strangled country, land of stillbirth, of fever, of warped and gangrenous age and of long unendurable dying, until from the North came another invasion of hard light and lances as the Heroes, the Fellowship, the fashioned alliance of elf and dwarf, of human and gnome and kender came to the forest through the nest of nightmare, through the growing entanglement, through bone, through crystal, through all the forgotten banes and allures of the damaged heart, to Silvanost and the disfigured Tower, to Lorac, to the imprisoning Orb, and they freed the Speaker the Tower and town, the forest, the people, the bright orb they freed and like a survivor tumbled the globe through the years through the centuries lodged in the pale hands of others and its old polished carapace bright and reflecting the hourglassed eyes of its ultimate wielder.
But the sands were draining over the Speaker of Suns, and the knowledge of Lorac, vaulted and various, numbered and faceted, descended and simplified into a knowledge of evil, as the forest unfolded, stripped of the long light, bare of bedazzlement and at last Silvanesti was free of his mind, torn from the labyrinth bearing forever the scars of belief to the last syllable of eventual time, and Lorac died in his daughter's arms, his thoughts in the Tower entombed and surrendered, his last wish a burial underneath Silvanost, driving the green from the body's decay, resolving to forest, resolving to Silvanost forever and ever, his enabling ghost to ascribe and deliver the land that he dreamt of, as thought was translated to dream.
And yes, it is always like this, for the country is haunted with old supposition, and no matter the stories, no matter the rumors of legend and magic that illumine you through the curtain of years, you come to believe in the web of yourself that history twines in the veins of your fingers, that it knits all purpose, all pardon and injury, recovers the lapsed and plausible blood, until finally, in the midst of believing, you contrive among rumors the story, the old convolution of breath and forgetting, in which you will say, beyond truth and belief,
This is what it means, for once and at last what
It always meant, no more than I knew
From the world's beginning is all
That it means forever.
Raistlin and the Knight of Solamnia
It was a chill night for spring, undoubtedly the reason there were so many people in the inn. The inn wasn't accustomed to such crowds. In fact, it wasn't accustomed to any crowds, for the inn was new, so new that it still smelled of fresh-hewn wood and paint instead of stale ale and yesterday's stew. Called 'Three Sheets,' after a popular drinking song of the time, the inn was located in — . But where it was located doesn't matter. The inn was destroyed five years later in the Dragon Wars and never rebuilt. Small wonder, for it was on a road little traveled then and less traveled after the dragons leveled the town.
It would be some time yet before the Queen of Darkness plunged the world into what she hoped would be eternal night, but already, in these years just prior to the war, her evil shadow was spreading. Goblins had always been a problem in this realm, but suddenly what had been small bands of raiders who struck isolated farms had grown into armies attacking villages.
'What's His Lordship offering?' queried a mage clad in red robes who occupied a booth — the one nearest the fire and the most comfortable in the crowded inn — with just one companion. No one thought of joining them. Though the mage was sickly in appearance, with a hacking cough that nearly bent him double, those who had served with him in previous campaigns whispered that he was quick to anger and quicker with his spells.
'Standard rate — two pieces of steel a week and a bounty on goblin ears. I signed us up.' The man responding was a large, burly warrior who sat down opposite his questioner. Shedding his plain, undecorated cloak in the heat of the room, the warrior revealed hardmuscled arms the size of tree trunks and a chest like a bull's. He unbuckled from around his waist a sword belt, laying on the table near at hand a sword with every appearance of having been well and skillfully used.
'When do we get our pay?'
'After we drive out the goblins. He'll make us earn it.'
'Of course,' said the mage, 'and he won't be out any cash to those who die. What took you so long?'
'The town is packed! Every mercenary this side of Ansalon is here, not to mention horse traders, camp followers, swordmakers, and every kender not currently behind bars. We'll be lucky to find a place in a field to spread our blankets this night.'
'Hullo, Caramon!' called out a leather-armor-clad man, coming over to the table and clapping the warrior on the back. 'Mind if I share your booth?' he asked, starting to sit down. 'It's standing room only in this place. This your twin I've heard so much about? Introduce us.'
The mage lifted his head, fixed his gaze upon the stranger.
Golden eyes with pupils the shape of an hourglass glittered in the shadows of the red hood. The light in the inn glinted off golden skin. Near at hand stood a wooden staff — obviously and ominously magical — topped by a multifaceted crystal clutched in a dragon's claw. Gulping, the man rose quickly to his feet and, with a hasty farewell to Caramon, took his ale to a distant comer of the room.
'He looked at me as if he saw me on my deathbed!' muttered the man to more congenial companions.
'It's going to be a cold night tonight, Raist,' said the warrior to his brother in a low voice when the two were again alone. 'It smells like snow in the air. You shouldn't sleep outside.'
'And where would you have me sleep, Caramon?' asked the mage in a soft, sneering voice. 'In a hole in the ground, like a rabbit, for that is all we can aff — .' He broke off in a fit of coughing that left him breathless.
His twin gazed at him anxiously. Pulling a coin from a shabby purse he wore at his belt, Caramon held it up. 'We have this, Raist. You could sleep here tonight and the next night.'
'And what would we do for food in the interim, my brother? We won't get paid for a fortnight, at least.'
Caramon lowered his voice and, leaning across the table, grasped hold of his brother's arm to draw him near. 'I could snare us something, if need be.'
'You'd be the one to end up in a snare, you fool!' The mage jerked away from his brother's touch. 'The lord's men are all over the woods, hunting for poachers with only slightly less enthusiasm than they're hunting for goblins. No, we'll return to camp tonight. Don't fuss over me. You know how I hate it. I'll be fine. I've slept in worse places.'
Raistlin began to cough again, the spasms shaking his frail body until it seemed he must split apart. Pulling out a cloth, he pressed it over his mouth. Those who glanced at him in concern saw that, when the mage withdrew the cloth, it was covered with blood.
'Fix me my drink!' he ordered Caramon, his lips forming the words for he had momentarily lost the power of speech. Collapsing in a comer, he closed his eyes and concentrated on drawing breath. Those near could hear the air whistle in his lungs.
Caramon peered through the crowd, attempting to find the barmaid, and shouted for boiling hot water. Raistlin slid a pouch across the table toward his brother, who picked it up and carefully measured out some of its contents into a mug. The inn's proprietor himself came bustling over with the hot water in a steaming kettle. He was just about to pour when a sudden shouting rose up around the door.
'Hey, there! Get out you little vermin! No kender allowed!' cried several of the guests.
'Kender!' Kettle in hand, the proprietor ran off in panic.
'Hey!' shouted Caramon after the flurried innkeeper in exasperation, 'you forgot our water!'
'But I tell you I have friends here!' A shrill voice rose up from the doorway. 'Where? Why,' — there was a moment's pause — 'there! Hi, Caramon! Remember me?'
'Name of the Abyss!' muttered Caramon, hunching up his big shoulders and ducking his head.
A short figure, about the stature of a twelve-year old human, with the face of a man of twenty and the wideeyed innocent expression of a babe of three, was pointing gleefully at the booth of the warrior and his brother. The figure was clad in a bright green tunic and orange striped hose. A long tassel of hair was twisted round his head and hung down his back. Numerous pouches containing the possessions of everyone who had been
