“Watch!” Raistlin commanded.
Dalamar watched as the gully dwarf’s small, grubby hand
dove into the bag at her side. After fumbling about for several
moments, it emerged with a loathsome object – a dead, stiff liz-
ard with a leather thong wrapped around its neck. Bupu
approached the woman and – when the kender tried to stop
her – thrust her small fist into his face warningly. With a sigh
and a sideways glance at Caramon, who was digging furiously,
his face a mask of grief and blood, the kender stepped back.
Bupu plopped down beside the woman’s lifeless form and care-
fully placed the dead lizard on the unmoving chest.
Dalamar gasped.
The woman’s chest moved, the white robes shivered. She
began breathing, deeply and peacefully.
The kender let out a shriek.
“Caramon! Bupu’s cured her! She’s alive! Look!”
“What the -” The big man stopped digging and stumbled
over, staring at the gully dwarf in amazement and fear.
“Lizard cure,” Bupu said in triumph. “Work every time.”
“Yes, my little one,” Raistlin said, still smiling. “It works well
for coughs, too, as I remember.” He waved his hand over the
still water. The mage’s voice became a lulling chant. “And now,
sleep, my brother, before you do anything else stupid. Sleep,
kender, sleep, little Bupu. And sleep as well, Lady Crysania, in
the realm where Paladine protects you.”
Still chanting, Raistlin made a beckoning motion with his
hand. “And now come, Forest of Wayreth. Creep up on them
as they sleep. Sing them your magical song. Lure them onto
your secret paths.”
The spell was ended. Rising to his feet, Raistlin turned to
Dalamar. “And you come, too, apprentice” – there was the
faintest sarcasm in the voice that made the dark elf shudder –
“come to my study. It is time for us to talk.”
CHAPTER 9
Dalamar sat in the
mage’s study in the same chair Kitiara had occupied on her
visit. The dark elf was far less comfortable, far less secure than
Kitiara had been. Yet his fears were well-contained. Outwardly
he appeared relaxed, composed. A heightened flush upon his
pale elven features could be attributed, perhaps, to his excite-
ment at being taken into his master’s confidence.
Dalamar had been in the study often, though not in the pres-
ence of his master. Raistlin spent his evenings here alone, read-
ing, studying the tomes that lined his walls. No one dared
disturb him then. Dalamar entered the study only during the
daylight hours, and then only when Raistlin was busy else-
where. At that time the dark elf apprentice was allowed – no,
required – to study the spellbooks himself, some of them, that
is. He had been forbidden to open or even touch those with the
nightblue binding.
Dalamar had done so once, of course. The binding felt
intensely cold, so cold it burned his skin. Ignoring the pain, he
managed to open the cover, but after one look, he quickly shut
it. The words inside were gibberish, he could make nothing of
them. And he had been able to detect the spell of protection
cast over them. Anyone looking at them too long without the
proper key to translate them would go mad.
Seeing Dalamar’s injured hand, Raistlin asked him how it
happened. The dark elf replied coolly that he had spilled some
acid from a spell component he was mixing. The archmage
smiled and said nothing. There was no need. Both understood.
But now he was in the study by Raistlin’s invitation, sitting
here on a more or less equal basis with his master. Once again,
Dalamar felt the old fear laced by intoxicating excitement.
Raistlin sat before him at the carved wooden table, one hand
resting upon a thick nightblue-bound spellbook. The arch-
mage’s fingers absently caressed the book, running over the sil-
ver runes upon the cover. Raistlin’s eyes stared fixedly at
Dalamar. The dark elf did not stir or shift beneath that intense,
penetrating gaze.
“You were very young, to have taken the Test,” Raistlin said
abruptly in his soft voice.
Dalamar blinked. This was not what he had expected.
“Not so young as you, Shalafi,” the dark elf replied. “I am in