It wasn't the physical pain that clouded my mind. It was the old inner pain clawing at me, tearing at me with poisoned talons. Caramon, strong and cheerful, good and kind, open and honest. Caramon, everyone's friend.
Not like Raistlin-the runt, the Sly One.
"All I ever had was my magic," I said, speaking clearly, thinking clearly for the first time in my life. "And now you have that too."
Using the wall for support, I raised both my hands, put my thumbs together. I began speaking the words, the words that would summon the magic.
"Raist!" Caramon started to back away. "Raist, what are you doing? C'mon! You need me! I'll take care of you-just like always. Raist! I'm your brother!"
"I have no brother."
Beneath the layer of cold, hard rock, jealousy bubbled and seethed. Tremors split the rock. Jealousy, red and molten, coursed through my body and flared out of my hands. The fire flared, billowed, and engulfed Caramon-
A knocking on the door brought Raistlin back, abruptly, to reality.
He stirred in his chair and let go of the memory slowly and reluctantly, not because he enjoyed reliving that moment in time-far from it. The memory of his Test in the Tower of High Sorcery was horrible, for it brought back the bitter pangs of jealous fury, the sight of Caramon being burned to death, the sound of his twin's screams, the stench of charred flesh.
Then, after that, having to face Caramon, who had been witness to his own death at his brother's hands. To see the pain in his eyes, far worse in some ways than the pain of dying. For it had all been illusion, a part of the Test, to teach Raistlin to know himself. He would not have brought it all back to mind, would have kept the memory locked away, but he was trying to learn something from it, so he had to endure it.
The time was early morning, and he was in the small cell that he'd been given in the Great Library. The monks had carried him to the cell when they had thought he was dying. In the cell he had at last dared to look into the darkness of his own soul and dared meet the eyes that stared back at him. He had remembered the Test, remembered the bargain he'd made with Fistandilus in order to pass it.
"I said I was not to be bothered," Raistlin called out, annoyed.
"Bothered! I'll bother him," a deep voice grumbled. "I'll give him a good smack up the side of his head!"
"You have a visitor, Master Majere," called out Bertrem in apologetic tones. "He says he is an old friend of yours. He is concerned about your health."
"Of course he is," Raistlin said sourly.
He'd been expecting the visit. Ever since he'd watched Flint start to cross the street to the library, only to change his mind. Flint would have spent the night brooding, but he would finally come. Not with Tas. He would come alone.
Tell him to go away. Tell him you are busy. You have a great deal of work to do to prepare for your journey to Neraka. But even as Raistlin was thinking these things, he was removing the magical spell that kept the door locked.
"He may enter," Raistlin said.
Bertrem, his bald head glistening with sweat, cautiously shoved open the door and peered inside. At the sight of Raistlin sitting in the chair, wearing gray robes, Bertrem's eyes widened.
"But those are… you are… those are…"
Raistlin glared at him. "Say what you came to say and be gone."
"A… visitor…" Bertrem repeated faintly then hastened off, his sandals flapping on the stone floor.
Flint thumped inside. The old dwarf stood glowering at Raistlin from beneath his shaggy, gray eyebrows. He crossed his arms over his chest beneath his long, flowing beard. He was wearing the studded leather armor the dwarf preferred over steel. The armor was new and was embossed with a rose, the symbol of the Solamnic Knights.
Flint wore the same helm as always. He'd found the helm during one of their early adventures; Raistlin could not remember where. The helm was decorated with a tail made of horsehair. Flint always held that it was the mane of a griffon, and nothing would disabuse him of that notion, not even the fact that griffons did not have manes.
Only a few months had passed since they had last seen each other, but Raistlin was shocked at the change in the dwarf. Flint had lost weight. His skin had a chalky tinge to it. His breathing was labored, and his face was marred by new lines of sorrow and loss, weariness and worry. The old dwarf's eyes, glaring at Raistlin, flared with the same gruff spirit.
Neither spoke. Flint harrumphed, clearing his throat, as he cast sharp, swift glances around the cell, taking in the spellbooks lying on the desk, the Staff of Magius standing in the corner, the empty cup that had held his tea. All Raistlin's possessions, nothing of Caramon.
Flint frowned and scratched his nose, glancing from beneath lowered brows at Raistlin and shifting uncomfortably.
How much more uncomfortable he would be if he knew the truth, Raistlin thought. That I left Caramon and Tanis and the others to die. He wished Flint had not come.
"The kender said he saw you," Flint said, breaking the silence at last. "He said you were dying."
"As you see, I am very much alive," Raistlin said.
"Yes, well." Flint stroked his beard. "You're wearing gray robes. What is that supposed to mean?"
"That I sent my red ones to be washed," Raistlin said, adding caustically, "I am not so wealthy that I can afford an extensive wardrobe." He made an impatient gesture. "Did you come here to stare at me and comment on my clothes, or did you have some purpose?"
"I came because I was worried about you," Flint said, frowning.
Raistlin gave a sardonic smile. "You did not come because you were worried about me. You came because you are worried about Tanis and Caramon."
"Well, and I have a right to be, don't I? What has become of them?" Flint demanded, his face flushing, bringing some color into his gray cheeks.
Raistlin did not immediately respond. He could tell the truth. There was no reason he shouldn't. After all, he didn't give a damn what Flint thought of him, what any of them thought of him. He could tell the truth, that he had left them to die in the Maelstrom. But Flint would be outraged. He might even attack Raistlin in his fury. The old dwarf was no threat, but Raistlin would be forced to defend himself. Flint could get hurt, and there would be a scene. The Aesthetics would be in an uproar. They would throw him out, and he was not ready to leave.
"Laurana and Tas and I know you and the others escaped Tarsis," Flint said. "We shared the dream." He looked extremely uncomfortable at admitting that.
Raistlin was intrigued. "The dream in the nightmare land of Silvanesti? King Lorac's dream? Did you? How very interesting." He thought back, considering how that might be possible. "I knew that the rest of us shared it, but that was because we were in the dream. I wonder how the rest of you came to experience it?"
"Gilthanas said it was the starjewel, the one Alhana gave Sturm in Tarsis."
"Alhana said something about that. Yes, it could be a starjewel. They are powerful magical artifacts. Does Sturm still have it?"
"It was buried with him," said Flint gruffly. "Sturm's dead. He was killed at the Battle of the High Clerist's Tower."
"I am sorry to hear that," Raistlin said, and he was surprised to realize he truly was.
"Sturm died a hero," said Flint. "He fought a blue dragon alone."
"Then he died a fool," Raistlin remarked.
Flint's face flushed. "What about Caramon? Why isn't he here? He would never leave you! He'd die first!"
"He may be dead now," said Raistlin. "Perhaps they all are. I do not know."
"Did you kill him?" Flint asked, his flush deepening. Yes, I killed him, Raistlin thought. He was engulfed in flames…
Instead he said, "The door is behind you. Please shut it on your way out."
Flint tried to speak, but he could only sputter with rage. Finally he managed to blurt out, "I don't know why I came! I said 'good riddance' when I heard you were dying. And I say 'good riddance' now!"
He turned on his heel and stomped angrily across the floor. He had reached the door and flung it open and was about to walk out when Raistlin spoke.
"You're having problems with your heart," Raistlin said, talking to Flint's back. "You are not well. You are experiencing pain, dizziness, shortness of breath. You tire easily. Am I right?"
Flint stopped where he stood in the doorway to the small cell, his hand on the handle.
"If you do not take it easy," Raistlin continued, "your heart will burst."
Flint glanced around, over his shoulder. "How long do I have?" "Death could come at any moment," Raistlin said. "You must rest-"
"Rest! There's a war on!" Flint said loudly. Then he coughed and wheezed and pressed his hand to chest. Seeing Raistlin watching him, he muttered, "We can't all die heroes," and stumped off, forgetting, as he left, to shut the door.
Raistlin, sighing, rose to his feet and shut it for him.
Caramon screamed, tried to beat out the flames, but there was no escaping the magic. His body withered, dwindled in the fire, became the body of a wizened, old man-an old man wearing black robes, whose hair and beard were trailing wisps of fire.
Fistandantilus, his hand outstretched, walked toward me.
"If your armor is dross," said the old man softly, "I will find the crack."
I could not move, could not defend myself. The magic had sapped the last of my strength.
Fistandantilus stood before me. The old man's black robes were tattered shreds of night; his flesh was rotting and decayed; the bones were visible through the skin. His nails were long and pointed, as long as those of a corpse; his eyes gleamed with the radiant heat that had been in my soul, the warmth that had brought the dead to life. A bloodstone hung from a pendant around the fleshless neck.
The old man's hand touched my breast, caressed my flesh, teasing and tormenting. Fistandantilus plunged his hand into my chest and seized hold of my heart.
As the dying soldier clasps his hands around the haft of the spear that has torn through his body, I seized hold of the old man's wrist, clamped my fingers in a grip that death would not have relaxed.
Caught, trapped, Fistandantilus fought to break my grip, but he could not free himself and retain his hold on my heart.
The white light of Solinari; the red light of Lunitari; and the black, empty light of Nuitari-light that I could see-merged in my fainting vision, stared down at me, an unwinking eye.
"You may take my life," I said, keeping fast hold of the old man's wrist, as Fistandantilus kept hold of my heart. "But you will serve me in return."
The eye winked and blinked out.
Raistlin removed a soft leather pouch from the belt he wore around his waist. He reached his hand into the pouch and drew out what appeared to be a small ball made of colored glass, very like a child's marble. He rolled the glass ball around in the palm of his hand, watching the colors writhe and swirl inside.
"You grow to be a nuisance, old man," Raistlin said softly, and he didn't give a damn if Fistandantilus heard him or not.
He had a plan and there was nothing the undead wizard could do to stop him.