mage in a mild voice. “We all admit that young Raistlin is cer-
tainly powerful, but I find this talk of challenging a goddess
quite ridiculous… quite ridiculous indeed.”
There were murmured assents from both halves of the semi-
circle.
“Oh, do you?” Dalamar asked, and there was a lethal soft-
ness in his voice. “Then, let me tell you fools that you have no
idea of the meaning of the word power. Not as it relates to him!
You cannot begin to fathom the depths of his power or to soar
the heights! I can! I have seen” – for a moment Dalamar
paused, his voice lost its anger and was filled with wonder – “I
have seen such things as none of you have dared imagine! I
have walked the realms of dreams with my eyes open! I have
seen beauty to make the heart burst with pain. I have
descended into nightmares – I have witnessed horrors” – he
shuddered – “horrors so nameless and terrible that I begged to
be struck dead rather than look upon them!” Dalamar glanced
around the semi-circle, gathering them all together with his
flashing, dark-eyed gaze. “And all these wonders he sum-
moned, he created, he brought to life with his magic.”
There was no sound, no one moved.
“You are wise to be afraid, Great One,” Dalamar’s voice sank
to a whisper. “But no matter how great your fear, you do not
fear him enough. Oh, yes, he lacks power to cross that dread
threshold. But that power he goes to find. Even as we speak, he
is preparing himself for the long journey. Upon my return
tomorrow, he will leave.”
Par-Salian raised his head. “Your return?” he asked, shocked.
“But he knows you for what you are – a spy, sent by us, the
Conclave, his fellows.” The great mage’s glance went to the
chair that stood empty amidst the Black Robes, then he rose to
his feet. “No, young Dalamar. You are very courageous, but I
cannot allow you to return to what would undoubtedly he tor-
tured death at his hands.”
“You cannot stop me,” Dalamar said, and there was no emo-
tion in his voice. “I said before – I would give my soul to study
with such as he. And now, though it costs me my life, I will stay
with him. He expects me back. He leaves me in charge of the
Tower of High Sorcery in his absence.”
“He leaves you to guard?” the red-robed mage said dubi-
ously. “You, who have betrayed him?”
“He knows me,” Dalamar said bitterly. “He knows he has
ensnared me. He has stung my body and sucked my soul dry,
yet I will return to the web. Nor will I be the first.” Dalamar
motioned down at the still, white form lying on the pallet
before him. Then, half-turning, the dark elf glanced at Cara-
mon. “Will I, brother?” he said with a sneer.
At last, Caramon seemed driven to action. Angrily shaking
Bupu loose from his foot, the warrior took a step forward, both
the kender and the gully dwarf crowding close behind him.
“Who is this?” Caramon demanded, scowling at the dark elf.
“What’s going on? Who are you talking about?”
Before Par-Salian could answer, Dalamar turned to face the
big warrior.
“I am called Dalamar,” the dark elf said coldly. “And I speak
of your twin brother, Raistlin. He is my master. I am his
apprentice. I am, in addition, a spy, sent by this august com-
pany you see before you to report on the doings of your
brother.”
Caramon did not answer. He may not have even heard. His
eyes – wide with horror – were fixed on the dark elf’s chest.
Following Caramon’s gaze, Tas saw five burned and bloody
holes in Dalamar’s flesh. The kender swallowed, feeling sud-
denly queasy.
“Yes, your brother’s hand did this,” Dalamar remarked,
guessing Caramon’s thoughts. Smiling grimly, the dark elf
gripped the torn edges of his black robes with his hand and
pulled them together, hiding the wounds. “It is no matter,” he
muttered, “it was no more than I deserved.”
Caramon turned away, his face so pale Tas slipped his hand