“Hot water!” he gasped.
Maggie stared at the hand clasping her apron, the hand colored gold and as thin as death.
“Are you ill, sir? Can I help?”
“Water!” Raistlin snarled.
The woman, half-afraid, rushed to fill the order.
Raistlin slumped over, his head buried in his arms. Motes of light danced before his eyes, as he had seen at an illusionist’s show once—dancing, spinning, sparkling, changing color, shape, form, but always illusory, always unreal, no matter how strongly he willed it to be different. He thought of how often he wanted things to be different, to change because he desired them to change. He thought of how many times he’d been disappointed.
Why couldn’t he have been given the physical strength to match his mental strength? Why couldn’t he be handsome and winning and make people love him? Why had he been forced to sacrifice so much for so little?
“So little now,” Raistlin said to himself. “But I will gain more as time goes by. Par-Salian promised that my strength would someday shape the world!”
He fumbled at his side for the bag of herbs. Who knew but what this might cure him? He had thought he was feeling stronger. But his weak hand would not obey his
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command, and it occurred to Raistlin that he required Caramon’s help.
I don’t need him, the mage thought with dull defiance. The lights in the room dimmed with the darkness covering his eyesight. Listening to himself, he realized how childish he sounded. His lips twisted in a bitter smile. Very well, I need him now. But there will come a time when I won’t!
The barmaid brought him his water, setting the pitcher down quickly, wanting to leave, wanting to stay. Maggie didn’t like the mage with the gold skin and wizard’s staff and the terrifying eyes that stripped away the soul. She didn’t like him, yet she was fascinated by him. He was so frail, so weak, yet—somehow—so strong.
“I’ll pour the water for you, sir, shall I?” she asked in almost a whisper.
Gasping, almost unable to lift his head, Raistiin nodded and clutched the cup with both hands. He drank deeply, his tongue numbed, the lack of sensation caused by his faintness removing any discomfort from the heat. He emptied the cup and let out a long, steady breath. The mage leaned against the back wall of the tavern, his eyes closed to the world.
Caramon found him thus when he returned. The warrior slid quietly into the booth, thinking his brother asleep.
“Caramon?” Raistlin asked without opening his eyes.
“Yeah, it’s me. You want to go upstairs now?” The warrior’s words were slurred, and his breath reeked of the foul-smelling liquor.
“In a moment. Which way is Mereklar from here?”
“North. Almost due north.”
North. Without opening his eyes, Raistlin could see the white line running north, leading him, guiding him.
Impaling him.
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terrified him—he’d dreamed it many times before—but he couldn’t force himself to wake. Something inside him, stronger than his own will, demanded that he give in.
The young mage left his bed, went to the door, stepped through the door, opened the door, closed the door, and walked into the gray mist that shrouded the hallway of the inn. Looking back, he could not see Caramon but he could see Caramon breathing peacefully in his sleep.
The mage took to the stairs that led down to the main hall. In his hand was the Staff of Magius, though he didn’t remember taking it with him.
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He needed light. The way was terrifyingly dark except for the white line that flowed beneath him with power and for the golden thread that connected him with another. “Shirak” he whispered.
The line guided him, directing his steps. He wandered the hallways and pathways of the inn and the surrounding areas, which were covered by gray mists that moved and roiled with unseen life. Ahead lay the one he sought, the one who had the answers to so many of his questions, the lifebringer and the destroyer.
Fantastic winged beasts—red, black, green, and blue—flew across his path, disturbed from their dreams by his wanderings, the staff’s light waking them. The beasts gazed at him with hate-filled, hungry eyes. They wanted to destroy him, but could not. Not now, not this day.
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