened in indignation. “A kender … steal?” He could barely speak for the injustice of the accusation.

“Sir,” the proprietor continued. “A young lady was sitting down to breakfast when this person … uh …”

Ignoring the flustered innkeeper, Caramon gazed sternly at Earwig. “What happened?” he asked with a sigh, knowing that he was in for a long and convoluted explanation.

“Well, last night I went to pick up Raistlin’s staff that he left in the street, only when I reached out to grab it, the staff disappeared. I thought I’d better go look for it-you know, Caramon, how much your brother thinks of that staff. Well, anyway, I went back out-”

“I locked you in your room!” thundered the innkeeper. “Councillor Shavas wouldn’t want him walking around town after dark,” he added hastily, for Caramon’s benefit. “The little fellow might get hurt.”

“Hunh,” grunted Caramon, frowning.

“Well, anyway,” continued Earwig, deciding magnanimously to overlook being called “little fellow,” “I walked around the town, and I saw a lot of cats, and I found this bar that looked like fun. And it was! A man there tried to kill me, Caramon! With a knife! What do you think of that? I fought him off. Thwack! Over the head with my hoopak. Then the most beautiful girl I ever saw in my life kissed me on the cheek. Just as if I’d been you, Caramon! By then I was getting kind of tired, so I came back here and found all these game pieces lying on the ground, so I picked them up and climbed back up the trellis and in through the window-”

“What?” the proprietor yelled.

“Shh!” Caramon insisted, feeling that they must be nearing the important part.

“I went to your room, and Raistlin’s staff had come back by itself! Which is truly remarkable, except that I did go to a lot of trouble and it might have had more consideration. Then I couldn’t remember my room number, so I went to sleep under the table and when I woke up, that woman was sitting down right on top of me and I saw that this part of her clothing was sliding down her leg. And if this”-the kender pointed at the garter-“had slid down and wrapped around her ankle, she would have tripped and maybe hurt herself so I just took it off her. I guess you heard her scream, huh? After that she fainted. Then all these people jumped on me. For no reason!” Earwig added indignantly.

His face burning, still holding the garter, Caramon glanced around uncertainly, wondering what to do.

“I’ll take it, sir,” offered one of the female servants.

“Yeah! Thanks!” Caramon handed it over in relief. “He didn’t really mean to cause any trouble, Master Innkeeper. He just sort of found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll keep an eye on him after this. It won’t happen again.”

“I surely hope not,” said the proprietor, somewhat mollified.

“Please give our apologies to the young lady,” Caramon added, marching Earwig up the stairs.

“I thought maybe I’d get another kiss, Caramon,” said the kender cheerfully. “Boy! That was fun!”

“My family has lived in Mereklar for hundreds of years,” Councillor Shavas said, sitting in front of the fire in the main library of her estate after a sumptuous dinner, a large, untouched glass of brandy in her fine hands.

The flames played behind her, casting flickering lights and shadows, framing her poised, fluid form. She talked comfortably with the brothers, as if she had known them all their lives. Her beauty was matchless. Her voice was like sweet flowing amber.

Small wonder, then, that neither Caramon nor Raistlin noticed the absence of the kender.

“And you say your ancestors lived in the surrounding countryside?” Raistlin huddled near the fire. He held a glass of brandy in his golden hand, and it also remained untouched, the mage unwilling to sacrifice his self-control for physical pleasures. His hood was cast back, and the fire flared in his eyes, filling their darkness with flame.

“Yes, that is correct. I am, however, unsure of the exact location,” the councillor replied.

Raistlin saw that although the woman spoke to both him and his brother, she kept her gaze fixed on him. And he did not see in her eyes the loathing or fear he was accustomed to seeing in the eyes of women. In the eyes of this woman he saw fascination, admiration. It made his blood tingle.

“Perhaps their origin could be found in this library?” Raistlin suggested, sweeping an arm to indicate the thousands of volumes of books lining the walls. He remembered what he’d been told, that some of them were magical. “If you would like, I could help you search.”

“Yes, I think I would like that very much,” the councillor said. A slight flush suffused her pale skin. She glanced into her drink, then lifted her large eyes to stare again at the mage.

Raistlin studied the woman in front of him. Something was wrong, something was bothering him, nagging at him, demanding his attention. But, dazzled by her beauty, he couldn’t think what. Perhaps it was Shavas herself. She had told them much … and nothing. He’d learned more talking with people in the street. He felt she was hiding something, something she would reveal to him alone. The mage cast a sharp, meaningful glance at his brother.

Caramon pretended not to notice. He had witnessed his brother’s dealings with others before. He knew of Raistlin’s constant manipulations and maneuverings, the way he let a subtle hint fall on interested ears, alluding to things he only guessed at, coercing his prey into letting slip information that was best kept from the knowledge of others. The fighter was always ashamed by the mage’s need to display cognitive superiority over others. Besides, Caramon didn’t want to leave the presence of this beautiful woman. Caramon had noted that, though she talked to Raistlin, she seemed to be constantly looking at the big warrior.

“Well, Master Wizard,” said Shavas, breaking what had become an uncomfortable silence, “will you and your brother help our city in its hour of grave need?”

“It says here,” the mage stated, pulling a rolled piece of parchment from under his robes, “that the fee for the job is ‘negotiable.’ Exactly how much room for negotiation exists?”

“The fee quoted by the Minister of Finance is ten thousand steel pieces,” Shavas said.

Caramon’s mouth dropped open. Ten thousand steel was more money than he had made in his life, let alone at once. Thoughts of what such a large sum of money could buy raced through his head: An inn! No, a huge tavern, with a fireplace in the middle and a dozen rooms and stables out in back. He imagined a house perched high in the vallenwoods of Solace and grew so excited that he stood up and began to roam around the room, bumping into things, overturning a small chair.

“Caramon,” said Raistlin irritably. “Where is Earwig?”

“I don’t know,” Caramon answered. “It’s not my day to watch him.”

The councillor looked alarmed, her face filling with sudden apprehension.

“I don’t want him wandering around my house! There are too many precious things that shouldn’t be touched! Would you go and search for him, sir?”

Caramon, looking into the woman’s eyes, felt that if she had asked him to go to the Abyss and find a five-headed dragon, he would have left immediately.

“Sure. Glad to, my lady,” he said. He walked out of the room by the side door, closing it loudly behind him.

Raistlin stood from his chair, using the Staff of Magius for support, though he felt no more tired than he had earlier that afternoon. Walking to a bookshelf, he leaned against it, stealing surreptitious glances at the texts. Perhaps whatever was troubling him emanated from the books.

“There is something I need to ask you, my lady.”

“Call me Shavas, please,” she said, moving nearer to him.

The mage ran a golden hand along the spines of several books. Dust collected on his fingers, and he regarded the fine gray powder with a frown, disliking the treatment the texts received. He rubbed his fingers together, letting the dust fall onto the carpet. “What is our success worth to you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question,” Shavas replied, shaking her head slightly and furrowing her arched brows.

“It is very simple, Councillor,” Raistlin said, moving, unconsciously, nearer to her. “What value do you place on our success?”

“It would mean saving the city and the entire world, of course. It means everything to me, because unless you succeed, there will be nothing left but darkness and despair.” Shavas said this casually, without undue excitement. She even smiled slightly, as if darkness and despair weren’t anything she couldn’t handle. “What do you expect me to say? That your success is worth the wealth of the entire city? That you could take anything you wanted, Master Wizard?” She glanced at Raistlin alluringly.

He felt his body react to her presence and immediately angrily raised his defenses. “I am not a Master Wizard. I have not attained that high level,” he said with mocking humility. “Forgive me, I was only asking on principle. I am sorry if you feel offended,” he added, pulling the cowl of his red robes over his head.

The councillor stepped away from him. “Then you agree to our terms?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t say that at all. I will have to take time to consider,” the mage said from the depths of his robes.

“You will tell me tomorrow?” Shavas inquired, with a touch of impatience.

“Perhaps.” Raistlin turned back to the fire and was startled to feel Shavas moving again to stand near him. Gold mask in place, he asked harshly, “Is there something wrong, Councillor?”

“No,” she said, pulling back slightly and placing a hand over the necklace she wore at her throat. “It’s just that I’ve never been this close to a mage before.”

“You have no mystics in Mereklar?” Raistlin asked with a rise in his voice.

“Yes, that is correct. No mage has entered the city for a very long time.”

“And why is that, I wonder?”

“I don’t know.” Shavas shrugged white shoulders. After a moment’s consideration, she added, “There was a wizard who lived in the mountains. But I hear he was killed long ago by some … evil force.”

“Spooks,” said Raistlin, half-smiling.

“What?” The woman looked startled.

“Nothing, just some inanity of my brother’s. What kind of force killed him?”

“I’m not sure. It’s only a legend which began long before I was born. What you said about ‘spooks,’ though. I have heard that he was killed by ghosts. Is that common among wizards?”

“That type of magic is not in the realm of my studies, Councillor. I am no necromancer.”

Shavas leaned forward slightly. “Have you ever considered becoming one?”

She was almost touching him. Raistlin stared at her. “Why, Councillor?” he asked softly. “Are you offering to teach me?”

The woman laughed merrily. “How droll you are! As if I could teach you anything! I know nothing of magic and magicians.”

Yes, my lady, that is what you claim, but why do you ask a question like that? And why do you keep a library filled with magical books if you can’t read them? the mage wondered, but he said nothing.

A moment of silence passed between councillor and magician. Raistlin looked slowly around the library. Shavas stood motionless, her head angled slightly back to observe the mage’s movements. The braid of her hair shone a rich reddish brown. No light from the fire reached her deep green eyes, but they glittered like emeralds.

“Where were you going before you decided to come to Mereklar?” she asked.

Raistlin ran his fingers along the volumes, reading some of their titles and the names of the authors who wrote them.

“You have an excellent collection of books, Councillor,” he said, finding a particularly interesting manuscript, History of Modern Philosophies.

“Thank you, but you still haven’t answered my question.”

Raistlin turned to face his hostess, letting the book fall back into place. “My companions and I were on our way across New Sea on personal business.” His voice was cold, almost insulting.

“Now it is my turn to say that I am sorry if I have offended,” the councillor said, gliding back to her seat.

Raistlin took advantage of the opportunity to dip his finger slightly into the glass he had set on a nearby table. When he was sure the councillor was not looking at him, he drew his finger across his eyes, causing them to tear from the alcohol. The mage scanned the room quickly, staring up at the ceiling and to the walls.

The line-the stream of age and untold power-did not appear. Where is it? It must lead here from Southgate Street and cut through the house!

Raistlin moved to look out a window to the road that led from the gate, hoping he would find the line there, but the pane of glass was opaque.

“Are you looking for something, Raistlin?” Shavas asked in concern.

“I have a cinder in my eyes,” he said, rubbing them. Then the knowledge struck him. He knew what had been bothering him.

His hourglass eyes saw the effects of time on everything upon which his gaze fell. The Masters of the Tower had cast this curse upon him, hoping to teach him compassion for others, hoping to remind him that all men were alike, all men dying. He saw the books on the shelves rotting away, their leather bindings cracking and fading. He saw the tables lose their lacquered sheens and grow old, their timbers and slats fall in scattered stacks. But when he looked at Shavas, he saw her young, beautiful, unchanging.

This can’t be! he railed, massaging his eyes with his hand. When he opened his eyes again, he felt his body grow cold. The councillor’s form was now nothing but a rotting corpse, struck down by the passage of untold eons, an abomination to life, something unspeakable and unnatural, a travesty that must be destroyed.

What new joke have the masters played on me now? Raistlin demanded silently. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, attempting to shut out the horrible sight he had just witnessed.

“What is wrong?” Shavas asked, rising to her feet. She moved closer, and Raistlin felt her hands touch his golden flesh. He felt the touch of a woman, the fatal touch of something he never expected to feel.

“As I have said, I am fine,” Raistlin replied tersely. He snatched his arm away from the woman’s grasp.

She gazed at him, hurt, reminding him of Caramon.

Raistlin sighed. His hand reached for the staff, but he had left it standing beside the bookshelves.

“Please forgive me, Councillor. I’m not used to anyone … touching me. I apologize if I seem rude.”

“No apologies are necessary, Raistlin. I think I understand. You have been misused, ill-treated. You raise your defenses swiftly.” The councillor lifted her hand and placed it on the mage’s arm. “I assure you, sir,” she murmured, drawing nearer until he could smell the fragrance of her hair, “that you need no defenses around me!”

Raistlin caught his breath, feeling as if he were smothering. But the sensation, unlike his illness, was a pleasant one. She was beautiful to his eyes, the only thing of beauty he’d seen in a long, long time. His arm glided around the woman’s slender body, and he pulled her near.

Caramon walked the corridors of the councillor’s house, becoming increasingly nervous with each step, though he could not imagine why. Nothing in the estate had been any more menacing than an inanimate suit of armor in the library. He rubbed at the muscles in his right leg, a very slight bruise rising blue on his flesh.

“How did that happen?” he asked himself. “I don’t remember bumping into anything.”

The hall led him from the library to the middle of the house. Here the corridor was dimly lit with a strange color, vaguely purple or lavender. Brass oil lamps, spaced at regular intervals and mounted directly to the wall, gave only a faint glow, the frosted glass covering the wicks and diffusing the yellow-white flames into almost nothing.

“Why the devil does she keep it so dark in here?” Caramon said to himself, wondering which of the many doors the kender might be behind. “Earwig! Earwig! Where are you?”

He wandered the house calling, waiting for an answer and finally, after what seemed like hours, heard one.

“Caramon? Is that you?”

“Of course, it’s me! Where are you?”

“In here!”

Caramon walked a few paces to a door in the middle of the hall. He twisted the knob, walked in, and stopped dead. “Shavas’s bedroom,” he said.

He knew he should leave, he knew what he was doing was highly improper. But he couldn’t help himself. The beauty and alluring mystery of the room seemed to beckon him forward. Besides, he told himself, he’d heard the kender’s voice and the last thing the lady would want would be the kender in amid her personal belongings.

“I’ll just slip in and take a quick look around for Earwig,” Caramon said softly, entering the room. Without quite knowing what he was doing or why, he shut the door behind him.

The councillor’s bedroom was comfortably lit, much brighter than the hallway. An abundance of candles burned in holders, each a different shape from the other, each some type of animal or creature: griffons, dragons, and other wondrous or grotesque creatures. The melting wax gave off a faint perfume that reminded Caramon of the woman herself. Desire made him tingle, and he found himself standing next to her bed.

The bed frame was made of brass, decorated with the same bizarre creatures who held the candles. It dominated the back of the room. Curtains and drapes of gray silk hung from the ceiling and metal supports. Dressers and drawers were scattered about, lacquered black and red and orange, with pictures of odd birds and twisted trees and weird flowers. There were six chairs of the same design. Small boxes of gold and silver and other precious metals, their intricate detail and textures belaying a hint of great age, covered three tables. Though he was no expert in metalworking, the fighter could tell that the boxes were built by a master craftsmen.

The floors were embellished by a rich carpet, filled with swirls and ribbons and circles, the same colors as everything else in the room. Several mirrors were mounted to the walls, and a full-size mirror, held by a frame of gold, stood in one corner, reflecting Caramon’s image. The warrior noticed that his reflection in the mirror seemed to be coming from farther away than he actually was.

“How long have I been standing here?” he asked out loud, blinking, the sound of his voice lifting the fascinating, lascivious spell of the room. “And where’s Earwig?” Glancing about nervously, the fighter searched the room. He found nothing, no sign of a kender.

“I should leave,” he said, leaning on a smooth, black-stained table painted with orange flowers and green leaves. The wood felt surprisingly warm under his palms. Without thinking, he took hold of a piece of cloth that had been thrown casually on the table, his fingers caressing it. Moving to sit on the bed, he held the cloth without noticing what he was doing, working his hands over the cool, smooth fabric.

“The councillor is the most magnificent woman I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. The cloth was growing warm beneath his fingers. “I wonder what she’s like?” Caramon said very softly.

Rising to his feet, he walked over to the full mirror again, studying his face-a face many considered handsome. His body was scarred from numerous battles, his muscles held unmatched strength. Drawing a deep breath, the fighter watched his huge chest expand, his arms grow firm.

Then he saw what he held in his hand.

“What am I doing?” Face burning in embarrassment, he moved swiftly back to the table, starting to replace the black-silk shawl he had been fondling, when a high-pitched voice shrilled behind him.

“What have you got in your hand, Caramon?”

“Nothing!” he yelled, spinning to face the kender, who was gazing up and smiling at the fighter.

“What’s that?” Earwig asked, reaching around Caramon to the table.

“Don’t touch it!” the warrior said quickly. “Just something of … of the councillor’s.”

“Oh,” the kender said, shrugging.

“Come on, Earwig! We shouldn’t be in here,” said Caramon severely, feeling guilty and taking it out on the kender.

The warrior headed hurriedly for the door. Earwig started to follow when he noticed a small box sitting on one of the tables.

Pick me up! Pick me up!

“What?” said Earwig, pausing, staring at the box in delight.

“I didn’t say anything!” snapped Caramon. Bumbling into a large, hand-painted screen, he almost knocked it over and was grappling with it, trying to keep it from falling.

Pick me up! Pick me up!

“You bet!” cried the kender. Grabbing the box, he thrust it quickly into one his pouches.

“Earwig!”

Caramon, having righted the screen, was standing near the door. He was using That Voice again. Earwig caught up with him and they left the room, the warrior carefully shutting the door behind them.

“What’s the matter, Caramon?” the kender asked, noting that the big man’s face was red and he appeared to be breathing more rapidly than normal.

“Nothing! Just leave me alone!” Caramon ordered, tromping down the hall.

Open me! Open me!

“This is truly remarkable,” said Earwig happily as he reached into his pouch for the box. There was really no reason why he shouldn’t open it in front of Caramon, but the kender felt a sudden need to keep the marvelous box hidden from his friend. Letting the warrior get ahead of him, Earwig flicked the catch with his finger. The lid of the box flew open. Inside was a single ring-a plain, gold band without stone or engraving, nestled in red velvet. Earwig frowned in disappointment, having hoped to find something more interesting. After all, the box had talked to him.

“So, where were you?” Caramon demanded, stopping dead in his tracks to confront the kender. “Hiding behind a curtain?”

Earwig thrust the box beneath his tunic. “Curtain? I wasn’t behind any curtain!”

“I heard you call my name from that room! You must have been somewhere? One of the dressers?”

Earwig shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Caramon. I came into that room looking for you!”

The warrior glared at the kender skeptically. Then, shrugging, he shook his head and sighed. “It’s this weird house. It’s got me hearing things. So, where have you been?”

“Well, I’ve been to Solace and Thelgaard and Southern Ergoth and-”

“I mean where in the house!” Caramon shouted, exasperated.

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?” Earwig said, slapping himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand, raising his eyes to heaven. “There’s a really fantastic room that’s filled with plants, and they’re all growing indoors.”

“Plants?” Caramon repeated. “Are you sure there’s a room with plants in it?”

“Yeah. It’s all hot and steamy in there, too.”

“Uh-huh. Next you’ll tell me there’s a secret chamber somewhere.”

“Wow! How did you kn-”

“Name of the Abyss, Earwig! Quit making up these wild tales of yours!” Caramon stalked off down the hall. “Come on. I think we should be getting back to Raist.”

“Sure, Caramon,” Earwig said cheerfully. He slipped the ring onto his finger.

“Why do you treat people like that, Raist?” Caramon demanded, sitting forward on the comfortable leather seats of the councillor’s private carriage. This vehicle was enclosed, to protect against the chill of the evening.

Raistlin glanced at his twin, amused at his brother’s unusually antagonistic tone. “Treat people like what?”

“You know.” Caramon couldn’t exactly put his ire into words. “She’s done nothing to hurt you.”

“Hasn’t she?” Raistlin murmured, but the words were muffled in the cowl of his red robes. He stirred slightly. “Don’t be naive, Caramon. She wants our help only so long as it suits her needs. You heard her confess that the other council members hate us and are going to hire our services only because they have to.”

“They only hate you,” Caramon said, then snapped his mouth shut. He couldn’t imagine why he’d said that, except that suddenly he wasn’t feeling well. His insides were twisting like snakes.

Raistlin regarded his brother with a steadfast gaze.

“Well,” said Earwig, “are we going to take the job or aren’t we?”

“What difference does it make to you, kender?” Raistlin asked irritably. “Since when did you ever care about work?”

Earwig blinked, rubbing his hand. The skin around one of his fingers itched. “I care about a lot of things! You never take me seriously, that’s all. And you should!” he stated, glaring at his companions. “If you don’t, someday you’ll be sorry!”

“Calm down,” muttered Caramon, rubbing his hand over his churning stomach.

“We’ll take the job. There was never any doubt of that,” Raistlin remarked.

“Then when do we start? What do we do first? I’ve got to know!” Earwig cried loudly.

Caramon looked at his friend, face wrinkling in confusion and pain. “Why?”

“I just do, that’s all!” Earwig said defiantly, flinging himself back into the seat and crossing his arms over his small chest.

“What’s wrong with you tonight?” Caramon stared at him.

“What’s wrong with any of us?” Raistlin snapped.

No one said anything. Each of the twins could have found his own answer, though neither spoke it aloud.

The ride back to the tavern was quiet, the night very still. Raistlin saw decorations hanging from many of the houses, in preparation for the upcoming Festival of the Eye. He shook his head slowly, tapping the Staff of Magius on the floor. These people. They’re so foolish. They celebrate, they dance. They don’t know why. They don’t understand the terrible sacrifice that brought about this holiday, he said inwardly.

Raistlin thought back to his time with the councillor. The intimacy they’d shared had been exciting and over too soon. She’d slipped from his embrace as swiftly as she’d entered it, whispering something about the servants. Raistlin, to distract himself, to focus his mind back on what was important, had inspected the books on the shelves. He’d found texts on thaumaturgy, sorcery, summoning. He thought he’d glimpsed rare volumes on naming magics, illusions, invocations. Wonders from the ages lined the shelves, wonders that had been missing for hundreds of years.

I heard of some of these books while I was apprenticed. Why are they here? Why does she have them? he asked himself. Raistlin seemed to recall her saying something about the books being there when her family arrived after the Cataclysm. That was a credible answer, of course, but …

The mage tried to recall everything he had seen in the room-every decoration, statuette, picture. On a table were five stones of unusual hues and colors, each the length of a finger and very smooth, shining in the firelight. They might match the description of the lost Sending Stones. There was a model of the universe-a contraption of brass, a construction of moving parts, spheres and gauges, springs for winding, coils that released their energy when tightened-

Raistlin felt a hand on his. He jumped, then relaxed quickly when he saw that it was only Caramon’s. “Don’t touch me! You know how I hate it!” the mage snarled.

“I’m sorry, Raist, but I … I don’t feel very good.”

“Really? Shirak,” he whispered.

The staff’s light gleamed in the carriage. Raistlin stared into his brother’s face. The warrior’s features were sunken and his eyes had dark rings under them, as if he had been awake for many days. His back was bent, and his shoulders sagged.

“It must have been the brandy,” Caramon concluded, groaning and leaning against the side of the carriage.

“Just how much did you have to drink?” Raistlin asked.

“Not much,” Caramon mumbled defensively.

Raistlin regarded his brother silently. Caramon could generally drink most men under the table. Reaching out his hand, the mage closed his fingers over his brother’s wrist, felt his pulse, rapid and thready. Beads of sweat began to pop out on the warrior’s forehead and upper lip.

Raistlin knew the symptoms, knew them well. But he denied it to himself. “You should learn to control your appetites, my brother,” said the mage.

The carriage dropped them off in front of the inn. This time it was Raistlin who assisted his twin inside the door of Barnstoke Hall.

“I’m all right, Raist. Honest,” said Caramon, ashamed of his weakness. He stood up straight, refusing his brother’s arm.

Raistlin looked at him, then shrugged and, leaning on his staff, walked toward the stairs. Earwig trudged along behind. The kender’s head was bowed. He looked neither to the right nor the left, but kept his eyes straight ahead on the floor in front of him. Caramon followed, staggering slightly, wondering if the ceiling was actually going to cave in on him, as it seemed.

The proprietor stood behind the desk at the side of the main room, looking through a stack of books, making notes with a black quill. He looked up when he heard his guests arrive.

“You’re returning late. It’s way past the middle of the night. I assume your meeting with the councillor went well, then, sirs?”

“I don’t see that it’s any business of yours,” Raistlin said softly as he passed by the desk, ascending the stairs, heading up to their room. The proprietor, affronted, went back to his work.

Caramon stumbled over to the stairway, falling to his knees. Raistlin looked back, pausing in concern.

“Go ahead,” Caramon waved his brother on. “I … just need to rest. I’ll … meet you in the room.” The fighter heaved himself off the floor, leaning against the stairwell. Earwig, not looking around, kept climbing the stairs.

Raistlin stared after the kender, who was acting every bit as strangely as Caramon. The mage wasn’t certain whom to assist.

“I will wait for you here, on the landing, my brother,” he said, keeping one eye on Caramon and one on Earwig.

The warrior, nodding, made it up the stairs. Raistlin took the big man’s arm and helped him to the room.

“Earwig, open the door.”

The kender nodded and did as he was told without comment, acting as if he were walking in his sleep. Caramon stumbled headlong into the room. Lifting his head, he caught, by the light of the staff, a quick glimpse of movement in a dark corner.

“Raist-” he began, but before he could say anything more, his brother had shoved him to one side. A dart, its point glittering in the staff’s light, sped from the darkness straight at the fighter. Raistlin threw himself into the path of the missile, opening his cloak to create a shield of cloth. Two more darts followed, burying themselves in the cloth of the red robes before they reached their target.

The assassin dashed forward-a figure in black, dodging around the mage with the agility of an acrobat. He leaped over the dumbfounded kender, took the stairs to the first floor in one jump, and disappeared into the street.

Raistlin ran to the window, pulling a shard of glass from a pouch to use in a spell, but the assassin was already gone. Turning, he hurried back to his brother, who was lying on the floor.

“Caramon? Are you hurt?” he asked, kneeling at his brother’s side.

“No, I … don’t think so.”

Looking up into his twin’s face, Caramon saw true concern, true worry. Warmth spread through his body, banishing the sickness for a moment. Somewhere deep inside, Raistlin cared for him. The knowledge was worth facing all the assassins in the world. “Thanks, Raist,” he said weakly.

Raistlin inspected his robes and pulled the three darts from the cloth. Two were lodged in the folds, the third had struck a metal disk-the charm of good fortune he had received from the woman at the Black Cat. He looked at the amulet with a touch of amusement.

Earwig, aimlessly roaming the room, found another dart that the assassin had dropped. Without saying anything to the brothers, the kender slipped it into his pocket.

“Do you need anything, Caramon?” Raistlin asked.

“No, nothing. I just need to rest.” The warrior collapsed on the bed. His brother sat by his side. “Raist, I thought you said nobody’d hurt us now. Too many people knew we were here.”

“It wasn’t ‘us’ they were after, Caramon,” said Raistlin thoughtfully, studying the darts. “It was you.”

“Huh?” The warrior propped himself up on his elbow.

“Why would anyone want to kill Caramon?” Earwig yawned.

“The darts were aimed directly at you. None at me or the kender. And this strange illness. If I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have been able to react, to get out of the way. You would have been easy prey, my brother.”

Raistlin held one of the darts up to a lamp. The mage sniffed at the tip and drew his face back, wrinkling his nose in obvious repugnance. “Thorodrone,” he said, pursing his lips and sniffing again. “Definitely. An extremely deadly poison. You were fortunate he didn’t hit you, Caramon. You would have been dead in an instant.”

He held the dart over the flame of a nearby lamp, causing the tip to glow green. Spitting on his fingers, then rubbing them together lightly, Raistlin flaked off the poison, now turned ash gray on the black metal. He did the same to the other two darts, then deposited them carefully in one of his pouches.

Rising from the bed, the sorcerer extinguished the lamp and the light of his staff and walked to the window. “What did you see of the man?” he said, eyes scanning the streets for signs of intruders.

“Nothing. He was dressed in black, and he was fast.”

“And he was really good with a blowgun,” Earwig added, removing the top of his hoopak to reveal the exit hole for his own weapon.

Unseen in the darkness, the kender took out the poisoned dart and tried to insert it into the blowgun. It wouldn’t fit; it was too big. He stared at it, disappointed, until he realized that if he plucked away some of the feathers, the dart would fit quite nicely. He commensed plucking.

“I didn’t see anything of him either,” said Raistlin.

Earwig slid the defeathered dart into a small, hidden pocket on his sleeve, and capped his hoopak. Yawning again, he unrolled his bedclothes, lay down, and was soon fast asleep.

“Did you notice anything unusual when you were walking around inside of her house tonight?” Raistlin asked suddenly.

“Unusual?” Caramon was sick and dizzy and wanted only to go to sleep.

“Unusual. Bizarre. Out of the ordinary. Did you see or hear anything you didn’t understand?”

Caramon thought back to Shavas’s room, remembering the touch of silk, the feel between his fingers, cold satin turning warm. A wave of heat stole over his body. He thought about hearing Earwig’s voice when the kender swore he hadn’t been in the room. He thought about the fact that he had wandered through the house for hours, yet it seemed to him as if it had been only a few moments.

“No. Nothing,” was his short reply. “Leave the lady out of this, Raist. She didn’t have anything to do with it. I drank too much, that’s all. It was my fault.”

“Perhaps,” murmured Raistlin. “I must get into that house again … alone.”

“What?” asked Caramon drowsily.

“Nothing, my brother.”

The mage went to his bed. When he heard Caramon snoring, his breathing deep and regular, Raistlin allowed himself to drift into sleep.

“We have decided to take the assignment,” Raistlin said.

The councillor looked at each of the companions with an expression of extreme pleasure. “Thank you,” she said. “Somehow, I knew you would.”

With a graceful movement, she seated herself in a chair in front of a suit of armor; one of its gauntleted hands held a flamberge that was taller than the kender. Gesturing, Shavas invited the others to join her. It seemed to Caramon that the woman gazed at him with a knowing expression.

She knows that I was in her room, he said to himself, flushing in embarrassment. She knows I … handled her shawl. To conceal his confusion, he turned to the bookshelves and grabbed up the first volume he found.

Raistlin was talking with the councillor, discussing the terms of their arrangement, asking questions about the carvings on the walls. Caramon didn’t pay any attention. He was thinking about the beautiful woman. Rich, educated, well-born-she was far above him, out of his reach, like the moon and the stars.

I’m making a fool of myself, Caramon thought. A woman like that could never love me. I’ll stick to women like Maggie … But he couldn’t keep his hungry gaze from her face.

“When the city was found,” Shavas was saying, “most of the walls were blank. We believe that the stone was sent by the first gods to the architects who built the city. It is unbreakable, though many tried. Some people noticed, however, that as time went on, carvings began to appear, as if somebody were engraving them into the stone by magic.” She glanced at the still form of the mage. “The engravings were of stories of some of the greatest events on Krynn, such as the fall of the King-priest of Istar; the Legend of Huma; the story of Lord Soth, Knight of the Black Rose. Apparently, some unknown force carves the tales of the world into the walls.”

Lord Soth. What a dumb name. Caramon tore his gaze away. Opening the book, he glanced through it. And what a dumb book, he decided, leafing from one sheet to the next till he reached the back cover. There were no pictures or writing or anything.

Shrugging, he put the book back on the shelf where he had found it. Looking around, he saw Shavas staring at him. The warrior flushed beneath her penetrating gaze.

“Did you find anything interesting?” she asked.

“I doubt it,” Raistlin answered for his brother. “Caramon is not particularly fond of reading. I, on the other, would be quite pleased if I could spend some time in your library.”

“Of course, you may have free reign of my house and all its facilities. You all may,” she added, looking at Caramon.

The big warrior grinned at her, feeling more at ease. She might be rich and educated but when it came right down to it, she was a woman, after all. And he was a man.

“Well need to meet with the other city council members, as well,” Raistlin said sharply.

Caramon glanced at his brother. If it hadn’t seemed too impossible, he would have sworn his twin was jealous!

“I have already planned a meeting for tonight.” Shavas smiled coyly. “As I said, I knew you’d accept.”

No one spoke during the carriage ride. No one made a sound except the cat, who purred loudly, rumbling like a small thunderstorm. Earwig sat in one corner of the carriage, scratching his hand. Raistlin sat huddled in another, his cowl pulled low over his head. He might have been thinking or fast asleep. Caramon sat miserably, his broad shoulders spanning two corners, wishing he was back in Solace.

“I’d ask Tanis about this mess,” he said quietly to himself, a wave of homesickness sweeping over him. The half-elf was the wisest man Caramon knew. Always calm and steady-going, Tanis rarely allowed anything to shake him-with the possible exception of the twins’ older sister, Kitiara. Caramon heaved a great sigh. He wouldn’t see Tanis again for a long time, perhaps ever, the way the world seemed to be falling headlong into darkness. They were supposed to meet again in five-no, now make it four-years time. It seemed an eternity. Caramon sighed again. The cat licked his hand with its rough tongue.

“Barnstoke Hall, sirs,” said the soldier-driver.

The carriage rolled to a halt. The companions climbed out, the soldier watching every step. It was obvious he wasn’t going to leave until they were safely inside the inn. From the look of him, Caramon thought, he might be planning to spend the night.

The fighter, cat tucked under one arm, attempted to open the door of the hall, but discovered it was locked. He pounded on it loudly. Minutes passed, then the proprietor slid open a panel in the door and peered outside. Seeing the companions, he slid the panel shut. They waited another several moments, hearing bolts being drawn and chains rattling. Finally the door opened a crack, barely large enough for the warrior to squeeze through.

The proprietor slammed the door shut again immediately after the three were inside. He was trembling so hard he could barely stand.

“Forgive me, sirs, but there’s been a terrible accident in town! Lord Manion-”

“We know,” snapped Raistlin, moving past the man. “And it was no accident.”

Caramon noticed that his brother barely needed the assistance of the staff to walk anymore. Raistlin’s gait was strong, even after being up all hours of the night. He had not coughed once. The mage reminded Caramon so much of what he had been before the test that tears came to the warrior’s eyes. He blinked them back and prayed to whatever gods were listening that this change would last.

The cat in his arms suddenly began to wriggle and squirm. Jumping out of Caramon’s grasp, it landed on the floor and sat there, staring at him for a moment. Then, tail stuck straight up in the air, the cat wandered off, heading for the kitchen.

The proprietor began bolting the door, chained it securely. Raistlin climbed the stairs to their room. Caramon came after him, dragging Earwig, who was staring with professional interest at the numerous locks on the door.

Arriving outside their room, Raistlin held up a warning hand. Caramon kept hold of Earwig, who would have charged heedlessly ahead.

“Wait,” said the warrior.

“Why?” Earwig asked, staring at Raistlin.

“Shirak!” The mage held the beaming orb to the floor, stared intently underneath the door.

“What’s he doing, checking for dust?” asked the kender.

“Yeah, sort of,” said Caramon.

“It’s all right,” said Raistlin, standing up. He held a rose petal in his hand. “This was where I left it. No one has passed.”

“You better let me go first, just in case,” said Caramon, drawing his sword.

The mage unlocked the door, and the warrior pushed it aside with his hand, both of them keeping well out of the way. Nothing happened. Carefully, Caramon entered the room. Raistlin came after him, holding the light of his staff high. Earwig bounded in, hoping the rose petal had been wrong and that there might be something interesting inside.

There wasn’t.

Raistlin sank down on the bed and gave way to a sudden fit of coughing. He fumbled for his pouch of herbs. “It’s gone!”

“What? What’s gone?”

“My herbal mixture! My pouch must have fallen off in the park.”

“I’ll go-” Caramon began.

“No, don’t leave me, brother!” Raistlin clutched his chest. “Besides, you’d never get out of the inn. Not the way it’s locked up!”

“I’ll go!” said Earwig, jumping up and down with excitement. “I can get out!”

“Yes!” Raistlin nodded, sinking down on the bed. “Send the kender.” He shut his eyes.

“Hurry up!” Caramon admonished Earwig sternly. “No stops along the way!”

“Not me!”

Opening the door, the kender darted out. They could hear his light footsteps racing down the hall and clattering down the stairs. Then, silence.

Raistlin, drawing a deep breath, sat up briskly. Rising from the bed, he went to the window. Caramon stared at him.

“Raist? What-”

“Hush, my brother.” The mage drew back the curtain, being careful to keep himself behind it. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “There he goes. Now we may talk freely.”

“You think Earwig’s a spy?” Caramon didn’t know whether to burst into laughter or tears.

“I don’t know what to think,” Raistlin answered gravely. “Except that he wears a magic ring and has no idea how he came by it. Or, at least, so he says. You’ve seen how strangely he’s been acting.”

Caramon sat down heavily in a chair. Leaning his elbows on the table, he let his head sink into his hands. “I don’t like this, any of it! A man murdered-his body ripped apart. No blood. Only a kind of brown dust. The kender wearing a magic ring …”

“It’s going to get worse, my brother, before it gets better.” Reaching into his robes, Raistlin brought out the bag of herbs and regarded it thoughtfully. He was growing stronger. There was no doubt about it. Was it his cure? Or …

“Could you break a tree, Caramon? One of the trees in the park?” he asked abruptly.

“Wha- Why do you want to know?”

“One of the trees near the body of the murdered man had its bark shattered, as if someone had struck it.”

Caramon thought. “I suppose I could, if I were wearing a gauntlet to protect my fist.” He shuddered as the full implications occurred to the warrior. “Whoever did that terrible thing must be strong! Do you … do you think it was a … a big cat? There were all those claw marks-”

“It was either a cat, or we are meant to think it was a cat,” said Raistlin absently, preoccupied with other thoughts. He dragged a chair over to sit directly across from Caramon. “What do you think of Lady Shavas?”

The question took Caramon by surprise.

“I think she’s … attractive.”

“You find her irresistible!”

“What do you mean?” the fighter asked defensively.

“I mean you have feelings for her.”

“How would you know what my feelings are?” Caramon demanded, rising to his feet and pacing about the room.

He and his twin had never before discussed women. It had always been one part of Caramon’s life in which Raistlin had taken no interest. But then, never before had any woman been attracted to the thin and sickly young man. Recalling this, Caramon began to feel a certain amount of remorse. He could have any woman he wanted. It might be good for Raistlin to … well … get to know the lady better. Perhaps that’s what was working this miraculous cure. Love had been known to perform miracles.

“Look, Raist,” said Caramon, sitting down again. “If you want her, I’ll back off-”

“Want her!” Raistlin’s golden eyes flared. He glared at his brother with such contempt that Caramon shrank away from him. “I don’t ‘want’ her, not in the vulgar sense you mean.”

Yet the mage lingered over the word. His fingers stroked the wood of the table, as if caressing smooth skin.

“Why did you bring her up, then?”

“I have been observing you. Ever since the first night we met her, you’ve been acting like a love-struck boy, staring at her with that stupid grin.”

“The lady seems to like it,” retorted Caramon.

“Yes, she does.” Raistlin’s voice dropped.

Caramon cast him an uneasy glance. “What do you mean?”

“Her house contains very ancient, very powerful tomes of magic. I must look at them … alone.”

“I don’t like this, Raist.”

“Oh, but you will, my brother. I’m certain that you will.”

“What if she won’t go out with me?”

“I’ve seen her looking at you,” said Raistlin.

Caramon heard the bitterness in his brother’s voice. “I’ve seen her looking at you, too, Raist,” he said softly.

“Yes, well …” Raistlin let the comment pass.

Caramon could have sworn he saw a faint flush of blood beneath the golden skin. To his surprise, his twin suddenly clenched both fists, the golden eyes glinted.

“The books! The magic! That’s what’s important. All else is fleeting. All else is of the flesh!” A drop of sweat trickled down the mage’s brow. “You will do it?” he demanded hoarsely, not looking at his brother.

“Sure, Raist,” said Caramon. It was what he answered to every request his twin made of him.

“Thank you, my brother.” Raistlin’s tone was cold. “You must be tired. I suggest you go to bed.”

Caramon shrugged. “What about you?”

“I have work to do.”

Raistlin pulled the sextant out from under his robes, along with the datebook to which he had referred earlier. Opening the text, he laid it on the table next to a quill and inkwell. The mage walked to the window and gazed at the heavens through the brass navigation tool. He began to take notes, drawing odd lines and strange curves, parallels of ink and words on parchment.

Caramon, after watching a moment, went to bed.

“I wonder where Earwig is. Maybe he got lost,” Caramon said, straightening the room. His mother had always made him clean up after himself, and the fighter did not let old habits die.

“Kender never get lost, perhaps because they never truly know where they are.”

Raistlin sat at the desk in front of the window in the companions’ room, writing something on a roll of parchment. Caramon, when he was through with his own cleaning, did his brother’s. The mage was also unwilling to let old habits die.

“What are you doing?”

The red cowl was pulled back from Raistlin’s face, allowing the afternoon sun to fall on his golden features. He rested his quill, scowling at Caramon with a sideways glance before returning to his work.

“If you must know, I am asking Lady Shavas for access to her library tonight.”

“That’s great!” Caramon said heartily, relieved.

“Why that tone, my brother?”

“It’s just … I thought …”

“You thought I was going to sneak into her house like a thief?”

“Well …” the fighter began uncomfortably.

“You’re a dolt, Caramon.”

The big man kept silent. Usually his twin was the more intuitive of the two, but this time Caramon knew precisely what his brother was feeling. The pangs of jealously were sharp and left festering wounds.

Raistlin finished his writing and sat, waiting for the ink to dry. A knock on the door startled them both.

“Were you expecting anyone, Caramon?”

“No,” said the warrior, sliding his sword from its scabbard. “You?”

“No. Enter!” Raistlin called out.

The messenger, instead of opening the door, slid something under the crack between frame and floor. Footsteps retreated rapidly away from the room.

The mage retrieved the message, breaking the wax seal with a loud snapping sound. Turning to the light at the window, he held the parchment in both hands, reading.

“What is it?” the warrior asked, still holding the sword.

“It is a letter from Lady Shavas. She is waiting for you downstairs,” Raistlin said in even tones.

Caramon saw that his brother’s golden hands trembled. “Anything else?”

Raistlin crumpled the message into a ball. “It says that I may use the councillor’s library tonight.”

Shavas walked the path of crushed white stone that led back to her house, admiring her flowers, whose dew-heavy heads hung over the path. The morning sun glinted off the stained-glass windows. Smiling, she tossed her head, shaking the mass of disheveled hair from her face.

The estate was very quiet, and even the sound of the waterclock was muffled, as if afraid to disturb her. Shavas went to the library, opening the heavy doors, closing them softly behind her. The room was empty. She frowned, wondering. What had she expected to find? The body of a young magic-user, his soul torn from him, dragged to stand before the Dark Queen? Had he truly escaped, proving his power? Or had he simply not tried? Shavas searched the room for some sign of his presence. There was none. The books on her shelf stood undisturbed. Perhaps he hadn’t read them. Perhaps he hadn’t even come.

No. Shavas smiled, and lifted the one book that the mage had not thought to replace, the one book that had seemed innocuous. He’d been here. And he had been triumphant. He was, indeed, worthy.

Shavas carried the book upstairs to her room. Without disrobing, she lay down in her bed. Opening the heavy book, she settled into a comfortable position to read the pages that were no longer blank. On the spine of the text were two words, freshly inlaid with gold: Brothers Majere.

A painting showed two men sitting around a campfire-one a large, handsome warrior; the other thin and frail, dressed in red robes, holding a black staff with a gold dragons claw clutching a pale blue orb. Shavas began to read.

Caramon enjoys guarding Raistlin’s sleep. This is the only time that the mage seems to his brother to be at peace, though occasionally this peace, too, is shattered by disturbing dreams. Caramon has always guarded his weaker brother against the dangers of the world, whether cold, sickness, or more obvious threats. He feels personally responsible for Raistlin’s well-being, though his brother does little to show his appreciation.

The responsibility Caramon feels for his brother stems from their youth. Raistlin’s physical weakness, his high intelligence and naturally sly, cynical nature, made him a target for bullies. Caramon’s timely intervention prevented his frail brother’s injury on several occasions when some of the pranks turned serious. Incapable of understanding the need to abuse the weak and helpless, Caramon became Raistlin’s guardian. Raistlin himself developed a hatred of those who would harm the innocent, the weak. The brothers have championed several such causes in Krynn.

Shavas sighed and bit her lip. Had she misjudged Raistlin? No, how could she? She had felt his ambition burning through his skin. And she had determined correctly that his lust for magic would overcome his lust for the pleasures of the flesh.

The twins are inseparable, always together, yet always apart. Caramon has watched Raistlin grow more moody and introspective even as the warrior himself becomes more outgoing. When Raistlin left to study magic, Caramon saw him change even more. Raistlin discovered that magic could compensate for his physical weakness. Through magic he can control, manipulate, dominate-needs Caramon cannot understand, or rather, has no need to understand.

The fighter is popular. Strong and handsome, he is admired and respected by his peers, most notably the friends of his youth, a rather motley collection of vagabond wanderers. (See volumes: Tanis Half-Elven, Flint Fireforge, Sturm Brightblade, Kitiara Uth-Matar, Tasslehoff Burrfoot.) Among them, Raistlin is tolerated.

Raistlin possess many qualities none of his peers can see. The most prominent is his courage, his willingness to fight those who would rule with an iron fist. This attribute is hidden beneath the young magician’s unfriendly demeanor and cynical attitude.

There have been many times when Raistlin, even as an apprentice mage, successfully unmasked the trickeries and glamours of the clerics of the so-called “new gods,” revealing them to be charlatans of the most parasitic kind, feeding on the fears of the populace.

Raistlin believed none of them and turned their venomous trickeries upon themselves, showing the crowds of awestruck, fear-ridden people that these clerics were as false as their ideals. More than once, Caramon has been forced to pull his brother out of the way of ruined clerics bent on revenge.

Caramon knows, deep inside, that he and his brother are slowly, inevitably drifting apart. Caramon sees that each day brings new power, insights, and magics to Raistlin, though the mages body can barely stand the strain. Caramon has watched his brother cast spells that turn the strongest warrior to ashes, only to see Raistlin collapse with convulsions that wracked his body from inside, bringing blood to his lips.

But each time Raistlin rises from his torment, struggling on arms too weak to lift himself, standing on legs limp with fatigue. And Caramon sees a very faint smile illumine his brother’s face-a smile that speaks of a great spirit unwilling to die, unwilling to let go of mortal flesh until every goal is ultimately achieved.

It is because of this perseverance that Caramon knows he must admit ultimate defeat at the hands of his brother, though he rails against the thought. The vision at the Towers of High Sorcery- showing that Raistlin, in his jealous rage, was willing to kill even his twin-was the death knoll of Caramon’s fond dreams.

“Ah,” murmured Shavas. “Now we’re getting somewhere. More detailed information please.”

The book obliged, adding a new page before the woman’s eyes.

No one knows for certain how Raistlin managed to pass the test, for the mysteries of the Tower are hidden even to me. Certainly the young mage was nearly defeated in a contest with a dark elf known as Dalamar. It is thought that Raistlin traded his life’s essence for his life. If that is true, then on some plane of existence there is a powerful being who watches over and protects the young mage-not out of kindness, perhaps, but to protect the beings own interests.

Shavas closed the book for a moment, her fingers keeping her place. If that were true, it might hinder her plans. Or it might help them, depending on the nature of the protector. She wished she’d known this information earlier. Now there was so little time. Shavas returned to her reading.

At the end of the test, the masters arranged it so that it seemed to Raistlin that his twin, Caramon, was endowed with magic. In a jealous rage, thinking his brother had stolen the only thing in the mage’s unhappy life that gave it any meaning, Raistlin killed Caramon. Actually, it was only a phantom of Caramon, created by the masters. But Par-Salian, Head of the White Robes, had also arranged for Caramon to watch his own murder at the hands of his twin. When the brothers left the Towers, their lives were forever changed. Raistlin has the power he seeks, but all Caramon has is time.

Shavas tossed the book to the floor. Leaning back among the pillows, she began to laugh.

“Have you ever heard of Dizzy Longtongue, the kender who could throw his hoopak with such skill and accuracy that he could make it return to his hand? Well, one day a minotaur made a bet with Dizzy that he couldn’t throw his staff around the girth of a forest, and Dizzy said, ‘I’ll bet you the gold in my pocket against the ring in your nose that I can make my hoopak come back to me from around the forest.’ The minotaur accepted and said that if he didn’t make it, he would have Dizzy for dessert. Dizzy naturally agreed.”

Earwig paused to hear if any of his fellow prisoners had any comments, such as “Wow, isn’t that interesting?” or “I can hardly wait to hear what happens!” There was, however, only silence.

Sighing, Earwig pressed on. “Dizzy took a hundred-pace running start before he let go of his hoopak with a mighty zing! Dizzy and the minotaur waited for hours, listening for the sound of the returning hoopak. After a day, the minotaur said, ‘Well, my lad, it looks like I’m having you for afters,’ and Dizzy said-”

A stabbing pain behind his eyes caused Earwig to lose his place in the story of Dizzy Longtongue. It was certainly an interesting sensation-his temples throbbed so that he thought his head would crack. But, after consideration, the kender decided it was one sensation he could do without.

Earwig tried to raise his hands to massage his eyes, but he couldn’t move them that far, due to the chains on his wrists. That, too, was another interesting development.

“I’m a prisoner in some black, damp cell, probably hundreds of feet below the ground, guarded by thousands of warriors who are armed to the teeth. A situation I’ve wanted to try.” He enjoyed himself immensely for about an hour, but after that …

“You know,” said Earwig to his cellmates, whom he could see only dimly (one of them appeared to be quite bald), “this isn’t nearly as much fun as I’d expected.”

In point of fact, despite the pain in his head and the chains on his wrists, Earwig was getting bored. And, as anyone on Krynn knows, a bored kender is a most dangerous thing.

“Boy, you guys are sure quiet!” Earwig said, peering into the darkness. All he heard in answer was the steady, melodic drip of water, and even it quieted for a moment, as if wondering what the cell’s latest inhabitant had to say. It soon grew loud again, uninterested in the conversation.

Earwig sighed, thrashing in his chains. He had examined the lock as best he could, but it was just too dark to see.

“I couldn’t open it anyway. My tools are missing.” The kender, thinking of this, became highly indignant. “That’s really not fair. I’ll just mention that, on my way out.”

The chains themselves were heavy and thick, and he doubted if even his mighty friend Caramon could break them in one try. The floor he sat on was cold and wet; the damp was making him sneeze. The walls were constructed from solid rock that nothing, seemingly, would penetrate. He thought of his Uncle Trapspringer, who had purportedly escaped from a prison cell by digging his way out with a spoon. That very spoon had become a sacred relic among kender.

“I wonder what Uncle Trapspringer would do if he were down here?” Earwig said out loud, half-hoping he might get an answer. One never knew when or where Uncle Trapspringer might pop up.

Apparently, however, it wasn’t here.

Earwig had no idea how long he’d been down wherever here was. He only knew he had to get out soon, or his mind would leave on its own.

“Why don’t one of you guys tell me a story? Something I haven’t heard before,” the kender prompted his silent cellmates. “Well? How about it?”

No answer. Earwig frowned. He was beginning to lose all patience with the situation. He rummaged through his pockets for the tenth time, hoping to find something that could either help him escape or provide interesting entertainment.

“Handkerchief and a bit of fluff. Empty. Empty. My spinner and nothing else.” Frustrated, he dragged his chained hand over and gave the spinner a flick with his finger. Something jabbed him in the arm, coming from his right sleeve.

“The dart!” Earwig exclaimed, pulling back the inner flap that kept the missile hidden. “Don’t worry, you guys. I’ll have us out in a minute!” he called to his silent companions in the cell. “It’s really strange, you know”-he continued talking to alleviate his cellmates’ impatience-“but someone used a dart like this to try to kill Caramon, and now it’s helping me to escape.”

Earwig thrust the dart into the lock of the manacle around his wrist. He seemed to recall Raistlin saying that the dart was tipped with a deadly poison, but that didn’t matter. Death was better than sitting here and doing nothing.

Inserting the tip of the dart into the keyhole, he ran the metal along his finger as a guide, feeling the point come to the first tumbler. Jiggling the projectile, he bypassed the second and third tumblers, jimmied past the fourth, and felt a sharp point press against his skin. “That’s it!”

The last tumbler gave way to his gentle proddings. Something soft-dust, perhaps-flaked off the dart onto his skin, but in his excitement, Earwig didn’t notice. He slipped the dart into a pocket, threw the chains from his body, and stood triumphantly.

“All right! You guys are next.”

For just one brief, fascinating moment, the kender thought he might pass out from the sudden pain in his head. But the dizzy spell went away, and the pain in his head eased. Earwig began to stumble blindly about the room, holding his arms out in front of him. He came to a wall, his hand slapping against the moist stone. “Don’t worry, Baldy. I’m coming.”

He followed the wall until his foot clattered into a heap of chains on the floor. “There you are!” he said, bending down to feel the shackles. “Why didn’t you tell me where you were?” His hand closed, not around flesh, but around bone, the bone of a man long dead.

“I guess that’s why you weren’t much interested in Dizzy,” said Earwig, feeling comforted. He’d really begun to think he was losing his talent as a storyteller. “Well, Baldy, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be leaving now. I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not very good company.”

Earwig moved blindly around the cell for a few moments more when he kicked an object, large and soft, lying on the ground near a wall. Kneeling down, he closed his hands around a long piece of wood-a piece of wood with which he was very familiar.

“My hoopak!” he cried. Reaching out with his other hand, he found his pouches. Rummaging through his gear, he discovered that everything he could remember having was still there, including the tinderbox and a small torch. Soon, bright, yellow flame lit the room.

Earwig gazed around the cell. There were four more skeletons chained to the walls in addition to the one he had found. It looked as if they’d been there a while. But what really caught his attention were the walls themselves. They were covered with paintings and decorations, gold against black.

“More stories!” sighed Earwig, enraptured. He began to study them. “A long time ago,” he said, tracing the pattern with his finger, “the world was … whole … and everything was fine. Then, something happened, and there were wars. Then nothing happened and everyone thought they were happy, but they weren’t, really. Then came the Cataclysm!” he surmised, seeing what could only be pictures of a great mountain of fire falling from the sky. “Then what? We go back, and a guy in a red robe builds a great city of white stone. No, that doesn’t seem right. Let’s see, a guy in a black robe tricks the guy in the red robe into building the city of white stone. And then, the guy in the red robes builds the city and a guy in a white robes helps from behind.”

Earwig stood back, scratching his head in confusion. The first part of the story had been easy to follow, flowing in a vertical direction down the wall, but now everything he looked at branched out in hundreds of directions, over the ceiling, across the floor, along the walls, lines of gold connecting each to a large triangle. Following the lines, he came to a great, stylized eye done in colors of red and white and black, staring at him in the wall opposite the triangle. All the gold lines in the room met at this symbol.

“Not much of a story,” Earwig sniffed. “The plot goes absolutely nowhere.”

The kender put his pack on his back, adjusting it for comfort, shifting his shoulders against the weight. He started to walk out of the room when he realized that something essential to his plan of escape was missing.

“A door. There’s no door! How am I supposed to get out of here?” he demanded angrily. “Wait! Maybe they hid the door, just so I’d have to find it.”

Cheering up, Earwig started to tap his hoopak against the walls, the wooden staff making a loud sound in the quiet of the cell. He systematically worked around from one corner to the others. “Tack, tack tack, tack, tack. Tick! That’s it!”

He pushed with all his strength against the block, but couldn’t move it. “Maybe this isn’t it,” he concluded, leaning back against the wall to rest. “Wha-oh!” The stone swung on hidden hinges, dumping the startled but highly elated kender onto the floor on the other side.

Earwig entered a long tunnel. The kender sighed. It was the fifth tunnel he’d encountered in his escape, and he was beginning to get tired of them. Even the pictures on the walls, interlaced with the gold, black, and white lines-pictures that had formerly been so fascinating-were starting to lose their charm. His stomach growled.

“I’m hungry, too,” said Earwig, patting his belly sympathetically.

The little torch he held in his hand continued to burn with a soft, yellow glow, the amber at the end of the wood sputtering occasionally. Such torches were the favorite of kender, and no respectable adventurer left home without a few in his pack. Earwig had started with five, and though each would stay lit for a couple of hours, he had already used up one in his wanderings.

“This isn’t fun anymore!” he shouted. “I want out of here, and I want out of here right now. I mean it! No nonsense!”

The sound of his thin voice echoed in the walkways, but not for very long or very far or else the kender would have done little more than stand and yell, listening for his voice repeated hundreds of times against the ancient stones. He heard no answer, however, and was disappointed. He walked off to his right and stepped in a warm puddle of amber.

“I’ve been here before! I’m walking in circles.” He remembered then, what his great-grandfather had always told him. Whenever you’re in a boring situation, turn left and keep turning left. Earwig thought this good advice, and so he decided to follow it now.

He came to more tunnels, with more pictures filling the walls, more gold and black and white lines. The kender ignored them. He went through several more hallways and suddenly noticed that the pictures began to fade. The lines ran together to form a single, great band of gold, black, and white.

“I don’t blame you,” the kender told the unknown artist. “I was getting tired of that other stuff, too.”

Earwig stopped short, dropping his torch and clutching a wall to keep himself from falling forward. He had stumbled into a room-a dome underneath the ground. Set in the bare walls at regular intervals were burning torches whose light did not fully penetrate the gray fog drifting through the air.

“Well, at least this is different from tunnels!” said the kender, feeling cheered.

He walked inside, staring about curiously. The floor was smooth and hard, and in the middle of the chamber sat a huge circular stone dais, taller than the kender.

“And that’s big!” he exclaimed, moving up to the stone, running his hands along its smooth, unmarked surface. “What’s it for? I know! It must be the way out.”

It wasn’t. Earwig moved around the circumference of the disk, using his hoopak as he did in the cell, searching for a secret door or hidden opening. Finding nothing, he looked over the rest of the room.

The torches were held in sconces set into the wall at regular intervals, ten in all. He tried to remove one, but didn’t have the strength to lift the pole out of its holder. The light they cast was yellow, like the sun on a hazy day. They gave off no heat and no smoke.

“Magic,” said the kender knowingly, and was bitterly disappointed that he couldn’t take one with him.

The chamber was small, and there was very little to see and no way out except the way he’d come, and that led to tunnels. His stomach growled more insistently.

“I’m trying to get us out of here, darn it!” said the kender to that unhappy portion of his anatomy. “And I could concentrate a lot better if you’d leave me alone!”

Earwig leaned against the dais, irritably tapping on it with the golden ring on his finger.

“Now what do I do?” he asked aloud.

Who calls? A voice rang in his head, hissing the words as a snake spits venom.

“Wow!” said the kender, awed.

The room began to grow dark. The torches dimmed in their holders. The gray mist turned black.

Who calls? the voice asked again.

“Me!” Earwig yelled in excitement. “My name’s Earwig Lockpicker.” He paused, then asked politely, “What’s yours?”

The space above him filled with points of light, nodes and motes swirling in a pool of darkness. The kender suddenly realized that he was seeing the stars in Krynn’s night sky, and the foremost constellation shown was-

What do you want of me, Wearer of the Ring?

“You don’t sound very friendly,” Earwig pointed out, in case the voice was interested. The stars kept swirling around him, he was starting to feel dizzy. “And after I’ve come all this way-”

What do you want of me? the voice thundered.

“Uh,” said Earwig, growing more and more confused. He thought it was a marvelous experience, watching the stars spin, but his stomach didn’t seem at all impressed. “Uh, I think I want to leave.…”

We leave through the gate!

“Good, now we’re getting somewhere. Where’s the gate?”

You know I cannot reveal its location! That would bring them to our door!

“First a gate, now a door.” The kender was growing dizzier and dizzier. He wondered if he might have consumed more Celebration Punch than he thought.

You must wait and take no part! Do not interfere with our agents lest you bring them to our door! They will find- They will find- They will- They-”

The voice faded away to a whisper, then disappeared completely. The dark closed in on the kender. He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t hear anything.

His stomach rumbled loudly. “Oh, shut up,” said Earwig miserably. The ring burned his hand. He scratched at it violently, fingers clawing his flesh until he felt something warm and sticky run down his wrist.

“Stop it!” he cried frantically. “Stop it! Stop it!”

“Raist!” Caramon glancing askance at the tabby cat, bent over his brother. “Raist, are you all right?” he asked helplessly. If his twin was suffering from some sort of magical affliction, Caramon had no idea what he would do.

Raistlin’s eyelids fluttered. He opened them and gazed around as if trying to recall where he was. Suddenly remembering, he sat bolt upright.

“How long was I unconscious?”

“Not long. Only a few moments.”

The mage looked sharply around. “Where’s Bast?”

“Gone, I guess,” said Caramon uneasily, remembering the dimly heard conversation, wondering if he’d dreamed it.

Raistlin gripped his brother’s arm. “Help me up.”

“Should you? What happened? That wizard-”

“No time for questions! Help me up! We must return to the city!”

“The city? How? They won’t let us in the gate!”

“It may be easier than you suppose, my brother,” said Raistlin grimly. “It may be far too easy.”

The door to the estate was unlocked, and Raistlin turned the handle without a sound, walking through the foyer and front room to the library. The councillor, wearing a white silk gown that clung about her flawless shoulders as if it possessed a life of its own, sat in a chair in front of the fire, arranging the varied pieces on the black and white gameboard on top of a small table.

“Very fitting,” said Raistlin softly, the door closing behind him.

“Welcome, Master Mage. Have you been successful in your mission?”

“It appears that you were expecting me,” he said.

“Please.” Shavas gestured to the chair opposite her. “Yes, I have.”

The mage nodded, taking the offered seat. His face was flushed with red light from the fireplace, giving his skin a sheen of bronze.

“A game?”

“We are much alike, Councillor,” Raistlin said.

“How do you mean?” Shavas asked, her graceful hands arranging her pieces for the first move.

“We both have the same desires.”

“Ah!” Shavas lifted her head. Her word held a volume of meaning, of promise. Her gaze was warm, her voice and body alluring. Her face was incomparably beautiful.

Raistlin, swallowing, began setting up his own pieces. He watched Shavas’s hands carefully, saw her fingers shake. She accidentally knocked over a foot soldier.

“Is there something wrong, my lady?”

She shook her head briskly, tightening her lips, her pale skin flushing in the heat of the fire. “Who shall go first?” she asked.

“I will,” Raistlin replied, pushing a yeoman forward. “I must admit that I am surprised to find you so calm, with your city in such chaos. What has happened?”

Shavas glanced up. “Don’t you know? Where have you been?” She pushed her own yeoman to counter her opponent’s. “Lord Brunswick was murdered last night. Lady Masak was killed just … just this afternoon.”

“You can’t move that piece yet.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t … thinking.”

“How did they die?” Raistlin brought out another yeoman.

“The same as Lord Manion. They were killed by a giant cat.”

The mage lifted one of his knights from the board, replacing it in front of his lines.

The councillor removed a small bar from the scales at the side of the table, shifting the balance very slightly in Raistlin’s favor. She placed a metal barrier, carved to resemble a hedgerow, in front of the knight.

“It is now my turn to ask questions. You have found the reason for the cats’ disappearances?”

Raistlin sent the knight around the hedge, pressing forward, evening the scales by removing one of his own ingots and placing it next to the figure.

“No, I have not. Do you have any information to add to the investigation?”

Shavas paused before answering, placing her fingers against her mouth in thought. She opened a drawer in the board and took out a footman, clad in heaviest armor, placing it two squares in front of Raistlin’s champion.

“It seems late to further a lost cause.”

Raistlin detected a note of relief in her voice.

“How, then, have you spent your time?” she questioned.

The mage left his knight where it was, placing another marker next to it. “In strange company.”

“Whose?”

Raistlin moved the piece forward, in front of Shavas’s footman. “You know him, I think. You keep his picture … there.” He pointed.

“Really? In a book?”

“Allow me to show you.”

The mage rose from his seat, aided by his staff, and went to the shelf where he had replaced the volume entitled, Mereklar and the Lord of Cats.

It was gone.

Raistlin glanced back at Shavas. “Ah, I see you’ve found it for yourself.”

The woman appeared uneasy. “I have no idea what you mean. But perhaps I have seen the man. What does he look like?”

“Tall, with dark skin and hair. Many would consider him handsome,” the mage replied, with a slight touch of bitterness. He returned to his seat, scanning the board with expert ability.

“And his eyes, are they … unusual in any way?”

“Unusual? How do you mean?”

“Did they … shine, reflect, in the light?”

“Perhaps. I didn’t notice. I didn’t spend time gazing into his eyes,” said Raistlin. He removed the opposing footman from the board and the yeoman behind it, setting it into its square.

The councillor bit her lower lip and scraped her tapered fingernails against the varnished table, leaving a slight mark of their passage in the wood. Reaching to the scales, she removed another ingot, this one larger than the others.

Raistlin frowned, wondering at her strategy. The spell she was about to cast was powerful. In defense, he took a marker of his own.

Shavas lifted her knight, dropped it nervously.

“He is here!” she said in a hollow voice. “He has come to kill us all!”

“Who?”

“You know very well who I’m talking about! The Lord of the Cats! He has come to punish the Council of Mereklar.” Shavas reached out a lovely, trembling hand to Raistlin. “I desperately need your protection!”

“The Cat Lord? If is it truly he, then he is a demi-god. How can I stand against one so powerful?” Raistlin asked.

“I didn’t tell you this before,” Shavas began, taking a deep breath, “but my ancestors collected several items of magic in their journeys. One of them is this broach of good fortune I wear”-she touched the golden necklace with the fire opal-“and the other is this.” Opening the drawer to the table, Shavas removed a triangular leather pouch that bulged in the center. “It is a weapon.”

Raistlin was not looking at the bag. He was staring at the necklace, thinking that it looked incomplete, unfinished. Why didn’t I notice that before? he asked himself.

Because you weren’t looking at the necklace, a mocking, inner voice answered.

Shavas opened the pouch, taking out a short wand. Raistlin glanced at it, saw that it was bent at one end, and fitted with a metal ring at the other. It was covered with runes and sigla. He did not touch it.

“How does it work?”

“I’m not certain. I’ve never used it. I’ve never had any need. But, I was told by my father that it takes our feelings and amplifies them a hundredfold. If you want to destroy an enemy, you have only to feel his destruction and point the wand at him, like this.”

She held the weapon by the bent end, pointing the tip at Raistlin.

The mage made no comment. He did not move.

Shavas, smiling and lowering her eyes, turned the wand around and handed it to him. Raistlin replaced it in the bag, then tucked the bag into his robes.

“Now, you can protect me,” Shavas said. “It is a powerful weapon. It can destroy even a demi-god.”

She leaned forward and her gown slipped, revealing her white bosom. The opal hung glittering from her soft neck. “And when this terrible nightdream is over, we will have time to ourselves.”

“You mean you and my brother will have time,” Raistlin said, sneering. Why did I say that? What is she doing to me? He snarled at himself inwardly. Remember! Remember what you have seen!

“I admit it,” said Shavas, her fingers caressing the mage’s hand. “I … met with Caramon”-she blushed like a schoolgirl-“but it was only to make you jealous. You’re the one I want!”

Her voice was low and husky. There was a ring of truth to her last statement that startled Raistlin. He stared at her, entranced.

“I am wealthy, powerful! I could give you … so much! Do this one thing for me! Destroy the Lord of the Cats!”

Raistlin slowly removed his arm from the woman’s grasp. She let him go, sitting back in her chair. The mage stared down at the board, at the warrior of the dead who stood before his champion.

“From the way you speak, you sound as if you know where he is.”

“Not where he is, where he might be. Lord Cal is very efficient. We think the Cat Lord may be trapped in Leman Square, east of the center of Southgate Street.”

“I have seen it,” the mage said, standing. “Shall I go there now, lady?”

“Yes!” she cried. “And if you succeed, come back to me … tonight.”

“Yes,” said Raistlin, gazing at her intently. “I will be back. Tonight.”

Caramon made excellent time, running at a steady pace up Southgate Street. The road was, for the most part, empty. Lord Cal and his guards were busy dispersing the people, attempting to restore order. Still, the warrior thought it best to keep to the shadows of twilight. He didn’t have time to beat off an enraged mob.

When he reached Barnstoke Hall, the place appeared deserted. He put his hand on the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. The door was locked. He started to bang on it, demanding entrance, then realized the proprietor might not be exactly delighted to see him.

Well, I opened it once, he thought. I can do it again.

Taking a deep breath, Caramon stepped back, then threw his weight into the door. It gave a little. Gathering himself together, rubbing his shoulder, he started to try again when a voice shrilled behind him.

“Hey, Caramon. Can I help you?”

“Earwig!” the warrior exclaimed, whirling around. “Where have you been? We’ve looked all over! Are you sick or something?”

The kender seemed unusually pale, his face drawn and pinched. He stood with a slight stoop, leaning as heavily on his hoopak as Raistlin did on the Staff of Magius.

“I haven’t eaten in a few days, I think,” he said vaguely. “I was captured by … by that man.”

“Yeah, we went looking for you. In the cave … the cave of the dead wizard?”

Earwig appeared thoughtful, then shrugged. “I don’t remember. I’ve been through quite a lot recently, you know.”

“Where have you been? How did you escape? Wait till I bust this door down, and we’ll have a bite to eat and then talk.”

“No!” cried Earwig, clinging to Caramon. “There’s something I need to show you. We have to go now.”

“But what about you? You don’t look like you’re in any condition to-”

“Do not worry about me, Caramon. We have more pressing matters to attend to!”

The warrior’s eyes opened in surprise. “You’re sure talking funny. You sound kind of like Raist.”

“Don’t be a fool, Caramon!” the kender said sharply. “Come on!”

Caramon didn’t like this, and he wished his brother were around to advise him. Thinking of Raistlin made him recall the mage’s warning. Caramon looked at the kender’s ring finger. The flesh around the ring was swollen and fiery red. Blood trickled from beneath it.

Seeing the warrior’s stare, Earwig shoved his hand into his pocket. “Are you coming? Or do I have to go by myself?”

“All right, Earwig,” said Caramon, not wanting the kender to run around loose. “Lead the way.”

The kender headed at a run back toward the center of the city. Caramon had to work to catch up with him.

“Where are we going?” the warrior asked, searching the streets for signs of the mob.

“Uh, back to where I was, when I was captured, that is,” Earwig replied, apparently distracted by having to walk and think at the same time. “I mean, to the tunnels underneath the city.”

“Tunnels? What tunnels?”

“The tunnels where my jail cell was, dolt!” Earwig muttered beneath his breath.

“Did the tunnels have paintings all over them, like somebody was trying to tell a story or something?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. It’s kind of hard to remember. I have this terrible headache,” the kender mumbled, rubbing his head with his right hand.

“Here, stop. Wait a minute. Let me see. Maybe you were-” The warrior reached out.

“Hey! What are you doing?!” the kender yelled. Spinning around, he clobbered the fighter on the hand with his hoopak.

“Ouch! Hey, yourself!” Caramon said in dismay, clutching his hand, staring at his friend. “I was only trying to help.”

Earwig glared at him, then a look of confusion crossed his face. “I–I’m sorry. I’m … nervous, that’s all.” The kender turned, moving back up the street.

“A nervous kender!” Caramon marveled. “Maybe I should have him stuffed for posterity.” Shrugging, massaging his bruise, the fighter followed.

After a few blocks, the street began to curve inward toward the center of the city, running parallel to several other boulevards going in the same direction. At the corner of a small park, empty of all life except for the grass and brush, Earwig went to the left, cutting across an open market till he reached a mansion, belonging to one of Mereklar’s ten councillors.

“Whose house is this?” Caramon asked, peering up to the second floor, then back down at the grounds.

“Lord Manion’s. But he’s dead now,” Earwig said sullenly. “Come on, will you! Don’t worry. Nobody’s home.”

“How do you know that?”

“Simple. Nobody lived in the house except for the lord, and he’s dead.” Earwig disappeared, starting to whistle in a weird, unnatural tone.

The warrior brought his parrying dagger up to his face, tapping himself lightly in the forehead with the pommel. “I can’t believe I’m actually listening to a kender,” he muttered. “Much less following one.”

A large pond surrounded by short hedgerows and dotted with flowerbeds reflected the light of the two visible moons, just beginning to rise.

Caramon, glancing at them, saw that they were very close together. “The Great Eye!” he recalled aloud. The deepest part of the night, his brother had said. That is when all three will converge … and great magical power will be unleashed!

Earwig was searching around in the bushes when Caramon found him. “What are you looking for?” the warrior asked, bending down to help.

“A door.”

“A door? In a bush? Boy, your head must have really gotten cracked hard!”

“There it is!” the kender exclaimed, pulling up on a clump of grass that was growing over a wooden cover. The kender scooted down. Caramon peered inside. The door led to a staircase carved into the stone walls.

“Well, aren’t you coming?” Earwig asked, staring up at Caramon from out of the hole.

Heaving a great sigh, Caramon followed, sheathing his main-gauche but leaving his broadsword out, ready for action.

Earwig lit a small torch, throwing flickering yellow light against the walls. The passage was similar to those in the sewer, except these contained different pictures, and strange lines of gold, white, and black ran as far as his eye could see. Caramon reached out and touched a white line. He snatched his hand back in astonishment, shaking it vigorously.

“Hey! That burned me!”

“Cut it out, Caramon! We don’t have time for your nonsense!”

The kender tugged at the leather harness the fighter wore, attempting to drag his huge friend down the tunnel.

“All right, I’m coming! What’s the big hurry?”

“We have to get somewhere quickly. We … uh … we have to save the city! That’s it!”

“What do you mean, ‘save the city’? What’s going on?” the fighter demanded.

“Help me look for my amber meltings. On the floor,” Earwig said, dropping to his hands and knees, patting the ground with his palms. “Here they are! We go this way!” The kender ran down a corridor.

Caramon dashed after him, his concern over Earwig’s strange behavior now laced with fear. The kender’s little torch brought unnatural shadows to life, but the only sounds were the rapping of boot and shoe against the stone. Earwig outpaced his larger friend, running with ease through the maze of tunnels. The fighter, stumbling every once in a while when he caught his foot in a crack in the floor, was hard pressed to keep up. Suddenly, the kender’s light vanished altogether, and the warrior stopped, perplexed.

“Earwig! Where are you?”

“Over here, Caramon!” came the kender’s voice, strangely muffled, as if he were talking into his hand.

“Where?” The fighter turned in the darkness, trying to locate the other’s yell. “Is this one of your stupid games? Because-”

“Here I am!”

Using his sword’s hilt as a prod, Caramon walked with careful steps toward the direction of his companion’s voice. He bumped into walls several times, the metal of the blade clashing with loud, insensitive vibrations that made the warrior shudder nervously. He was completely blind. The darkness was impenetrable. Then, ahead, he saw a dim light. Torn between relief and the sincere desire to throttle the kender, Caramon stumbled forward and entered a room.

“Earwig. Are you in here?” the fighter called, staring with wonder at the dimly flickering torches.

He heard a puff of breath, then a metal dart struck him in the finger. Caramon fell forward, losing his grip on his sword.

He could see Earwig now, and he stared up at his friend, who was standing on a large stone dais, hoopak in hand. The top had been removed, turning it into a blowgun.

“That’s one of those poisoned darts, Caramon,” said the kender. “I found it on the floor the night the assassin came. You’ll be dead pretty soon.”

“Why?” Caramon managed weakly, feeling himself begin to grow lightheaded. Heat rushed up from his arm to engulf his face and neck.

“You must die, Majere!” the kender hissed, his face twisted into an expression of cruel triumph. “Our plans cannot be stopped!”

Caramon fell to his knees, leaning back against the smooth, unmarked wall. His head bent to one side, black and silver stars flickered before his eyes. His mouth was dry, and his lips could barely shape the words.

“Whose plans?”

“Whose plans?” Earwig mocked.

He raised his arm above his head, pulling down the sleeve on his brown tunic to reveal his hand. The gold band flashed in the torchlight.

Beware the ring! Raistlin’s voice echoed in Caramon’s mind.

The ceiling had darkened. Motes of light appeared, forming pictures and patterns the warrior found vaguely familiar. The poison dulled his mind like a stone against the edge of a sword.

Earwig laughed. “Yes! Look! Look up into your doom! Worship our Queen! Our Queen of Darkness! Takhisis! Takhisis! We celebrate your return to the world!”

Caramon didn’t understand. “Earwig,” he whispered, shivering. “Help me!”

The kender stared down at his friend, and his features softened. Suddenly, he cried, “Help me, Caramon! I can’t stop!”

Pulling a dagger from his belt, Earwig leaped off the stone and ran at the warrior.

Mereklar remained silent and foreboding, awaiting the forming of the Great Eye. The three moons, Solinari, Lunitari, and dark Nuitari, forging the same arcs they had crossed for thousands of years, would once more meet again. White over red over black-an eye to gaze upon the world, a focus to release the power of wizards dead since the Age of Might.

Who would use it?

Walking, his head bent into a wind only he could feel, Raistlin searched the paths and portents of his life, from his childhood to his indoctrination into the ranks of the adept, to where he stood now on the flawless street. He sought to discover the key to the mystery of the festival that had remained locked since the Cataclysm.

His right hand gripped the Staff of Magius, using it both as support and reference. Its black wood, golden claw, and pale blue orb were the pinnacles of magical knowledge-an artifact containing runes and glyphs to spells he could not yet comprehend. It held the wisdom of the one who had created it, potent rituals and sacrifices lost to the past, available to those who could hear its silent tales. It was to these venerable voices that the mage listened, ignoring all else around him.

Pictures and images floated across his consciousness, sensation more than substance. He let his spirit flow into the lines of the staff. Paths of power took him, scattered parts of his mind to other roads. But the mage did not have the experience to clutch through the veil of time and penetrate to the past. His will was forced from the rune-paths again and again, until he finally admitted defeat.

“The Eye forms tonight, and I still don’t know what is happening! Who will use its power? How can I use its power!”

He gripped the black staff harder than before, feeling strength in his hand, arm, and limbs. The sickness had drained from his body since his first encounter with the growing force of the Great Eye, his frame infused by magics. The idea of having his shattered health restored permanently stirred him to action, bringing hope he once thought impossible to have. Could I truly break free of him?

Yes, whispered Shavas’s rich and sensuous voice in his mind. Ally yourself with me, and together we will fight him. Powerful forces will soon be mine to command. After this nights work, I will be richly rewarded and you shall share!

Raistlin heard an answering echo in his mind, the echo of a dream.

Where is my reward?

Forthcoming.

With that word Raistlin understood where to find the knowledge he sought. But only at great cost. Snap the golden thread, and magic would be lost to him forever. But he would have Shavas. He would have wealth, power. Would it matter so much that he didn’t have the magic? Raistlin pressed his hand against his head. The blood throbbed in his brain.

The Staff of Magius rapped in frustration against the ground, the metal tip ringing, its vibrations bringing the mage back to the present. The moons were rising higher, the two he could see casting imperfect shadows onto the streets as mystic lights began to collect in their eternal parade-stars of illumination that leaped to their positions above the sidewalk and atop the highest buildings. Raistlin stopped and watched their creation, staring as a pool of white collected at his feet then shot away, speeding to a nearby park. It was as if Mereklar itself were coming alive.

The scream of a wounded animal cut through the quiet, causing Raistlin to start from his meditative observations. The noise had come from a few blocks away, forward and to the left, from an area where he was already headed.

It appears I will have to make my decision much sooner than I expected, he thought, and felt a pang of fear.

The mage increased his pace, searching the alleys and sidestreets. Another block farther and Raistlin was forced to duck into a doorway. An organized unit of men came around a corner, marching in regular lines, holding short spears or swords. Another group followed, carrying the same equipment, moving with a listless gait. Raistlin wondered where they were going. The town seemed deserted.

The sound came again-another scream of pain and rage. The mage removed the leather bag from his belt and opened the flap to reveal the wand Shavas had given him, the wand covered in strange, angled runes. Slowly, he drew it out and bolted from the alley, running as swiftly as he dared up Southgate Street, heading for Leman Square.

There he knew he would find him-Bast, the Lord of Cats.

Raistlin turned left down a dark sidestreet, going to the right when he reached the end of the block. He noticed that the lights hovering above the sidewalk appeared to be growing dim, as if their fuel were slowly running out. He went left again, down the main street. Reaching the open area leading to the square, he rounded the final corner and came to a sudden halt.

Wounded and panting, the man in black stood at bay beneath a tree, surrounded by the remaining ministers of Mereklar. Lord Cal advanced on him, a red-glowing wand in his hand.

“Hear me, Lord of the Cats. Our Lady does not want you for her enemy. She bids you and those you rule to join us and find power in the darkness you know so well.”

“Your ‘lady’ cares nothing for us!” Bast spat the words. “She wants only to use us as she uses all who come under her sway.” The Lord of the Cats lifted his head proudly. “We are free. We serve ourselves. So it has been, and so shall it be.”

“Die free, then!” snarled Lord Cal, and raised the wand.

We are free. We serve ourselves.

“Shirak,” called Raistlin, his voice clear and strong.

The Staff of Magius burst into light, shining more brightly than the two converging moons. Bast’s eyes, staring at the mage, shone with red flame. The ministers half-turned, blinking against the brilliance.

“Who-”

“The mage,” said Lord Cal, his lip curling.

“I’ll handle this,” said Lord Alvin in an undertone. “Raistlin Majere, we accused you falsely and we apologize. As you can see, we have the murderous beast cornered. Serve us in our fight, and you will be richly rewarded! Lady Shavas will see to that!”

Raistlin thought of the sickness, the pain, the terrifying moments when he feared he would never be able to draw the next breath. He thought of being always dependent on his brother. He thought of women, gazing at him with expressions of horror or pity. Never expressions of love.

Raistlin thought of the magic, burning in his blood.

“The choice is made,” he murmured.

Yes, said the other. Long ago. Here, then, is your reward.

Raistlin stood before great falls of light, the bands of magic traveling inside the Staff of Magius in the infinite spaces between the runes of the cantrips, a place where ancient knowledge waited for the touch of his summoning gold fingers. He embraced a silver strand with his will, a pass to the past that showed him surmounting a mountain with three other wizards-pictures of another time that he felt with all his senses.

White robe, red robe, and black walked slowly, braving storm and gale and lightning, moving up a path cut into the rock by natural forces to a high plateau. They looked over the whole of the world standing at the edge.

“It is time,” the white robe said.

“To lose our lives for a greater cause,” the red robe said.

“To give our gods greater power than any one of us could command,” the black robe said.

They cast their spell and died, wrenched apart by the powers they summoned, trapped in the three heavenly spheres.

Raistlin watched their actions, the motions they made with their hands, the words uttered above the winds that whipped their clothes with violence, and knew that the might of the Great Eye could be his to command.

He lifted the wand. It began to glow red in his hand.

“He’s ours!” said Lord Cal, laughing, and turned back to face the Lord of the Cats.

A bolt of red shot from Raistlin’s wand and struck Lord Cal in the back. The man screamed in rage and pain, the searing beam melting clothes and flesh. He whirled to face his enemy, but his strength gave out. Writhing in agony, he crumpled to the ground.

Bast lashed out with his right hand, stabbing his fingers into Lord Alvin’s throat, tearing a great wound that severed the man’s head. Alvin fell, dead.

The other minsters, yelling in rage, attacked the Lord of Cats. Raistlin dared not help, fearing that any spell he would cast would harm the man in black.

Bast needed no help, it seemed. He took one of his enemies by the chest with a sweeping kick and killed the other with an open-palmed strike to the forehead, snapping the head back, skull crushed and neck broken.

The night was silent once again.

Raistlin came forward, leaning on the staff.

The bodies of the ministers lay on the ground, reddish liquid appeared black in the moonlight. Around each neck he could see, shining, silver cats’ skulls.

“What are they?” asked the mage.

“See them in their true form,” answered Bast.

The corpses began to undergo a horrible change. Their bodies twisted and contorted, black fur grew from their skin, hands and feet changed to paws-an evil, demented dream of cats.

“Demons,” said Raistlin.

“Agents from the Abyss,” replied Bast.

“The ‘lady’ of whom they spoke-”

“Takhisis, Queen of Darkness.” The Lord of the Cats answered quietly, in awe and reverence.

Raistlin felt a shudder run through his body, a shivering premonition. “Not yet!” he whispered. “Not yet! I am not strong enough.” He drew a deep breath. “And now?”

“That is your decision, mage. Krynn is in peril. The land will know five ages, but the last shall not come if darkness succeeds, coming through the gate.’ The Queen is trying to enter the world. Her way must be stopped.”

Raistlin looked at the Lord of Cats-a demi-god-torn by the demons’ claws. “If you could not withstand them, how can I?”

“The nine sent were the most powerful among their kind. They murdered the true lords and ladies of Mereklar and took their places on the council. They would have opened the gate without hindrance, but for you.”

“But there are ten on the council.”

“Shavas is something you must discover for yourself. Now I must leave.” As Raistlin watched, the Cat Lord’s wounds began to heal. “However, I am compelled to ask you this directly, though I think I know your answer. Will you help us stop the Dark Queen?”

Raistlin looked down at the councillor’s wand, faintly glowing red in his hand.

The choice is made.

He tossed the wand to the ground, brought the metal-shod tip of the staff down hard upon it. The wand splintered, and its red glow faded and died.

Earwig stood atop Mereklar’s wall at the Westgate. All around him it was dark but directly above him, the sky was clear and bright. He stood fascinated, watching the Great Eye glare down upon the land, casting shadows that flickered and moved like red and silver phantoms.

Finally growing bored with watching the Eye, however, Earwig glanced down below. That was boring, too. Mereklar had completely disappeared. Darkness engulfed the towers and buildings and streets, removing it from the ground as if it had never been. But the darkness wasn’t doing anything. It was just sitting there, and the kender yawned.

He thrust the tip of his hoopak down into the darkness, bringing it back out, checking it hopefully for a coating of horrible ooze or slime.

Nothing.

“I really don’t think this is being handled properly. I mean, if this is supposed to lead to the Abyss, it could at least look more … more … awful!”

Earwig paced the corner, searching for something entertaining, when a shimmer caught his eye-a shining staircase was slowly forming, sparkling motes of light spinning and coalescing into a solid object.

“Now that’s more like it!” he exclaimed and was about to hop down it when he heard a shout.

“Earwig! … Earwig!”

“Drat,” said the kender.

Caramon was yelling from his position on the other gate. The big man was jumping up and down to catch his friend’s attention, his distant figure distorted by the three moons.

“Hi!” Earwig yelled back, whirling his hoopak in the air, causing the leather thong to whistle loudly.

“Meet in the center!”

“What?”

“I said, meet me in the center!”

“The center of what?”

“The center of the city, you-” The last words were, fortunately, swallowed up in the darkness.

“That’s where I was going, before you interrupted me!” The kender said indignantly. Turning, he headed again for the magical stairs. “Boy, this is the last time I take him on any of my adventures!”

Holding his breath and pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger, the kender skipped down the stairway; the last sight of him on Krynn-his topknot of hair.

Earwig stared in wonder into the Great Eye, which seemed to be reversed down here-it was black, glimmering with red and a small white dot in the center. Bolts of power arced through the cloudless heavens, reaching out with forked fingers to touch unknown spaces. He thought he might watch that wonderful sight forever-or least the next ten minutes-but an irritating voice inside him kept nagging at him to do something.

“But what, that’s the question? Oh, I remember! I’m supposed to meet Caramon in the center of town.”

Earwig was starting to turn the corner when he almost ran headlong into a group of twisted, demented-looking cats.

The creatures certainly looked interesting. Earwig was considering going up and introducing himself when he remembered that he was on another Very Important Mission. He backed up hurriedly, therefore, sliding with kender agility into a shadow so that the cats wouldn’t be tempted to stop and chat.

A loud noise made him look around curiously. It was a carriage, rumbling past, drawn by nothing at all that the kender could see.

“Gee,” he sighed, watching, “that looks like fun. And it’s heading in the direction I want to go. I guess they wouldn’t mind if I tagged along.”

Earwig dashed out, ran in back of the coach, caught hold, and perched himself on the rear. Kicking his feet, he gazed around happily.

The conveyance raced on, metal-banded wheels clashing noisily against the white stone of the city. He recognized the road they were approaching as Southgate Street. Here the carriage came to a halt. Earwig hopped off and looked around at the front. Three creatures jumped out, stretching lazily, arching their long backs in the manner of cats. Two drank from bottles they wore strapped to shining harnesses. When they were done, they shook their heads violently and grimaced.

“Celebration Punch,” Earwig remarked in sympathetic understanding.

He was about to step forward and inquire the way to the center of the city, or perhaps ask if any of these guys had seen Caramon, when the demented-looking cats jumped back into the carriage. Before the kender could get back on, it careened off down the street.

“Hey!” yelled Earwig, waving his arms. “You forgot me!”

“The carriage is gone. Now, I’ll have to walk,” said the kender, disgruntled.

He started down the street, thinking just between himself and the fish market that it would have been a lot more fun if he and Caramon had come down here together when one of the ugly, twisted creatures popped out of a side street and came to stand in front of him.

“Hullo,” said the kender brightly, extending a hand. “My name’s Earwig-”

The creature raised its hand. It was holding a most fascinating-looking device, a wand of some sort. It began to glow bright red. Thinking the creature was offering the wand to him-since it was pointing it at him-the kender reached out and took it. “Thank you,” he said.

The creature, with a snarl, tried to snatch the wand back.

“Hey!” said Earwig. “You gave it to me! Gully dwarf-giver!” he taunted.

The creature flew into a rage and came at Earwig, teeth bared, slavering.

“No! You’re not getting this back!”

The kender swung the hoopak. Thwack! It caught the creature on the side of its head. It tumbled to the street and lay there, unmoving.

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” said Earwig, nudging it with the toe of his boot. “Well, let that be a lesson to you,” he added.

“Now, let’s see you turn red and glow!” He looked at the wand expectantly. Nothing happened. The kender shook it. Still nothing.

“Broken!” he said in disgust. “Here, you can have it back after all,” he said and tossed the wand onto the body of the creature, who was just beginning to stir and sit up groggily.

Thinking that Caramon might be wanting him, the kender continued on his way.

Arriving in the center of the city, Earwig discovered an army of the ugly creatures marching about in the street, shouting and singing in terrible-sounding voices. The kender was feeling disgruntled and out-of-sorts and didn’t particularly want to talk to anybody, so he ducked into a doorway to take a look around. Across from where he was standing was a tall, domed building.

“Say!” exclaimed Earwig. “That’s where Lady Shavas is supposed to have her house. Drat! Maybe I’ve come the wrong way.”

But he looked at the streets and recognized them. Yes, he was definitely in the center of town.

“I should go tell her,” said the thoughtful kender, completely forgetting what Raistlin had told him about the Dark Queen’s temple. “Lady Shavas might not know her house is gone.”

Earwig stepped out from the doorway and was about to cross the street (eyeing with interest some of the pouches the creatures were carrying), when he heard a smothered cry, almost right behind him.

“Earwig. Over here!”

“Caramon?” The kender squinted into the shadows and saw a glint of metal.

“Caramon?” he called loudly. “Is that you?”

An arm reached out, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him into an alleyway.

“Hey! Don’t! You’ll wrinkle my-”

“Shut up!” Caramon clapped his hand over the kender’s mouth.

The warrior, holding the wriggling kender tightly, peered out into the street. The marching demons were making a great deal of noise and didn’t appear to have heard anything.

“Shhhh!” he whispered, letting go of Earwig slowly.

The kender stared at him, face flushing in anger. “You’ve been fighting again!” Earwig cried, stamping his foot. “Without me!”

“I’m sorry,” Caramon growled. “Keep your voice down! Have you seen the Cat Lord?”

“Sure,” said Earwig.

Caramon brightened. “You have? Where?”

“Right there.” The kender pointed.

Caramon turned, hand on his sword. Bast stood in the shadows, a graceful form, his skin a deeper shade of black against the darkness.

Leaning back against the wall, Caramon drew a deep breath. His shoulder burned, but his fear was stronger than the pain, driving it somewhere deep inside of him. He hated this place. He would have traded this army of demons for six armies of goblins, with a regiment of hobgoblins thrown in.

“Where is the whatever-it-is that we’re supposed to break? In that building?”

“No. The temple is used as a tunnel between the worlds. The Dark Queen’s altar is beneath the city.”

“In the same place that big stone disk was in,” Earwig stated helpfully.

“Correct,” said the Cat Lord. “I will show you how to go there, but I cannot assist you in more than that.”

Seeing Caramon scowl, Bast added, “My forces and I will be fighting in the city above. Already, the demon army marches down the streets of Mereklar, headed for the gates that, if they should open, would let them out onto an unsuspecting world. Time grows short, the Great Eye burns in the heavens. Follow me!”

Caramon, groaning, heaved himself from the wall on which he’d been leaning.

“You really look bad, Caramon,” said Earwig in concern. “Are you sure you can make it? Here, you can lean on my hoopak.”

Caramon glanced at the frail wooden stick and, smiling, shook his head. “I’ll make it. I have to.”

“Now! This way,” urged Bast.

He slid around the corner and the companions followed, keeping to the shadows. The Cat Lord moved like part of the night, and even the kender’s light footfalls sounded loud compared to Bast’s. Caramon rattled and jangled, his breath came in grunting gasps, and he gritted his teeth against the pain that every move jarred through his body. After traversing several blocks, they either left the creatures behind or the demons were moving up into the city of Mereklar.

“I know this street,” said Caramon suddenly.

“You should.” The man in black bent down. Lifting a metal grating from the stone, he pointed down into a black hole. Caramon could hear the sound of running water.

“This tunnel will lead you where you must go,” said the Cat Lord. “You must destroy the altar as quickly as possible. It will detect any tampering and alert its mistress.”

“You mean it’s alive?” the kender questioned with interest.

“In a manner of speaking. Good-bye, warrior and kender. I will not see you again. Your own gods be with you.”

“Wait!” Caramon yelled, reaching out his hand. But he grasped hold of air. The Lord of Cats was gone, vanishing as silently as the night into day.

“What did you want with him?” asked Earwig, preparing to jump into the sewer.

“I wanted to ask him how to get back home,” said Caramon softly.

“And what if I were to tell you that I am not interested in an alliance with the Dark Queen?” Raistlin asked softly.

Shavas raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “You think you will gain that much power without Her Dark Majesty making some attempt to stop you?” The woman began to laugh. “This is one of the reasons you are so incredibly attractive to me, Raistlin. You fear nothing.”

“ ‘Those who live in fear fall prey to their own disquiet.’ ”

“Yes. Eyavel would be one of your favorite authors. ‘And you, gentle reader, must follow in my path, for I am the way you must know.’ Ali Azra, another of your favorites.” Shavas set her half-emptied brandy glass down on the sideboard. “The wizard knew where to turn, who to worship. Like him, you could find great power. And great pleasure.”

The woman removed her gown, twisting open the buttons one at a time, twenty-three in all. She shrugged her shoulders with a slow, graceful movement. The silk gown fell to the floor. Firelight gleamed on her white skin, casting a ruddy glow that emphasized the shadowy curves of her body.

She moved near him. Reaching up, Shavas touched Raistlin’s face with the tips of her fingers.

The mage clasped her hands, feeling the coolness of her flesh against the burning warmth of his own. A shudder ran through his body, a shudder that the woman could sense.

Shavas pulled away from him, staring at him uncertainly, suspiciously.

Raistlin lifted his brandy glass, but his shaking hand nearly dropped it. He set it back down and turned abruptly to look at the game board, staring at the piece of his champion. As he watched, he saw it twist into a hideous, undead warrior. The mage sat down, afraid that his legs would not support him.

“Your offer is tempting …”

“Then you accept?”

Shavas knelt beside the mage’s chair. Placing her hands on his, she gazed, smiling, up into the hourglass eyes. She seemed certain of victory.

Raistlin shook his head. “I cannot.”

“Why? I’ve offered you everything! The chance to rule with me. Power to forge your own destiny. Myself!”

The mage said nothing. He did not look at her, but gazed at the board and his destroyed game piece.

Shavas slowly and with dignity rose to her feet. “You desire me. You can’t deny it!”

Without looking up, the mage replied, “That I desire you, lady, I cannot deny. But I can deny my desire.”

“Then you are a fool!”

“Perhaps,” Raistlin said in a subdued voice. “Perhaps. But I’ve won the game.”

Reaching out his hand, he removed the Dark Queen from the board and tossed it contemptuously into the fire.

He could feel the woman’s anger rise up around him, more scorching than the flames.

“You? You’ve won nothing!” Shavas cried. “Nothing but your own destruction!”

She raised her arms into the air. Dark bolts of lightning formed at her fingertips, surrounding her naked body with a cold, enervating halo. Her long hair rose around her head like writhing snakes. Her eyes vanished, sinking into deep pools of blackness.

Raistlin rose to his feet, leaning on the Staff of Magius.

“That puny toy will not save you! You will die by-” The woman’s voice cracked, then rose in a terrified scream. “What is happening?”

“The magics you summoned are growing beyond the confines of your ability to control them,” Raistlin answered.

“Help me!” Shavas screamed. Black lightning streaked down from the sky, engulfing the woman’s naked body. She reached for Raistlin, but her hands were beginning to wither, the flesh melting from the bones.

“I cannot,” said the mage. “I am the cause of your destruction!”

Shavas writhed in agony. “One day you will fall! One day the Dark Queen will have you!”

“No,” answered Raistlin. “No matter what happens, I will always be my own.”

The woman’s body slowly disintegrated until all that was left was a pile of dust on the carpet of the library. In its center lay a necklace; the fire opal glistened with a mockery of life.

Raistlin stood unmoving, watching the dust of Shavas stir, clutching for life. Walking over, he lifted the Staff of Magius and brought it down with crushing force on the necklace. The fire opal exploded.

Reaching around, grabbing a book, Raistlin soaked it in brandy and hurled it into the fire. The binding began to blacken and curl as the flames consumed the golden words, Brothers Majere.

Raistlin thrust the tip of his staff into the fire, holding it in the coals until the end burned brightly. Bringing out the flaming staff, the mage touched it to the curtains, the furniture, and, finally, the game board. Flames crackled. The air filled with smoke.

Raistlin tapped the staff on the floor and its fire died, leaving the black wood smooth, cold, and unscarred.

The mage turned and walked out of the burning house.

Raistlin and Caramon stood outside the south gate of Mereklar, beyond the city’s white confines.

“-and the woman rushed back to her home, screaming and waving her arms.” Earwig waved his own arms to illustrate. “The next day, there was a knock at the door. Know who it was?”

Catherine shook her head, “No. Who?”

“Dizzy’s hoopak!” Earwig tumbled to the ground and rolled around in uncontrolled mirth.

Catherine stood there, lips twitching.

“Don’t you get it?” Earwig asked after a moment, sitting up.

Catherine raised her eyes to the heavens, a gesture she would come to repeat often. The young woman was dressed in leather pants and a long, buckskin tunic. Soft, supple boots hugged her legs, and she carried a pack on her back. In her hand she held a small tangle of wire-the gift Earwig had given her. She tossed it in the air. The bead inside caught the sun, flashing brightly. Catching the wire as it fell, Catherine winked at the kender.

Earwig, grinning, winked back. The two shared a wonderful secret, a secret that was about to lead them on what the kender hoped would be another wonderful adventure.

Caramon shuffled his feet. “I wish you’d change your mind and travel with us. At least as far as the Black Cat.”

“Can’t,” said Earwig, almost ready to explode with excitement. “We have a Very Important Mission. You see, it’s this wire-”

Catherine prodded him in the back. “Hush up,” she said. “It’s also a Very Secret Mission.”

“That’s right,” said Earwig, rubbing the ring on his thumb. “Well, good-bye, Caramon. Good-bye, Raistlin. It sure was fun!”

Raistlin started to say something, then began to cough violently. Clutching his chest, he leaned on the staff to maintain his balance. Caramon looked at him in concern.

“Are you sure you can make it?”

“Are you sure you can?” Raistlin cast a scathing glance at his brother, who was bandaged and walking stiffly and painfully.

Drawing a white cloth from his robes, the mage dabbed his lips. The cloth came away stained red with blood. “If you must know,” he whispered, “I have no desire to spend another night in this city.”

Caramon glanced around. The gate was empty, unguarded. The streets were filled with people hurrying from door to door, each relating to another his own version of the terrifying wonders that had occurred during the night. The city was in chaos, its leaders dead. Rumor had it that they had perished, fighting alongside the Lord of the Cats to protect the city from some great evil. The walls of Mereklar knew better, but few in the city paid any attention to the new carvings.

A cat carrying a newborn kitten in her mouth hurried past on light feet, moving her family from the wilderness into the city that was said to welcome felines. Several townsfolk, spotting the cat, knelt down to make overtures.

“I still think we should say good-bye to Lady Shavas,” Caramon said.

Raistlin glanced back to the center of Mereklar where a thin column of black smoke still lingered in the air.

“No.” The mage spoke from the depths of his hood. When it seemed Caramon was going to persist, he gently laid a hand on his brother’s arm. “Come. We must go.”

“Oh, here, Raist.” Earwig drew the mage’s cure-the bag of pungent herbs-from his pouch. “You dropped it. You really did!” said the kender, eyes wide.

“I didn’t drop it, Earwig,” said Raistlin. “I threw it a-” He paused, then said, “That is … you may keep it, if you want.”

“I may! Gosh, thanks!”

“Thank you, Earwig, for your help,” Raistlin said. He lifted his eyes and fixed them on the girl.

Take care of him.

The words formed in Catherine’s mind. Startled, she nodded her head. “I will,” she promised.

“Well, be seein’ you, Earwig,” said Caramon. “Good luck with your adventuring.”

The twins started down the road in one direction, Catherine and Earwig turned the other. They were walking past what had once been the blank walls of Mereklar when Earwig suddenly stopped and stared.

“Wow!” he said in awe.

Tears filled his eyes, and he ran his hand across the stone on which was carved a kender perched bravely on the back of a carriage in the Abyss. And there was another carving, of a kender hero slaying a demon. And a third, of a kender gallantly thrusting his hand into a deadly box.…

“Hey, Caramon! Raistlin!” Earwig shouted in wild excitement.

The twins-small figures in the distance-turned. The mage was leaning on his brother’s arm. Both looked sad and weary and in pain.

“Never mind,” said Earwig softly.

“ ’Bye!” shouted the kender, waving the pouch. “Say ‘hi’ to Cousin Tas for me!”