Brothers Majere by Weis, Margaret

It appears I will have to make my decision much sooner than I expected, he thought, and felt a pang of fear.

The mage increased his pace, searching the alleys and sidestreets. Another block farther and Raistlin was forced to duck into a doorway. An organized unit of men came around a corner, marching in regular lines, holding short spears or swords. Another group followed, carrying the same equipment, moving with a listless gait.

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Raistlin wondered where they were going. The town seemed deserted.

The sound came again—another scream of pain and rage. The mage removed the leather bag from his belt and opened the flap to reveal the wand Shavas had given him, the wand covered in strange, angled runes. Slowly, he drew it out and bolted from the alley, running as swiftly as he dared up Southgate Street, heading for Le-man Square.

There he knew he would find him—Bast, the Lord of Cats.

Raistlin turned left down a dark sidestreet, going to the right when he reached the end of the block. He noticed that the lights hovering above the sidewalk appeared to be growing dim, as if their fuel were slowly running out. He went left again, down the main street. Reaching the open area leading to the square, he rounded the final corner and came to a sudden halt.

Wounded and panting, the man in black stood at bay beneath a tree, surrounded by the remaining ministers of Mereklar. Lord Cal advanced on him, a red-glowing wand in his hand.

“Hear me. Lord of the Cats. Our Lady does not want you for her enemy. She bids you and those you rule to join us and find power in the darkness you know so well.”

“Your ‘lady’ cares nothing for us!” Bast spat the words. “She wants only to use us as she uses all who come under her sway.” The Lord of the Cats lifted his head proudly. “We are free. We serve ourselves. So it has been, and so shall it be.”

“Die free, then!” snarled Lord Cal, and raised the wand.

We are free. We serve ourselves.

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“Shirak” called Raistlin, his voice clear and strong.

The Staff of Magius burst into light, shining more brightly than the two converging moons. Bast’s eyes, staring at the mage, shone with red flame. The ministers half-turned, blinking against the brilliance.

“Who—”

“The mage,” said Lord Cal, his lip curling.

“I’ll handle this,” said Lord Alvin in an undertone. “Raistlin Majere, we accused you falsely and we apologize. As you can see, we have the murderous beast cornered. Serve us in our fight, and you will be richly rewarded! Lady Shavas will see to that!”

Raistlin thought of the sickness, the pain, the terrifying moments when he feared he would never be able to draw the next breath. He thought of being always dependent on his brother. He thought of women, gazing at him with expressions of horror or pity. Never expressions of love.

Raistlin thought of the magic, burning in his blood.

“The choice is made,” he murmured.

Yes, said the other. Long ago. Here, then, is your reward.

Raistlin stood before great falls of light, the bands of magic traveling inside the Staff of Magius in the infinite spaces between the runes of the cantrips, a place where ancient knowledge waited for the touch of his summoning gold fingers. He embraced a silver strand with his will, a pass to the past that showed him surmounting a mountain with three other wizards—pictures of another time that he felt with all his senses.

White robe, red robe, and black walked slowly, braving storm and gale and lightning, moving up a path cut into the rock by natural forces to a high plateau. They looked over the whole of the world standing at the edge.

“It is time,” the white robe said.

‘To lose our lives for a greater cause,” the red robe said.

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“To give our gods greater power than any one of us could command,” the black robe said.

They cast their spell and died, wrenched apart by the powers they summoned, trapped in the three heavenly spheres.

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