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  Caramon made some unintelligible response. He had drunk more than his share of ale. His nose was red, and he was at that stage of drunkenness in which some men fight and others blubber. Caramon was blubbering.

  “I, too, must take my leave,” said Sturm. “We need to make an early start, put several miles behind us before the heat of the day sets in.”

  “I wish you would change your mind and come with us,” Kitiara said softly, her eyes on Tanis.

  Kit had been the loudest, brashest, liveliest person in the group, except when her gaze would fall on Tanis, and then her crooked smile would slip a little. Moments later, her smile would harden, and her laughter would blare out harshly, the noisiest person at the table. But as the jollity waned and the inn grew quieter, the shadows deepened around them, Kit’s laughter died away, her stories began but never came to a close. She drew nearer and nearer to Tanis, and now she clasped his hand tightly beneath the table.

  “Please, Tanis,” she said. “Come north. You will find glory in battle, wealth, and power. I swear it!”

  Tanis hesitated. Her dark eyes were warm and soft. Her smile trembled with the intensity of her passion. He had never seen her look more lovely. He was finding it more and more difficult to give her up.

  “Yes, Tanis, come with us,” Sturm urged warmly. “I cannot promise you wealth or power, but glory must surely be ours.”

  Tanis opened his mouth. It seemed he would say “yes.” Everyone expected him to say “yes,” including himself. When the “no” came out, he looked as startled as anyone at the table.

  As Raistlin would say later to Caramon, on their way home that night, “The human side of Tanis would have gone with her. It was the elven side of him that held him back.”

  “Who wants you along anyway?” Kit flared, angry, her pride hurt. She had not anticipated failure. She slid away from him, stood up. “Traveling with you would be like traveling with my own grandfather. Sturm and I will have lots more fun without you.”

  Sturm appeared somewhat alarmed at this statement. The pilgrimage to his homeland was a sacred journey. He wasn’t going north to “have fun.” Frowning, he smoothed his mustaches and repeated that they needed to make an early start.

  An uncomfortable silence fell. No one wanted to be the first to leave, especially now, when it seemed likely that their parting would end on a discordant note. Even Tasslehoff was affected. The kender sat quiet and subdued, so unhappy that he actually returned Sturm’s money pouch. Tas returned the pouch to Caramon, but the thought was there.

  “I have an idea,” said Tanis at last. “Let us plan to meet again in the autumn, on the first night of Harvest Home.”

  “I might be back, I might not,” said Kit, shrugging with a careless air. “Don’t count on me.”

  “I trust I will not be back,” Sturm said emphatically, and his friends knew what he meant. A return to Solace in the autumn would mean his quest to find his father and his heritage had failed.

  “Then we will meet every year after, on the first night of Harvest Home in the fall, those of us who are here,” Tanis suggested. “And let us take a vow that five years from now we will return here to the inn, no matter where we are or what we are doing.”

  “Those of us who are still alive,” Raistlin said.

  He had intended his words as a joke, but Caramon sat up straight, the shock of his brother’s words penetrating his alcohol-induced befuddlement. He cast his twin a frightened glance, a glance that Raistlin deflected with narrowed eyes.

  “It was only a small attempt at humor, my brother.”

  “Still, you shouldn’t say things like that, Raist,” Caramon entreated. “It’s bad luck.”

  “Drink your ale and keep silent,” Raistlin returned irritably.

  Sturm’s stern expression had eased. “That is a good idea. Five years. I pledge myself to return in five years.”

  “I’ll be back, Tanis!” Tas said, hopping about in excitement. “I’ll be here in five years.”

  “You’ll likely be in some jail in five years,” Flint muttered.

  “Well, if I am, you’ll bail me out, won’t you, Flint?” The dwarf swore it would be a cold day in the Abyss before he bailed the kender out of jail one more time.

  “Are there cold days in the Abyss?” Tasslehoff wondered. “Are there any sort of days at all in the Abyss, or is it mostly dark and spooky like a giant hole in the ground, or is it filled with blazing fire? Don’t you think the Abyss would be a great place to visit, Raistlin? I’d really like to go there someday. I’ll bet not even Uncle Trapspringer has—”

  Tanis called for silence, just in time to prevent Flint from upending his ale mug over the kender’s head. Tanis placed his hand, palm down, in the center of the table.

  “I vow on the love and friendship I feel for all of you”—his gaze touched each of his friends, gathered them together—“that I will return to the Inn of the Last Home on the first night of Harvest Home five years hence.”

  “I will be back in five years,” said Kit, resting her hand over Tanis’s. Her expression had softened. Her grip on him tightened. “If not sooner. Much sooner.”

  “I vow on my honor as the knight I hope to become that I will return in five years,” Sturm Brightblade said solemnly. He placed his hand over Tanis’s and Kit’s.

  “I’ll be here,” said Caramon. His large hand engulfed the other hands of his friends.

  “And I,” said Raistlin. He touched the back of his brother’s hand with his fingertips.

  “Don’t forget me! I’ll be here!” Tasslehoff crawled on top of the table to add his small hand to the pile.

  “Well, Flint?” Tanis said, smiling at his old friend.

  “Confound it, I may have more important things to do than come back to this place just to see your pasty faces,” Flint grumbled.

  He took hold of the hands of all his friends in his own gnarled and work-hardened hands. “Reorx walk with you until we meet again!” he said, then turned his head, stared very hard out the window at nothing.

  The inn’s door had long ago been locked for the night. A yawning barmaid was on hand to let them out. Raistlin said his good-byes quickly. He was eager to go home to his rest, and he waited impatiently at the door for his brother. Caramon embraced Sturm, the two longtime friends holding each other close. They parted in silence, both unable to speak. Caramon shook hands with Tanis, and he would have hugged Flint, but the dwarf, scandalized, told him to get along home.” Tasslehoff flung his arms as far as they would go around Caramon, who playfully tweaked the kender’s topknot in return.

  Kitiara stepped forward to embrace her brother, but Caramon seemed not to see her. Raistlin was now tapping his foot in irritation. Caramon hurried off, brushing past Kit without a word. She stared after him, then grinned, shrugged. Sturm’s good-byes were brief and formal, accompanied by low and respectful bows for Tanis and Flint. Kit arranged a meeting place and then Sturm left.

  “I think I’ll stay a little longer,” said Tas. He was just about to upend his pouches to look over his day’s “findings” when there came a heavy knock on the door.

  “Oh, hullo, Sheriff,” Tas called cheerfully. “Looking for someone?”

  Tasslehoff departed in the company of the sheriff. The kender’s last words were for someone to remember to get him out of jail in the morning.

  Kit stood in the doorway, waiting for Tanis.

  “Flint, you coming?” Tanis asked.

  The barmaid had taken the candles away. Flint sat in the darkness. He made no response.

  “The girl’s wanting to close up,” Tanis urged.

  Still no response.

  “I’ll take care of him, sir,” the barmaid said softly.

  Tanis nodded. Joining Kit, he put his arm around her, drew her close. The two walked side by side into the night.

  The dwarf sat there, by himself, until dawn.

  BOOK 6

  The blade must pass through the fire, else it will break.

&nb
sp; —Par-Salian

  1

  IT WAS THE SIXTH DAY OF THE SEVENTH MONTH. ANTIMODES STOOD in the window of his room in the Tower of Wayreth gazing out into the night. His room was one of many rooms in the tower open to mages arriving to study, to confer, or—as was Antimodes—to participate in giving the Test, which would be held on the morrow.

  The tower’s accommodations were of various sizes and designs, from small cell-like rooms for the apprentice mages to larger and more lavish rooms reserved for the archmagi. The room in which Antimodes was comfortably ensconced was his customary room, his favorite. Since the archmage was fond of travel, known to drop by at unexpected times, Par-Salian saw to it that the room was always kept ready for his friend’s arrival.

  Located near the top part of the tower, the suite consisted of a bedroom and a parlor, with a small balcony that sometimes overlooked the Forest of Wayreth and sometimes did not, depending on where the magical forest happened to be at the moment.

  If the forest was not there, Antimodes would often conjure up a view himself. Vast fields of yellow wheat, or perhaps crashing surf, depending on what he felt in the mood for that day. The forest was not there this night, but since it was dark and Antimodes was tired from his day’s travel, he did not bother with landscaping. He had been standing on the balcony, cooling himself in the evening breeze. Leaving the shutters open to keep the air circulating—it was unusually hot that night—he returned to a small desk, continued his frowning perusal of a scroll, a perusal which already had been interrupted by dinner.

  A knock on the door again interrupted him.

  “Enter,” he called in an irritated tone.

  The door opened silently. Par-Salian thrust his head inside.

  “Am I disturbing you? I can come back.…”

  “No, no. My dear friend.” Antimodes rose hastily to his feet to greet his visitor. “Come in, come in. I am very glad to see you. I was hoping we might have a chance to talk before tomorrow. I would have gone to you, but I feared to disturb you at your work. I know how busy you are just prior to a testing.”

  “Yes, and this Test will prove more difficult than most. You are studying a new spell?” Par-Salian glanced at the scroll on the desk, which was partially unrolled.

  “It is one I bought,” said Antimodes with a grimace. “And as it turns out, I believe I was swindled. It is not what the man promised me.”

  “My dear Antimodes, didn’t you read it first?” Par-Salian asked, shocked.

  “I only glanced over it quickly. The fault is mine, a fact which merely increases my annoyance.”

  “I don’t suppose you could return it.”

  “Afraid not. One of those deals in an inn. I should know better, of course, but I have been searching for this spell for a long time, and she was so very kind, not to mention pretty, and assured me that this would do precisely what I wanted.” He shrugged. “Ah, well. Live and learn. Please, sit down. Will you have some wine?”

  “Thank you.” Par-Salian tasted the pale yellow liquid, rolled it on his tongue. “Conjured or purchased?”

  “Purchased,” Antimodes said. “Conjured lacks body, to my mind. Only the Silvanesti elves know how to do it right, and it’s becoming harder and harder to acquire good Silvanesti wine these days.”

  “Too true,” Par-Salian agreed. “King Lorac used to bring me several bottles whenever he visited, but it has been many years since he has been to see us.”

  “He’s sulking,” Antimodes observed. “He thought he should have been elected head of the conclave.”

  “I don’t think that is it. Yes, he did feel he deserved the position, but he readily admitted that he was extremely busy with his duties as ruler of the Silvanesti. If anything, I think he wanted to be granted the honor so that he could have politely turned it down.”

  Par-Salian frowned thoughtfully. “Do you know, my friend, I have the strangest feeling that Lorac is hiding something from us. He doesn’t come to see me anymore because he fears discovery.”

  “What do you think it is? Some powerful artifact? Is there one missing?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I could be wrong. I hope I am.”

  “Lorac was always one to act on his own, the conclave be damned,” Antimodes observed.

  “Still, he abided by our rules as much as any elf ever abides by rules not of his own making.” Par-Salian finished his wine, permitted himself another glass.

  Antimodes was silent and thoughtful, then he said abruptly, “The gods grant Lorac good of it, then. He’ll need it, I fear. Whatever it is. You received my last report?”

  “I did.” Par-Salian sighed. “I want to know this: Are you absolutely certain of your facts?”

  “Certain? No, of course not! I will never be certain until I see with my own eyes!” Antimodes waved his hand. “It is rumor, hearsay, nothing more. Yet …” He paused, then said softly, “Yet I believe it.”

  “Dragons! Dragons returning to Krynn. Takhisis’s dragons, no less! I hope, my friend,” Par-Salian said earnestly, “I hope and pray that you are wrong.”

  “Still, it fits in with what facts we do know. Did you approach our black-robed brethren about this as I advised?”

  “I discussed the matter with Ladonna,” Par-Salian said. “Not mentioning where or how I had heard anything. She was evasive.”

  “Isn’t she always?” Antimodes said dryly.

  “Yes, but there are ways to read her if you know her,” Par-Salian said.

  Antimodes nodded. He was an old friend, a trusted friend. There was no need between them to mention that Par-Salian knew Ladonna better than most.

  “She has been in fine spirits for the last year,” Par-Salian continued. “Happy. Elated. She has also been extremely busy with something, for she has visited the tower only twice, and that to go through our collection of scrolls.”

  “I do have verification for my other news,” Antimodes said. “As I had heard, a wealthy lord in the north is recruiting soldiers, and he is not being very particular about the type of soldiers he recruits. Ogres, hobgoblins, goblins. Even humans willing to trade their souls for loot. A friend of mine attended one of his rallies. Vast armies are being raised, armies of darkness. I even have a name for this lord—Ariakas. Do you know him?”

  “I seem to remember something of him—a minor magus, if I’m not mistaken. Far more interested in gaining what he wanted quickly and brutally by the sword than by the more subtle and elegant means of sorcery.”

  “That sounds like the man.” Antimodes sighed, shook his head morosely. “The sun is setting. Night is coming, my friend, and we cannot stop it.”

  “Yet we may be able to keep a few lights burning in the darkness,” Par-Salian said quietly.

  “Not without help!” Antimodes clenched his fist. “If only the gods would give us a sign!”

  “I’d say Takhisis has already done just that,” Par-Salian said wryly.

  “The gods of good, I mean. Will they let her walk over them?” Antimodes demanded, impatient and exasperated. “When will Paladine and Mishakal finally make known their presence in the world?”

  “Perhaps they are waiting for a sign from us,” Par-Salian observed mildly.

  “A sign of what?”

  “Of faith. That we trust in them and believe in them, even though we do not understand their plan.”

  Antimodes regarded his friend narrowly. Then, leaning back in his chair, continuing to keep his gaze on Par-Salian, Antimodes scratched his raspy jaw. Par-Salian bore up under the intense scrutiny. He smiled to let his friend know that his thinking was traveling along the right road.

  “So that is what this is all about,” Antimodes said after a moment.

  Par-Salian inclined his head.

  “I wondered. He is so very young. Skilled, admittedly, but very young. And inexperienced.”

  “He will gain in experience,” Par-Salian said. “We have some time before us, do we not?”

  Antimodes considered the matter. “These ogres and go
blins and humans must be trained, molded into a fighting force, which may prove extremely difficult. As it stands now, they would just as soon kill each other as the enemy. Ariakas has a monumental job on his hands. If rumor is true and the dragons have returned, they must also be controlled in some manner, although it will take those of strong will and courage to accomplish that! So, yes, in answer to your question, I say that we have time. Some time, but not much. The young man will never wear the white robes. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know that,” Par-Salian replied calmly. “I’ve been listening to Theobald rant and rave about Raistlin Majere for years, practically ever since he started school as a child. I know his faults: He is secretive and conniving, arrogant, ambitious, and hungry.”

  “He is also creative, intelligent, and courageous,” Antimodes added. He was proud of his ward. “Witness his deft handling of that renegade witch, Judith. He cast a spell far above his level of ability, a spell he should not have even been able to read, let alone command. And he cast it by himself, without help.”

  “Which only goes to prove that he will bend rules, even break them if it suits his purpose,” Par-Salian said. “No, no. Don’t feel the need to defend him further. I am aware of his merits as I am aware of his weaknesses. That is why I invited him to take the Test, rather than bring him up before the Conclave on charges, as I should do by rights, I suppose. Do you think he murdered her?”

  “I do not.” Antimodes was firm. “If for no other reason than cutting someone’s throat is not Raistlin’s style. Far too messy. He is a skilled herbalist. If he had wanted her dead, he would have slipped a little nightshade into her tarbean tea.”

  “You believe him capable of murder, then?” Par-Salian asked, frowning.

  “Who among us is not, given the right set of circumstances? There is a rival tailor in my town, an odious man who cheats his customers and spreads vicious lies about his competitors, including my brother. I myself have been tempted more than once to send Bigby’s Crushing Hand knocking on his door.” Antimodes looked quite fierce when he said this.