forcibly of a striking snake, involuntarily fell back a step
before that intense gaze.
“What? Speak!” Raistlin hissed the word.
“You – you should come, Shalafi,” Dalamar faltered. “The
Live Ones report….”
The dark elf spoke to empty air. Raistlin had vanished.
Heaving a trembling sigh, the dark elf pronounced the words
that would take him instantly to his master’s side.
Far below the Tower of High Sorcery, deep beneath the
ground, was a small round room magically carved from the
rock that supported the Tower. This room had not been in the
Tower originally. Known as the Chamber of Seeing, it was
Raistlin’s creation.
Within the center of the small room of cold stone was a per-
fectly round pool of still, dark water. From the center of the
strange, unnatural pond spurted a jet of blue flame. Rising to
the ceiling of the chamber, it burned eternally, day and night.
And around it, eternally, sat the Live Ones.
Though the most powerful mage living upon Krynn, Raist-
lin’s power was far from complete, and no one realized that
more than the mage himself. He was always forcibly reminded
of his weaknesses when he came into this room – one reason he
avoided it, if possible. For here were the visible, outward sym-
bols of his failures – the Live Ones.
Wretched creatures mistakenly created by magic gone awry,
they were held in thrall in this chamber, serving their creator.
Here they lived out their tortured lives, writhing in a larva-like,
bleeding mass about the flaming pool. Their shining wet bodies
made a horrible carpet for the floor, whose stones, made slick
with their oozings, could be seen only when they parted to
make room for their creator.
Yet, despite their lives of constant, twisted pain, the Live Ones
spoke no word of complaint. Far better their lot than those who
roamed the Tower, those known as the Dead Ones.
Raistlin materialized within the Chamber of Seeing, a dark
shadow emerging out of darkness. The blue flame sparkled off
the silver threads that decorated his robes, shimmered within
the black cloth. Dalamar appeared beside him, and the two
walked over to stand beside the surface of the still, black water.
“Where?” Raistlin asked.
“Here, M-master,” blurbled one of the Live Ones, pointing a
misshapen appendage.
Raistlin hurried to stand beside it, Dalamar walking by his
side, their black robes making a soft, whispering sound upon
the slimy stone floor. Staring into the water, Raistlin motioned
Dalamar to do the same. The dark elf looked into the still sur-
face, seeing for an instant only the reflection of the jet of blue
flame. Then the flame and the water merged, then parted, and
he was in a forest. A big human male, clad in ill-fitting armor,
stood staring down at the body of a young human female,
dressed in white robes. A kender knelt beside the body of the
woman, holding her hand in his. Dalamar heard the big man
speak as clearly as if he had been standing by his side.
“She’s dead….”
“I – I’m not sure, Caramon. I think -”
“I’ve seen death often enough, believe me. She’s dead. And
it’s all my fault… my fault….”
“Caramon, you imbecile!” Raistlin snarled with a curse.
“What happened? What went wrong?”
As the mage spoke, Dalamar saw the kender look up quickly.
“Did you say something?” the kender asked the big human,
who was working in the soil.
“No. It was just the wind.”
“What are you doing?”
“Digging a grave. We’ve got to bury her.”
“Bury her?” Raistlin gave a brief, bitter laugh. “Oh, of
course, you bumbling idiot! That’s all you can think of to do!”
The mage fumed. ” Bury her! I must know what happened!” He
turned to the Live One. “What did you see?”
“T-they c-camp in t-trees, M-master.” Froth dribbled from the
creature’s mouth, its speech was practically unrecognizable.
“D-draco k-kill -”
“Draconians?” Raistlin repeated in astonishment. “Near Sol-
ace? Where did they come from?”
“D-dunno! Dunno!” The Live One cowered in terror. “I-I -”
“Shhh,” Dalamar warned, drawing his master’s attention
back to the pond where the kender was arguing.
“Caramon, you can’t bury her! She’s -“