Just as well. That made it easier.
Moving to the sideboard, he lifted the bottle of bran-dywine and removed the stopper. Glancing back at the door, checking to see that he was alone and unobserved, he withdrew the tube from his robes. He took the cap off and started to pour the brown crystals into the bottle. His hand shook.
“If I make a mistake,” he said to himself coolly, “then it will be my last.” He dumped the contents of the tube into the bottle.
Replacing the stopper, he turned and regarded the game board, remembering where he had left off before leaving on his mission for the lady of the house.
Bnot^ens Majene
Shavas had made a move after he had gone. His champion had been transformed into one of the undead.
“How very fitting,” Raistlin murmured.
Heavy double-doors opened on silent hinges, and perfume wafted into the room. Shavas entered. She was wearing a loose, enfolding gown of purest silk, as white as the curve of her shoulders. The cloth flowed with the graceful movement of her body like wandering wisps of cloud. She smiled at Raistlin. Her face glowed with an inner radiance. She looked as if she had just completed some great triumph and now sought relaxing entertainment.
“I am pleased that you returned, Raistlin,” she said, taking the chair across from the mage. “At last I see we understand each other.”
“Is that the reason for your apparent happiness, Councillor?”
“Councillor? Don’t insult me! I am no longer Councillor. There is, after all, nothing left to counsel.” She laughed at her joke.
“You seem very sure of yourself, my lady,” the mage corrected with emphasis. “The city has not yet fallen.” He moved a priest from its confines behind the lines of his knights and yeomen.
Shavas placed her fingertips on her own priest, deciding on a move. “There is no one to stop us. The people of Mereklar will soon be dead.” She slid the priest forward.
Her move put the mage in a precarious position. Raistlin leaned back, considering. “How long have you lived in this city?” he asked without looking up from the board.
“Oh, many years, many years—in one form or another. I was the first councillor. I will be the last,” the woman replied.
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Raistlin looked up at her. The woman’s beautiful eyes gazed directly into the mage’s face.
Rising to his feet, Raistlin walked to the sideboard and picked up the brandy bottle. He poured himself a glass.
“Pour one for me, my love,” said Shavas.
Raistlin shivered at the sound of the word that slid so glibly from tempting lips. He poured a glass of brandy and handed it to her.
“A toast,” he said. ‘To the Lord of the Cats.”
Shavas gave a small, silvery laugh. “How droll you are!”
Raistlin lifted the glass of brandy to his lips and drank the burning liquid. Shavas drank deeply, her eyes gleaming above the rim of the goblet.
She moved to stand near the mage. Flames from the fire shone through the gossamer of her robes, exposing the curvature of her figure. Languidly, she reached above her head and released the cascading flow of her long brown hair, letting it fall about her face and shoulders.
“What do you want of me?” Raistlin asked. “I am not like my brother. I am not . . . attractive.”
“You are powerful, Raistlin. I always find power attractive. And you could become more powerful over time.”
‘Time? . . .”
“Yes. We will have all the time in the world.”
“And how would we do that?” he asked, taking another drink from his glass.
“My magic is vast, stronger than almost any you have encountered before. I would be willing to … share it with you.”
‘To what end?”
Shavas drank the brandy. Emptying her glass, she filled it again from the decanter and wandered about the library, running her fingers across the suits of armor standing guard in the room. Going to a bookcase, she
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lifted out a volume. The title, Brothers Majere, was stamped in gold on the back.
“You wear the red robes, mage, but you will not wear them forever. You do not have the patience to stand in the middle. You must make a choice, or your passions will tear you asunder.”