Impossible, of course -”
“Not for Fistandantilus,” interrupted the red-robed mage.
“No,” Par-Salian agreed sadly, “not for Fistandantilus. I won-
dered at the time, but I was not able to investigate. Events in
the world were rushing to a climax. Your brother was himself
when he came out of the Test. More frail, of course, but that
was only to be expected. And I was right” – Par-Salian cast a
swift, triumphant glance around the semi-circle – “he was
strong in his magic! Who else could have gained power over a
dragon orb without years of study?”
“Of course,” the red-robed mage said, “he had help from one
who’d had years of study.”
Par-Salian frowned and did not answer.
“Let me get this straight,” Caramon said, glowering at the
white-robed mage. “This Fistandantilus… took over Raistlin’s
soul? He’s the one that made Raistlin take the Black Robes.”
“Your brother made his own choice,” Par-Salian spoke
sharply. “As did we all.”
“I don’t believe it!” Caramon shouted. “Raistlin didn’t make
this decision. You’re lying – all of you! You tortured my
brother, and then one of your old wizards claimed what was
left of his body!” Caramon’s words boomed through the cham-
ber and sent the shadows dancing in alarm.
Tas saw Par-Salian regard the warrior grimly, and the kender
cringed, waiting for the spell that would sizzle Caramon like a
spitted chicken. It never came. The only sound was Caramon’s
ragged breathing.
“I’m going to get him back,” Caramon said finally, tears
gleaming in his eyes. “If he can go back in time to meet this old
wizard, so can I. You can send me back. And when I find Fis-
tandantilus, I’ll kill him. Then Raist will be…” He choked
back a sob, fighting for control. “He’ll be Raist again. And he’ll
forget all this nonsense about challenging th-the Queen of
Darkness and… becoming a god.”
The semi-circle broke into chaos. Voices raised, clamboring
in anger. “Impossible! He’ll change history! You’ve gone too
far, Par-Salian -”
The white-robed mage rose to his feet and, turning, stared at
every mage in the semi-circle, his eyes going to each individu-
ally. Tas could sense the silent communication, swift and sear-
ing as lightning.
Caramon wiped his hand across his eyes, staring at the
mages defiantly. Slowly, they all sank back into their seats. But
Tas saw hands clench, he saw faces that were unconvinced,
faces filled with anger. The red-robed mage stared at Par-Salian
speculatively, one eyebrow raised. Then he, too, sat back. Par-
Salian cast a final, quick glance around the Conclave before he
turned to face Caramon.
“We will consider your offer,” Par-Salian said. “It might
work. Certainly, it is not something he would expect -”
Dalamar began to laugh.
CHAPTER 13
“Expects’?” Dalamar
laughed until he could scarcely breathe. “He planned all of this!
Do you think this great idiot” – he waved at Caramon – “could
have found his way here by himself? When creatures of dark-
ness pursued Tanis Half-Elven and Lady Crysania – pursued
but never caught them – who do you think sent them? Even the
encounter with the death knight, an encounter plotted by his
sister, an encounter that could have wrecked his plans – my
Shalafi has turned to his own advantage. For, undoubtedly you
fools will send this woman, Lady Crysania, back in time to the
only ones who can heal her – the Kingpriest and his followers.
You will send her back in time to meet Raistlin! Not only that,
you’ll even provide her with this man – his brother – as body-
guard. Just what the Shalafi wants.”
Tas saw Par-Salian’s clawlike fingers clench over the cold
stone arms of his chair, the old man’s blue eyes gleamed danger-
ously.
“We have suffered enough of your insults, Dalamar,” Par-
Salian said. “I begin to think your loyalty to your Shalafi is too
great. If that is true, your usefulness to this Conclave is ended.”
Ignoring the threat, Dalamar smiled bitterly. “My Shalafi -”
he repeated softly, then sighed. A shudder convulsed his slen-
der body, he gripped the torn robes in his hand and bowed his
head. “I am caught in the middle, as he intended,” the dark elf