The worst was over. Now our course lay across Firewater toward Mithas and Karthay. The sailors celebrated their victory over the Maelstrom, looking strangely wild, with salt caked on their lips and wreaths of seaweed in their hair.
Captain Nugetre gave orders to break out a ration of brandy for each of us by way of reward.
Damage to the ship was surprisingly slight, considering the battering we had taken. One mast and a number of oars had been broken. Debris tossed about by the storm had rent some of the sails, even though they had been rolled up. Kirsig was useful at stitchery, and I happen to know a little needlework myself. Together we worked at mending the sails. The men gladly tore the shirts off their backs to provide crude patches.
A few of the sailors roamed the deck, taking care of the gashes in the vessel, none of which were major.
Flint set his mind to fashioning a new makeshift anchor, which would have to serve until the next time the Castor made port. Gathering pieces of lead and other soft metal from around the ship, he melted everything down over a huge pot and was able to hammer out a mottled sinker that Yuril pronounced satisfactory. The new anchor was set in place of the old.
The waves continued high and choppy. The water had cleared only slightly; it was still that unsettling rust color. Though fixing up the Castor and keeping it on track demanded hard and constant work, all of us felt great relief.
A fair wind blew at our backs. A sun that grew hotter each day shone overhead. A haze formed in the sky and refused to go away.
Raistlin has been staying in his cabin during the day and pacing the decks at night. Flint and I both realized that he hadn't told us everything that occupied his thoughts.
This night, a black, starless night that held no cheer, I found him on the foredeck, standing and staring out over the choppy waters. Hearing me behind him, he turned and offered a slight smile-small encouragement, but enough to embolden me to interrupt his reverie.
"You must be very worried about Caramon," I ventured mildly.
To my surprise, the young mage raised an eyebrow, as if this was the furthest thing from his thoughts. "Caramon," he said to me with his usual brusqueness, "can take care of himself. If he didn't die back in the Straits of Schallsea, I feel quite certain that we shall find him somewhere in this forsaken part of Krynn. He is more likely to rescue us than it would be for us to rescue him."
"But I thought," I began, "that we came all this way because you believe that he was taken prisoner by minotaurs."
"Yes… partly," said Raistlin. He started to say something else, then paused, perhaps to gather his thoughts, perhaps simply to pull his cloak about himself more tightly to ward off the chill in the air. "Yet," he continued after a moment, "there are more important things to consider, apart from the fate of my happy-go-lucky brother. There is the reason why he was taken and the use of the rare herb, jalopwort." His tone was very solemn. In the darkness, I couldn't gauge his expression.
I leaned closer, thinking to draw the mystery out of him. "What is it then, Raistlin?" I asked. "What spell have we been pursuing across these thousands of miles?"
He turned toward me, peering at me intently. Seeming to consider my question, he took a moment before replying. "The spell that I came across can be cast only by a high cleric of the minotaurs. It is a spell that would open a portal and invite into the world the god of the bull-men, Sargonnas, servant of Takhisis."
Now it was my turn to be silent, to consider. As an initiate magic-user, Raistlin believed in the gods of Good, the gods of Neutrality, and the gods of Evil, of whom Takhisis was supreme. While I had seen both good and evil in my life, about the gods I was not as certain as the young mage. Sargonnas was a god of whom I knew little.
Perhaps sensing my reserve, Raistlin turned away with a sigh. "That is not the aid of it," he said. "This spell can only be triggered during certain conjunctions of the moon and stars. The effort required to arrange it is extraordinary. It can only mean that the bull-men have a goal important enough to require the aid of Sargonnas. Morath thinks-and I concur-that this must be a plan to conquer all of Ansalon."
"But the minotaurs could never do it alone no matter how many they are or how well organized," I objected.
"True," said Raistlin, "but what if they forged alliances with unlikely allies-the evil races of the sea or the ogres, for example?"
"They are an arrogant race," I protested, "one that would never forge alliances."
"That may not be true," said Kirsig, stepping out from the shadows. The half-ogre had a way of creeping up on people, but Raistlin held an odd liking for her and did not seem perturbed by her presence, nor by the obvious fact that she had been listening to us from the shadows.
"That may explain something odd that has been happening at Ogrebond for the last several months," Kirsig went on.
"What?" asked Raistlin with interest.
"Delegations-galleys-of minotaurs have been visiting in order to parley with the different ogre tribes. It is most unusual. Before then, I never heard of any friendship between the ogres and minotaurs. Usually, in fact, it was quite the opposite: deadly enmity."
"Do you see what I mean?" Raistlin said to me, turning and clasping his hands over a rail, staring at the dark water and even blacker sky. "Caramon's fate is the least of my worries!"