Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [133]
Raistlin came to himself suddenly, as if someone had dashed cold water in his face. No! he told the mind that he sensed controlled the hands. I will not go! Though he feared losing that saving grip, he feared even more being dragged where he did not want to go. He would not let loose. I will maintain control, he told the mind of the hands savagely. Tightening his own grip, the mage summoned all of his strength, all of his will, and pulled the hands toward him!
The hands stopped. For a moment, the two wills vied together, locked in a life-or-death contest. Raistlin felt the strength ebb from his body, his hands weakened, the palms began to sweat. He felt the hands of the orb begin to pull him again, ever so slightly. In agony, Raistlin summoned every drop of blood, focused every nerve, sacrificed every muscle in his frail body to regain control.
Slowly … slowly … just when he thought his pounding heart would burst from his chest or his brain explode in fire—Raistlin felt the hands cease their tug. They still maintained their firm grip on him—as he maintained his firm grip on them. But the two were no longer in contest. His hands and the hands of the dragon orb remained locked together, each conceding respect, neither seeking dominance.
The ecstasy of the victory, the ecstasy of the magic flowed through Raistlin and burst forth, wrapping him in a warm, golden light. His body relaxed. Trembling, he felt the hands hold him gently, support him, lend him strength.
What are you? he questioned silently. Are you good? Evil?
I am neither. I am nothing. I am everything. The essence of dragons captured long ago is what I am.
How do you work? Raistlin asked. How do you control the dragons?
At your command, I will call them to me. They cannot resist my call. They will obey.
Will they turn upon their masters? Will they fall under my command?
That depends on the strength of the master and the bond between the two. In some instances, this is so strong that the master can maintain control of the dragon. But most will do what you ask of them. They cannot help themselves.
I must study this, Raistlin murmured, feeling himself growing weaker. I do not understand.…
Be easy. I will aid you. Now that we have joined, you may seek my help often. I know of many secrets long forgotten. They can be yours.
What secrets? … Raistlin felt himself losing consciousness. The strain had been too much. He struggled to keep his hold on the hands, but he felt his grip slipping.
The hands held onto him gently, as a mother holds a child.
Relax, I will not let you fall. Sleep. You are weary.
Tell me! I must know! Raistlin cried silently.
This only I will tell you, then you must rest. In the library of Astinus of Palanthas are books, hundreds of books, taken there by the mages of old in the days of the Lost Battle. To all who look at these books, they seem nothing more than encyclopedias of magic, dull histories of mages who died in the caverns of time.
Raistlin saw darkness creeping toward him. He clutched at the hands.
What do the books really contain? he whispered.
Then he knew, and with the knowledge, darkness crashed over him like the wave of an ocean.
In a cave near the wagon, hidden by shadows, warmed by the heat of their passion, Tika and Caramon lay in each other’s arms. Tika’s red hair clung around her face and forehead in tight curls, her eyes were closed, her full lips parted. Her soft body clad in her gaily-colored skirt and puffy-sleeved white blouse pressed against Caramon. Her legs twined around his, her hand caressed his face, her lips brushed his.
“Please, Caramon,” she whispered. “This is torture. We want each other. I’m not afraid. Please love me!”
Caramon closed his eyes. His face