thought, it is no wonder that he does.
Dalamar's heart stopped. Between one beat and another, it stilled. In the stillness, in the silence, the voice of his soul whispered. What will you do for magic, Dalamar Nightson? How far will you go to find it, to nurture it, to claim what is yours by right of talent?
This far, he said, looking into the hourglass eyes of Raistlin Majere, feared by the three most powerful mages of Krynn. This far. If Nuitari wills, farther even than this, for I have no place but in magic, I have no heart but that which beats to magic's song. It was ever thus. It will ever be thus, and I have given up much, but that does not mean I will not give up more to grow even stronger in the art of sorcery.
'Shalafi,' he said, inclining his head in a modest bow. 'I am come, as you have agreed.'
As though he could see with his hourglass eyes every moment of Dalamar's past, every thought he had now, each step he would take until whatever day would be his last, Raistlin Majere smiled, a cold, cunning smile. In the space between one beat of his heart and another, Dalamar felt himself weighed and judged. Raistlin stepped back from the threshold with a small, almost mocking bow.
Come in if you dare, said that gesture.
The sound of a chain dragging on stone yet rang in Dalamar's heart, the platinum chain that had wrapped round his ankles, his legs, his heart in the Circle of Darkness. By that close chain, others had judged him guilty of crimes of magic and crimes of worship. By that bitter embrace, he had judged himself strong enough to accept what pain he must in order to have the magic he could not live without. He heard the scraping of the chain as he stepped across the threshold, as he entered the chamber of the Master of Past and Present. Into the world of a dark mage, into a world no one knew and the wise feared, Dalamar Nightson walked with his heart singing, and it was though he had come home.
