Temple bells rang the hour. The time of the council meeting was drawing near, and Raistlin still had to make his way back to the upper level. Once he was out of sight of the guards, he removed his pouches and concealed them once more beneath his robes. He put on the golden chain and the medallion of faith, transforming himself from wizard to cleric and left the dungeons, counting the stairs to find his way to the upper regions of the temple where the Nightlord's entourage was gathering.
Raistlin joined the group of Spiritors in an antechamber outside the council hall. He kept apart from the others, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He did not speak to anyone, but stood in the shadows, his head bowed, his hood over his face. His limp was pronounced. He leaned heavily on his staff. A few of the Spiritors glanced at him, and one started to approach him.
"He's a follower of Morgion," said another, and the cleric changed his mind.
After that, everyone left Raistlin severely alone.
The Nightlord made his appearance, accompanied by an aide. The Nightlord was clad in a black velvet robe over which he wore vestments shimmering with the five colors of the five heads of the dragon, Takhisis. The Spiritors, dressed in their own ceremonial garb, clustered around him. The Nightlord was in an excellent humor. He greeted each Spiritor in turn; then his flat and empty eyes turned upon Raistlin.
"I am told you are a worshiper of Morgion," said the Nightlord. "It is not often we have one of his followers among us, especially one of such high rank. You are welcome, Spiritor-"
The Nightlord stopped talking. His eyes narrowed. He studied Raistlin.
"Have we met, Spiritor?" the Nightlord asked, and though his tone was pleasant, the expression in his eyes was not. "Something about you seems familiar. Put back your hood. Let me see your face."
"My face is not pleasant to look upon, Nightlord," said Raistlin in a harsh voice, as different from his own as he could make it.
"I am not easily shocked. This very morning I cut off a man's nose and gouged out his eyes," said the Nightlord, smiling. "He was a spy, and that is what I do to spies. Let me see your face, Spiritor."
Raistlin tensed, cursing his luck. He should not have come up here. He should have foreseen the danger that the Nightlord would recognize him. They would not bother taking him to the dungeons. The Nightlord would kill him here, where he stood.
"Take off the hood! Show him your face," said Fistandantilus.
"Shut up!" Raistlin hissed under his breath. Aloud he said, "My lord, I have sworn an oath to Morgion-"
"Show your face!" The Nightlord took hold of his medallion of faith and began to chant, "Takhisis, hear my prayer…"
"He will kill you where you stand! Take off the hood! As you said, we are both in this together. For the moment…"
Slowly, reluctantly, Raistlin took hold of the hood and drew it from his head.
One of the Spiritors covered her mouth with her hand and gagged. The others averted their eyes and shrank back from him. The Nightlord looked away not from disgust, but because he had lost interest. He had not unmasked a spy, merely a diseased follower of a loathsome god.
"Cover your face," said the Nightlord, waving his hand. "My apologies to Morgion if I have offended him."
Raistlin drew his hood over his head.
"Once again, I have saved you, young one."
Raistlin pressed his hand against his temple, longing to reach into his skull and rip the voice out of his head.
Fistandantilus chuckled. "You owe me. And you pride yourself on paying your debts."
A hand squeezed Raistlin's heart. His chest hurt. He struggled to breathe and was seized by a fit of coughing that doubled him over. He pressed his hand to his mouth. His fingers were covered in blood. Raistlin cursed inwardly, impotently. He cursed and coughed until he was dizzy, and he sagged back against a wall.
The Spiritors eyed him in alarm. The word contagion was on everyone's lips, and they nearly came to blows trying to get away from him. Then the sound of a gong reverberated throughout the temple. The Spiritors forgot Raistlin in their excitement.
"The bell summons us, my lord," said the aide, and he opened the double doors that led from the chamber into the council hall.
The Spiritors crowded around the door, eager to witness the procession of Highlords and the arrival of the Emperor.
"Must you gawk like peasants?" the Nightlord said angrily.
The Spiritors, looking chastened, left the door and returned to the antechamber.
"The Emperor's troops are gathering around his throne," reported the aide from his position at the door. "They are making ready for the Emperor."
"We enter after Ariakas," said the Nightlord. "Line up."
The aide bustled around, forming the Spiritors into two lines. The Nightlord took his place at the end. No one paid attention to Raistlin, who was leaning on his staff, gasping for breath and trying to clear his mind. The thunder of tramping feet, marching in time to the rhythmic thumping of a drum and shouted commands of officers, caused the floor to shake.
"First will come the Procession of Pilgrims," the Nightlord told his Spiritors. "When all of you have assembled on the platform, I will enter and take the place of honor beside Her Dark Majesty."
The soldiers in the hall began to cheer.
"See what is going on," the Nightlord commanded his aide.
"The Emperor has entered the hall," the aide reported.
"Is he wearing the Crown of Power?" the Nightlord asked tersely.
"He wears the armor of a Dragon Highlord," reported the aide, "a cape of royal purple, and the Crown of Power."
The Nightlord's face contorted in anger. His outraged voice sounded shrill above the thunderous ovation. "The crown is a holy artifact. When Queen Takhisis has conquered the world, we will see who wears this crown."
The Spiritors stood in line, expectant, excited, awaiting the signal and the arrival of their Queen. Raistlin fell in at the end. He began to cough. The cleric in front of him whipped around to glare at him.
Ariakas's troops cheered him and kept on cheering. Ariakas appeared to be in no hurry to stop them, for the cheering grew louder and more raucous. The soldiers struck the floor with their spears and banged their swords against their shields and roared his name. The Spiritors were growing tired of waiting. They began to mutter and shift impatiently. The Nightlord scowled and demanded to know what was happening.
"Ariakas is making his reverence to the throne of the Dark Queen," the aide reported from his place at the door. He had to shout to make himself heard.
"Has Her Dark Majesty arrived?" the Nightlord asked.
"No, your lordship. Her throne remains empty."
"Good," said the Nightlord. "We will be there to welcome her."
The Spiritors fidgeted. The Nightlord's foot tapped the floor. Finally, the cheering began to die. A hush settled over the troops. Another gong sounded.
"That is our signal," said the Nightlord. "Make ready."
The Spiritors readjusted their hoods and smoothed their robes. A trumpet sounded and cheers again erupted in the hall, as loud or louder than those that greeted the Emperor. The Nightlord was pleased. He made a gesture, and the line of Spiritors began to move toward the door. From there, they would walk out onto the narrow stone bridge that led from the antechamber to the throne of the Dark Queen. The first two Spiritors were at the door when the aide suddenly cried out for them to stop.
"Why? What for?" the Nightlord asked, frowning in displeasure.
"The signal was for Highlord Kitiara, your lordship!" the aide said, trembling. "The Blue Lady and her troops are coming into the hall now."
The Nightlord paled with fury. The Spiritors broke ranks and clustered angrily around their leader, all of them clamoring to be heard. The entrance of a draconian wearing the insignia of the Emperor's guard brought sudden, chill silence.
"What do you want?" asked the Nightlord, glowering.
"His Imperial Majesty Ariakas extends his respects to the Nightlord of Queen Takhisis," said the draconian. "The Emperor has sent me to inform your lordship that there has been a change in plans. Your lordship and these honored holy men will enter the hall after the Highlord of the White Dragonarmy, Lord Toede. The Emperor-"
"I will not," said the Nightlord, dangerously calm.
"I beg your lordship's pardon," said the draconian.
"You heard me. I will not enter last. In fact, I will not enter at all. You may so inform Ariakas."
"I will inform the Emperor," said the draconian, and with a bow and a disdainful flick of his tail, he departed.
The Nightlord cast a grim glance around at his clerics. "Ariakas insults me and, by insulting me, he insults our Queen. I will not stand for it and neither will she! We will go to the Abbey and give her our prayerful support."
The Spiritors swept out of the room, their robes rustling with righteous indignation. Raistlin started to join them. He took a step then, clutching at his chest, cried out in pain. His staff fell from his limp hand. He stumbled, staggered, and sank to his knees, coughing and spewing up blood. With a groan, he slumped onto his belly and lay on the floor, twitching and writhing in agony.
The Spiritors stopped, staring at him in alarm. Several looked uncertainly at the Nightlord.
"Should we help?" asked one.
"Leave him. Morgion will see to his cleric," said the Nightlord, and he waved his hand dismissively and hastened off.
The Spiritors did not wait to be told twice. Covering their mouths and noses with their black sleeves, they tried to get away from Raistlin as fast as possible.
Once he was certain he was alone, Raistlin rose to his feet. He picked up the Staff of Magius and walked to the door and looked out into the hall.
A narrow bridge of black stone extended some distance ahead of him. At the end was the shadowy alcove and the throne of the Dark Queen. She had not yet made an appearance. Perhaps she was in the Abbey, listening to the complaints of her Nightlord. In the hall, drums beat and soldiers cheered. Another Dragon Highlord was making his grand entrance. Raistlin ventured out onto the bridge. He did not go far. He wanted to see, not be seen.
The bridge had no rails, no barriers. Raistlin peered over the edge, looking down on the heads of the crowd that was far below him. The soldiers surged and heaved and wriggled, reminding him of maggots feeding off rotting flesh. The platforms on which the Dragon Highlords had their thrones rose high above the floor. Narrow, stone bridges extended from the antechambers of each Highlord to the throne. Thus, the Highlords were spared the need of walking among the masses.
Ariakas's throne reared above all the others. His throne was in the place of honor, directly beneath the Dark Queen's alcove.
The Emperor's throne was made of onyx and was plain and unadorned. Takhisis's throne, by contrast, was hideously beautiful. The back of the throne was formed of the gracefully curving necks and heads of five dragons, two on the right, two on the left, and one in the center. The arms of the throne were the dragon's legs; the seat, the dragon's breast. The throne was made entirely of jewels: emeralds, rubies, sapphires, pearls, and black diamonds.
From his vantage point on the bridge, Raistlin could see two of the other Highlords: the handsome and disdainful face of Salah-Kahn and the ugly, cunning face of the half-ogre Lucien of Takar. The white throne was empty. Ariakas had been shouting for Lord Toede, Highlord of the White, but no one by that name was answering.
The same Toede who had been Fewmaster in Solace. The same Toede whose search for the blue crystal staff had plunged Raistlin and his friends into danger and started them on the bright and shining, dark and tortuous paths they walked.
Raistlin could not see Kitiara from where he stood. She must be seated on the throne to Ariakas's right. Raistlin advanced along the bridge. He no longer worried about anyone below seeing him. The domed ceiling of the hall was wreathed in smoke from the breath of the dragons, who were watching from their alcoves high above and from the hundreds of torches mounted on the walls and the fires burning in iron braziers. In his black robes, Raistlin was just another shadow in a hall of shadows.
Takhisis would be watching him, as she was watching with avid interest everything that was going on. The air in the hall reeked of smoke and steel, leather and intrigue. Certainly Ariakas must have smelled the stench. And yet he sat on his throne alone, isolated, apart, supremely confident and invincible. He had no armed guards, only the Crown of Power. Let his underlings ring themselves round with steel. Ariakas feared nothing and no one. He had the backing of his Queen.
"But does he?" Raistlin wondered.
A ruler is supposed to appear confident. Even arrogance has its place upon the throne. But no god can forgive hubris. The last living man who had worn the crown had suffered from that malady. The Kingpriest of Istar had believed himself to be as powerful as any god. The gods of Krynn had shown him power; they had sent a fiery mountain crashing down upon his head. Ariakas had made the mistake of thinking too well of himself.
Raistlin was finally in a position where he could see Kitiara.
And with her was Tanis Half-Elven.