It was well after Dark Watch. Raistlin hoped they did not have far to go, for his strength was almost gone. They turned into a street outside the temple walls known as Wizard's Row, and he was relieved to hear Iolanthe say that this was the street on which she lived. The street was narrow and out of the way, little more than a glorified alley. The name came from the various shops that sold goods related to magic. Most of the shops, Raistlin noted, appeared to be empty. Several had To Let signs posted in broken windows.
Iolanthe's small apartment was located above one of the few mageware shops still in business. They climbed a long, narrow staircase, and he waited while she removed the wizard lock on her door. Once inside, she provided her guest with a pillow and a blanket and rearranged the furniture in the small room she termed her "library," so he could make up his bed on the floor. She bade him good night and went to her room, telling him as she left that she was a late riser and did not take kindly to being awakened before noon.
Exhausted from his experiences in the dungeon, Raistlin lay down on the floor, covered himself with the blanket, and fell immediately asleep. He dreamed of the dungeons, of hanging naked from chains, of a man holding a burning hot rod of iron coming toward him…
Raistlin woke with a gasp. Sunlight flooded the room. He did not at first remember where he was, and he stared around in confusion until memory brought the events of last night back to him. He sighed and closed his eyes. He reached out his hand, as he normally did of a morning, and felt the staff lying by his side; its smooth wood warm and reassuring.
Raistlin smiled to think of the discomfiture the Nightlord would feel when he went to gloat over the valuable artifact he had lately acquired, only to discover it had disappeared during the night. One of the staff's magical powers was that it always returned to its owner. Raistlin had known, when he handed it over, that the staff would come back to him.
Stiff from sleeping on the hard floor, he sat up, rubbing his back and neck to try to ease the kinks in his muscles. The small apartment was quiet. His hostess was not yet awake. Raistlin was glad for a chance to be alone, to sort out his thoughts.
He performed his ablutions then boiled water to prepare the herbal tea that eased his cough. The Nightlord had taken his herbs away from him, but they were common enough, and a rummage through Iolanthe's kitchen produced all he needed. It was only when he was pouring the water into the kettle that he remembered that he didn't need to drink his tea; his cough was gone. He was well again. Fistandantilus was no longer leeching away half his life.
Raistlin was accustomed to drinking the tea, and he continued to brew it. Unfortunately, the task brought back memories of his brother. Caramon had always fixed Raistlin's tea for him, making of it a daily ritual. Their friends, Tanis and the others, had watched Caramon do the menial work for his twin in disapproval.
"Your legs aren't broke," Flint had once said to Raistlin. "Fix your own damn tea!"
Raistlin could have brewed his own tea, of course, but it wouldn't have been the same. He allowed his brother to prepare his tea not, as his friends thought, to exhibit his ascendancy over Caramon or demean him. The homely act brought back fond memories to both of them, memories of the years they had walked strange and dangerous roads, each watching the other's back, each dependent on the other for companionship and protection.
Raistlin sat before the kitchen fire, listening to the water bubble in the teakettle, and he thought of those days alone on the road, their small cooking fire blazing beneath the greater, more glorious fire of the sun. Caramon would sit on a log or a boulder or whatever happened to be handy, holding the clay mug in one big hand that almost engulfed it, sprinkling the herbs from the bag into the water, measuring out the leaves with care and intense concentration.
Raistlin, sitting nearby, would watch with impatience, telling Caramon that he did not need to be so careful; he could just dump the leaves in the cup.
Caramon would always say no, it was important to have the proper mixture. Did he or did he not know how to make an excellent cup of tea? Raistlin would always admit that his brother did make wonderful tea; that was true. No matter how hard Raistlin tried, he had never been able to duplicate Caramon's recipe. No matter how hard he tried, Raistlin's tea did not taste the same. His scientific mind scoffed at the fact that love and care could make a difference to a cup of tea, but he had to admit he could find no other explanation.
He poured the boiling water into the mug and shook out the herbs, which floated on the top before sinking. The smell was always slightly unpleasant; the taste was not that bad. He'd grown to like it. He sipped at the tea, a stranger in a strange city, the heart of the forces of darkness, and he thought of himself and Caramon, sitting together in the sunshine, laughing over some silly jest, recalling incidents from their childhood, recounting some of their adventures and the wonders they had seen.
Raistlin felt a burning in his eyes and a choking sensation in his throat that did not come from his former malady. The choking came from a heart swelling with emotion, from loss and loneliness, guilt and grief and remorse. Raistlin took an unusually large gulp of the tea and burned the roof of his mouth. He swore angrily beneath his breath, and flung the contents of the mug into the fire.
"Serves me right for being maudlin," he muttered. He banished all thought of Caramon from his mind and, finding some bread in the pantry, toasted it over the fire and chewed on it as he thought over his situation.
His arrival in Neraka had not turned out as planned. He had deliberately chosen to appear in the temple by traveling the corridors of magic. His idea had been that he would materialize inside the temple to the awe and astonishment of all who witnessed him. The clerics would be so impressed by his exhibition of magical power, they would escort him straightway to Emperor Ariakas, who would beg Raistlin to join him in conquering the world.
Things had not turned out as planned. Raistlin had achieved one of his goals; the dark pilgrims had certainly been astonished to see him burst out of thin air inside the abbey, just as they were starting services. One elderly pilgrim had nearly suffered apoplexy, and another had fainted dead away.
Far from being impressed, the dark pilgrims had been outraged. They had tried to seize him, but he had fended them off with the Staff of Magius, which administered a strong jolt to anyone it touched. As they crowded around him, shouting and threatening, Raistlin had urged everyone to remain calm. He was not here to cause trouble, he explained. He would go with them willingly. He wanted only to pay his respects to his Queen. He had found himself instead paying his respects to the loathsome Nightlord.
Raistlin had almost immediately seen the man for what he was: a demented man who took physical pleasure and gratification in the suffering of others. Raistlin had realized at once that he was in deadly peril, though he was confused as to why.
"We are all on the same side," the mage had tried to tell the Nightlord. "All of us want to see Queen Takhisis victorious. Why, then, do you view me with such enmity? Why threaten me with unspeakable horrors unless I reveal myself to be a spy for the Conclave? Why would the Conclave want to spy on the Dark Queen's clerics? It makes no sense."
Or rather, it had made no sense until he had heard the Nightlord say that Nuitari had turned against his mother.
The questioning had gone on hour after weary hour. All the while Raistlin could hear the shrieks and howls and screams of other prisoners, the turning of the rack, the snaps of the lash. He could smell the burning flesh.
The Nightlord had grown frustrated with Raistlin's denials.
"You will tell me all you know and more," the Nightlord had said. "Send for the Adjudicator."
Raistlin had tried to use the Staff of Magius, but the guards had rushed him and, at the cost of a few jolts, had knocked the staff out of his hand onto the floor. He had then cast a Circle of Protection around himself. The Nightlord was expert at dealing with uncooperative wizards, however. He had spoken a few words and pointed his bloodstained fingernails at Raistlin, and the protection spell had shattered like a crystal goblet dropped on a marble floor.
Raistlin had known fear unlike any he'd ever experienced, worse even than the time he'd been lying helpless beneath the claws of a black dragon in Xak Tsaroth. The guards began closing in on him, and he had no way to fight them. Then something strange had happened. He had yet to find an explanation. The guards had not been able to lay their hands on him.
He had not done anything to defend himself. He had no energy left to cast any more magic. The trip through the corridors of magic, the subsequent fight, the casting of the Circle of Protection spell, had all weakened him. Yet the simple fact was, every time the guards had tried to seize him, they had started to shake so severely, they could not make their fingers work.
Raistlin sat cross-legged on the floor. He opened the pouch containing the marbles and shook them out. The dragon orb rolled around, indistinguishable from the other marbles except to his eyes. One of the facts he had learned about the dragon orb was that it had an instinct for self-preservation as great or greater than his own.
He picked up the dragon orb and held it in his palm and gazed at it, pondering, wondering. He had taken a risk bringing the orb to Neraka, to the heart of the Dark Queen's empire. Made of the essence of evil dragons, the orb might feel emboldened, here among its own kind, so close to its evil Queen. It might turn on him, find a master more important, more powerful.
Instead, it seemed, the orb had chosen to protect him. Not out of love for him, Raistlin was sure. Raistlin shook his head, bemused at the thought. The orb was interested only in protecting itself. And that was an unsettling thought. The orb sensed danger. The orb believed it was in peril, and that meant he was in peril.
But from what? From whom? This city, of all places, should be a safe haven for those who walked the paths of darkness.
"By Nuitari, you really do play with marbles," exclaimed Iolanthe. She wrinkled her nose and coughed. "What is that ghastly smell?"
Raistlin had been so lost in his thoughts that he had not heard her stirring. Hastily, he scooped up the marbles along with the dragon orb and dropped them into the pouch.
"I fixed myself a cup of tea," he said blandly. "I have been ill, and I find it helps."
Iolanthe opened a casement to let in air, though the smell outside was almost as bad as that within. The air was gray with smoke that billowed from the forge fires and reeked from the stench of the garbage-filled alleys and the foul water that ran ankle deep in the gutters.
"This illness," said Iolanthe, waving her hand to dissipate the smell. "Was it a result of the Test?"
"An aftereffect," Raistlin replied, surprised that she would immediately jump to that conclusion.
"And was that how you came to have gold skin and hourglass eyes?"
Raistlin nodded.
"The sacrifices we make for the magic," Iolanthe said with a sigh. She shut the window and locked it. "I did not come out unscathed. No one does. I bear my scars on the inside."
Iolanthe rumpled her dark hair and sighed again. She was dressed in a silken gown known as a caftan by those who lived in the eastern land of Khur. The silk was sumptuous and vividly colored; red and blue birds amid purple and orange flowers, green leaves and twining vines.
Raistlin found himself disconcerted by the woman. Her frank manner of speaking, her charm, her wit, her humor and vivacity and her beauty-especially her beauty-made him uncomfortable.
For even with his accursed vision, he could see that Iolanthe was beautiful. Her blue-black hair and violet eyes and olive skin were different from the other women he'd known in his life. Women such as Laurana, the elf maiden, who was blonde, fair, ethereal; or Tika, with her fiery red curls and her generous smile; voluptuous, laughing, wholesome, and loving.
By contrast, Iolanthe was mystery, danger, intrigue. She made Raistlin nervous. Even her clothing, with its myriad colors, made him uneasy. He disapproved. Those who took the black robes and walked shadowy places should not bring beauty and color with them.
She was smiling at him, and he realized he'd been staring at her. His skin burned, much to his irritation. He had conquered a dragon orb, imprisoned Fistandantilus inside it, and faced down the Nightlord, but he felt himself blushing like a pimply teenager just because a lovely woman smiled at him.
"I see the Nightlord returned your staff," Iolanthe said. "How very kind of him. He is not usually so considerate."
Raistlin was startled by her remark; then he saw the glint of laughter in her violet eyes. He realized he should have had devised some explanation for the staff's reappearance, but he had been too absorbed in wondering about the workings of the dragon orb. He tried to think of something plausible to say, but he was tongue-tied. The woman confused him, turned his brain to gruel. The sooner he was away from her, the better.
Iolanthe knelt on the floor, her silken caftan floating around her, filling the air with the scent of gardenia perfume. She studied the staff, not touching it, but looking intently at the smooth wood and the dragon's claw clutching a crystal ball that adorned the top.
"So this is the famed Staff of Magius," she said.
Once again, she caught Raistlin off guard. He stared at her, dumbfounded.
"I took the opportunity of doing a little research last night after you were asleep," she told him. "There are not that many magical staffs in the world. I found the description in an old book. How did you come by it, if I might ask?"
Raistlin was going to tell her it was none of her business. Instead, he found himself saying, "Par-Salian gave it to me after I passed the Test."
"Par-Salian?" Iolanthe sank bank languidly on the floor, propping herself up on her elbow. "The Head of the Order of White Robes? He gave you this valuable gift?"
"I was a White Robe when I took the Test," said Raistlin. "Due to the kind interest Lunitari took in me, I afterward wore the red robes. I have only recently taken the black."
"All three," Iolanthe murmured. Her violet eyes gazed at him. The black pupils dilated, seeming to widen in order to absorb him. "How very unusual."
She rose gracefully to her feet, her caftan swirling around her bare feet. "It is said that the Master of Past and Present will be one who wore all three robes."
Raistlin stared at her.
"And now, if you will excuse me," she continued coolly, "I will go change into my black robes for our trip to the Tower of High Sorcery. I would wear my caftan, for I like bright colors, but the old buzzards who live there would have a collective stroke."
She wafted out of the room; her perfume lingering. The smell tickled Raistlin's nose and made him sneeze. She returned wearing robes of black silk similar to the caftan in cut and design, leaving her forearms bare. He heard a faint jingling of bells as she walked and saw that she wore a circlet of tiny, golden bells around her ankle. The sound was jarring and set his teeth on edge.
"I usually wear golden bracelets to match," Iolanthe remarked as though she read his thoughts. She nibbled on some of the dry toast Raistlin had left uneaten and, picking up the mug, sniffed at the remnants of his tea and made a face. "But I dare not wear my jewels around Neraka anymore. The soldiers have not been paid, you see. The Emperor was counting upon steel flowing into his coffers from the wealth he would seize in Palanthas. Unfortunately for him, we hear that silver dragons have come to guard that fair city."
"That is true," said Raistlin. "I saw them before I left."
"So you came from Palanthas," said Iolanthe. "How interesting."
Raistlin cursed himself for having revealed such information. The woman was a witch!
"Anyhow," Iolanthe continued, "Ariakas lost all that revenue. What was worse, having been confident he would gain the steel, he had already spent it. Now he is deep in debt, though only a few people know that."
"And why now am I one of them?" Raistlin asked, annoyed. "Why are you telling me this? I don't want to hear it. Spreading such rumors is… is…"
"An act of treason?" Iolanthe shrugged. "Yes, I suppose so. But they are not rumors, Raistlin Majere. They are facts. I should know. I am Ariakas's mistress."
Raistlin felt the hair rise on his arms and prick the back of his neck. His life hung by a silken thread.
"I am also," she added smoothly, "a friend to your half-sister, Dragon Highlord Kitiara uth Matar."
Raistlin's jaw dropped. "You know… my sister?"
"Oh, yes," Iolanthe said. She was quiet a moment, then launched suddenly into a tirade. "Her troops, the soldiers of the Blue Dragonarmy, are being paid… well paid. Although she failed to take Palanthas, she controls much of Solamnia. She demands and receives tribute from the wealthy cities which she had sense enough not to burn to the ground. And she sees to it that the payment goes to her soldiers. Kit's blue dragons are loyal and well disciplined unlike the reds, who are brainless and conceited and continually fight among themselves. Ariakas stupidly allowed his reds and his soldiers to pillage and loot and set fire the cities he took, and now he grumbles that he has no money."
Raistlin remembered Solace, the burned-out Inn of the Last Home where he had spent so many happy hours. He remembered the terrifying siege of Tarsis. He kept silent, but inwardly he allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction at Ariakas's self-inflicted predicament.
The smile vanished when Iolanthe impulsively clasped his hand. "It's so good to have someone to talk to. Someone who understands. A friend!"
Raistlin withdrew his hand from hers. "I am not a friend," he said, and thinking that might sound rude, he added abruptly, "We just met. You hardly know me."
"I feel like I know you well," said Iolanthe, not the least offended. "Kitiara talks about you a great deal. She is very proud of you and your brother. Where is he, by the way?"
Raistlin decided it was time to change the subject. "What the Nightlord said last night about Nuitari-"
"True," said Iolanthe. "Every word, except for the part about Ladonna being executed. I would have heard. But Nuitari has broken with his mother, Takhisis, and now the Conclave of Wizards will unite against the Dark Queen."
Raistlin was quiet, noncommittal. He was not part of the Conclave. He had not sought their permission to take the black robes. He had done so without consulting them, in fact, and that made him a renegade. The Conclave considered renegade wizards outlaws.
Iolanthe drew nearer to him. Her perfume filled his nostrils and made his head throb.
"I know what you are thinking," she said softly, "because I am thinking the same: What does this mean for me?" She gave him a playful pat on the shoulder. "We should go to 'the Tower' and find out."
Casting him a glance over her shoulder, she added, "My people have a saying: 'A man should use his breath to cool his tea.' That's good advice anywhere in Neraka, but it especially applies to our fellow wizards."
"I understand," Raistlin said. He felt a flutter of excitement. At last he was to see the wondrous Tower of High Sorcery, meet the wizards who would help shape his destiny.
"Shall we leave? Are you ready?" Iolanthe saw his eye go to his staff, and she shook her head. "You should not carry that in public. The Nightlord will be searching for it. The staff should be safe enough here. I always cast warding spells upon my door."
"The staff will keep itself safe," Raistlin said. He didn't like leaving it; he had come to depend on it. But he understood the wisdom of her advice.
Iolanthe shut and locked the door and traced a rune upon it with her fingertip; then she spoke a few words of magic. The rune began to glow a faint bluish color.
Iolanthe caught Raistlin's eye and flushed. "Amateurish, I know. A spell such as one casts in mage school. But weak minds find the glowing rune impressive. And believe me," she added, "we deal with a lot of weak minds around Neraka."
Iolanthe took hold of Raistlin's arm, telling him to act as her escort, whether he wanted to or not. "The streets are dangerous these days," she said. "It pays to have someone watching your back."
Raistlin didn't like it, but he could not very well repulse Iolanthe. She had already made it clear that she could help him or harm him and that the choice was his. The staircase was narrow, and she pressed against him, insisting on walking close by his side.
"How many stairs?" she asked teasingly.
"Thirty-one," he replied. "Counting the landing."
Iolanthe shook her head and laughed at him.
Raistlin could not see what she thought was so funny.