Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [157]
“Oh, I say! Haven’t we met?” he asked, blinking.
For a moment Elistan could not speak. The cleric’s face turned deathly white beneath its weathered tan. He was finally able to answer the old mage, his voice was husky. “Indeed we have, sir. I did not realize it before now. And though we were but lately introduced, I feel that I have known you a long, long time.”
“Indeed?” The old man scowled suspiciously. “You’re not making some sort of comment on my age, are you?”
“No, certainly not!” Elistan smiled.
The old man’s face cleared.
“Well, have a pleasant journey. And a safe one. Farewell.”
Leaning on a bent and battered staff, the old man toddled on past them. Suddenly he stopped and turned around. “Oh, by the way, the name’s Fizban.”
“I’ll remember,” Elistan said gravely, bowing. “Fizban.”
Pleased, the old magician nodded and continued on his way along the shoreline while Elistan, suddenly thoughtful and quiet, resumed his walk with a sigh.
8
The Perechon.
Memories of long ago.
This is crazy, I hope you realize that!” Caramon hissed.
“We wouldn’t be here if we were sane, would we?”
Tanis responded, gritting his teeth.
“No,” Caramon muttered. “I suppose you’re right.”
The two men stood in the shadows of a dark alleyway, in a town where generally the only things ever found in alleyways were rats, drunks, and dead bodies.
The name of the wretched town was Flotsam, and it was well named, for it lay upon the shores of the Blood Sea of Istar like the wreckage of a broken vessel tossed upon the rocks. Peopled by the dregs of most of the races of Krynn, Flotsam was, in addition, an occupied town now, overrun with draconians, goblins, and mercenaries of all races, attracted to the Highlords by high wages and the spoils of war.
And so, “like the other scum,” as Raistlin observed, the companions floated along upon the tides of war and were deposited in Flotsam. Here they hoped to find a ship that would take them on the long, treacherous journey around the northern part of Ansalon to Sancrist—or wherever—
Where they were going was a point that had been much in contention lately—ever since Raistlin’s recovery from his illness. The companions had anxiously watched him following his use of the dragon orb, their concern not completely centered on his health. What had happened when he used the orb? What harm might he have brought upon them?
“You need not fear,” Raistlin told them in his whispering voice. “I am not weak and foolish like the elven king. I gained control of the orb. It did not gain control of me.”
“Then what does it do? How can we use it?” Tanis asked, alarmed by the frozen expression on the mage’s metallic face.
“It took all my strength to gain control of the orb,” Raistlin replied, his eyes on the ceiling above his bed. “It will require much more study before I learn how to use it.”
“Study …” Tanis repeated. “Study of the orb?”
Raistlin flicked him a glance, then resumed staring at the ceiling. “No,” he replied. “The study of books, written by the ancient ones who created the orb. We must go to Palanthas, to the library of one Astinus, who resides there.”
Tanis was silent for a moment. He could hear the mage’s breath rattle in his lungs as he struggled to draw breath.
What keeps him clinging to this life? Tanis wondered silently.
It had snowed that morning, but now the snow had changed to rain. Tanis could hear it drumming on the wooden roof of the wagon. Heavy clouds drifted across the sky. Perhaps it was the gloom of the day, but as he looked at Raistlin, Tanis felt a chill creep through his body until the cold seemed to freeze his heart.
“Was this what you meant, when you spoke of ancient spells?” Tanis asked.
“Of course. What else?” Raistlin paused, coughing, then asked, “When did I speak of … ancient spells?”
“When we first found you,” Tanis answered, watching the mage closely. He noticed a crease in Raistlin’s forehead and heard tension in his shattered voice.
“What did I say?”
“Nothing much,” Tanis replied warily. “Just something