Yost glanced at the mage sharply. Not certain if he had heard him correctly or not, he decided to ignore the statement.
“The idea of the reward came from the city’s Councillor, Lady Shavas. If you’re interested in the job, she’s the one you should talk to.”
“We intend to do so,” said Raistlin, glaring at Caramon, who was helping himself to another drink of the potent brew.
Earwig yawned. “Are you going to tell us any more stories? What about this Lord of the Cats? Do you know him?”
“Ah, that.” Yost stared into his drink. He appeared
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highly uncomfortable. “The Lord of Cats is the king of the cats, the deity who tells them what to do.” Pausing, taking a small swallow, he went on, “The only thing is, though, the stories aren’t clear as to whether he’ll help the world or destroy it.”
“So you believe in the Lord of the Cats?” Caramon asked.
“We believe in his existence,” Yost said, glancing around nervously as if he feared he was being watched. “We just don’t know what motivates him.”
Caramon reached for the bottle. Raistlin’s hand shot out and closed over his brother’s wrist.
“Where’s the gate of which the prophecy speaks?” the mage asked.
“We don’t know much about the prophecy, I’m afraid,” said Yost. “It was found long ago, right after the Cataclysm. Maybe if we did, we’d know what was going on. Still, if you’re interested, I’ve heard that Lady Shavas has books that tell about the Lord of the Cats and the prophecy and some of these other things. They’re written in the your language — the language of magic, though there hasn’t been a mage in these parts for over a hundred years. One was never wanted, if you get my meaning.”
The bartender stood up and prepared to leave, taking his bottle with him, much to Caramon’s disappointment.
“You look done in. Why don’t you go back to your rooms?” suggested Yost pointedly.
‘Thank you for your concern,” returned Raistlin. “But we’re not tired.”
“Suit yourself.” Yost shrugged and left.
Earwig was, in fact, fast asleep, his head pillowed on his arms. Caramon, probably as a result of the liquor, was glassy-eyed, staring rapturously at nothing. Reaching across the table, Raistlin grabbed him by the arm and shook him.
“Uh?” said the big man, blinking.
Bnotrjens Majene
“Sober up, you fool! I need you. I don’t trust that man. Look, he’s talking to someone in the corner. I want—”
Raistlin saw, out of the corner of his eye, the line. A faint, though definitive, illumination was rising from the floor—a stream of white light running the length of the room, flowing north. He felt power, power that was as old as the world, power that ran through Ansalon, over the oceans, and beyond, extending to unobserved, inconceivable realms. Only those who walked on shadowy planes could know of such realms. Or one who had made contact with another who walked there.
Shuddering, Raistlin closed his eyes. When he opened them and looked again, all he saw was the floor—solid, dark with age, wet with spilled ale.
“What is it, Raist?” said Caramon, his voice slightly slurred. “What’s the matter? What’s down there?”
Caramon hadn’t seen it. Raistlin rubbed his eyes. Was it his sickness, playing tricks on him again? Wine on his fingers made his eyes sting and water. He peered through the doorway at the side of the room to the fireplace in the main hall. There was the line again, an eerie white light, about a handspan wide. He turned his head, looked at it directly.- The line disappeared.
“Raist, are you all right?”
“It must be a trick of my eyes,” Raistlin muttered to himself, though he knew, since he had felt the power, that it wasn’t.
But with the power came fear—horrible, debilitating fear. He didn’t want to meet him again. He wasn’t ready. The mage studied the ceiling, the beams, supports, and struts made from thick wooden bars that formed an archway overhead. Whenever he looked somewhere else, the line became visible—soft light rising from the floor. Sought directly, it vanished.
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