Caramon rubbed his arms. “Trust that dratted kender to get himself in a place like this. It would serve him right if he had to get himself out. I suppose we go inside?”
“Of course!” Raistlin held the black staff over his head with one hand and whispered, “Shirak” The pale blue orb in the golden dragon’s claw burst with light. The illumination did not reach far into the cavern, however.
Caramon started to draw his sword, but Raistlin shook his head. “Steel will do you no good here, my brother. Other skills are called for now.”
Raistlin bent to enter the cave’s mouth, motioning for the others to follow. The cave was not very large or very
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high, and Caramon had some difficulty standing. Despite what hts brother had told him, he removed the bastard sword from his back and carried the weapon in both hands. He saw, by the staff’s light, curved walls and ceiling, extending back ten paces before smoothing out into the dirt floor.
In the middle of the cavern stood a replica of Mereklar. “Another model?” he asked, bending over to get a closer look. “It’s exactly the same as the model at Lord Bruns-wick’s.”
“Not exactly,” said Raistlin.
Caramon stared at it, and his eyes widened. “Where’s Shavas’s house?” The warrior’s head jerked up, and he grew suddenly cold and scared. “Where is it?”
“Where is the house of the Lady Shavas?” Raistlin asked, glancing at Bast. “Perhaps you could tell us.”
The man in black shook his head slowly. “No. I cannot tell you. But he can,” he said, pointing.
A sudden gust of wind made Caramon shudder. The cave grew dark, the light from the Staff of Magius covered by a hidden hand that blocked its illumination. A shadowy form at the rear of the cave coalesced into a man shrouded in black robes. His hands were bone, covered with rotting flesh. There were no eyes in the hollow sockets, yet Caramon knew the dead wizard could see them.
The warrior’s throat constricted as if the skeletal hands had clutched his windpipe. He tried to move, to keep near his brother to protect him, but he felt invisible ropes and coils wrap around his limbs.
Raistlin walked toward the wizard, holding the black staff in front of him. Reaching out, the wizard touched Raistlin’s forehead with a spectral finger. The mage went flying violently backward, his body crashing into the model of Mereklar.
Caramon strained against his prison, using all his
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strength and will to break free. But his legs were held by great chains, his arms pinioned to his sides by heavy weights. The warrior looked to Bast, pleading with him to help, but the black-skinned man stood motionless — a seemingly disinterested spectator.
Raistlin struggled to his feet from the wreckage of the model. Leaning on his staff, gazing at the wraith with narrowed eyes, he gritted his teeth and started again to walk toward him.
“You are brave. Red Robes. I admire that. We could have understood one another, I think. Look. Look behind you.”
Raistlin turned. The model was perfectly whole again. Three glowing white lines stretched from each gate to the center of the city, where a domed building stood, also glowing with power. Lines extended along the walls of the city, creating a triangle divided into three sections.
A loud moaning sound rose in the cave, writhing in the air as if it were something alive, dying down to a voice filled with wrath.
“Hear my words! You wear the mask of gold, but another wears a mask of flesh. Do not be deceived, for you have seen its true complexion . It was my downfall . If you falter, it will be yours.”
The wraith vanished. Raistlin collapsed, falling unconscious. Caramon saw Bast bending over his brother, and the warrior— freed from enchantment— lurched forward.
Something small and furry leaped at him from out of the shadows. Startled, Caramon staggered backward and hit his head on a rock. Pain shot through his head. He fell and lay, stunned, unable to move. Dimly, he heard voices. . . .
“Do I get rid of them, my lord?”