undoubtedly being paid well to leave them alone. Either way, he's finished. You had better let me put some ointment

on those burns, my brother. You are obviously in pain."

Once he had treated Caramon, cleaning the burns and covering them with the healing salve, Raistlin left the

others to finish the packing, went to lie down in the wagon. He was completely and utterly exhausted, so tired he was

almost sick, He was just about to climb inside when a stranger clad in brown robes approached him.

Raistlin turned his back on him, hoping the man would take the hint and leave. The man had the look of a cleric,

and Raistlin had seen clerics enough to last him a lifetime.

"I want just a moment, young man," the stranger said, plucking at Raistlin's sleeve. "I know you have had a trying

day. I want to thank you for bringing down the false god Belzor. My followers and I are eternally in your debt."

Raistlin grunted, pulled his arm away, and climbed into the wagon. The man hung on to the wagon's sides, peered

over them.

"I am Hederick, the High Theocrat," he announced with a self-important air. "I represent a new religious order. We

hope to gain a foothold here in Haven now that the rogues of Belzor have been driven away. We are known as the

Seekers, for we seek the true gods."

"Then I hope very much that you find them, sir," Raistlin said. "We are certain of it!" The man had missed the

sarcasm. "Perhaps you'd be interested-"

Raistlin wasn't. The tents and bedrolls had been stacked in one corner of the wagon. Unfolding a blanket, he

spread it out over the pile of tenting, lay down.

The cleric hung about, yammering about his god. Raistlin covered his head with the hood of his robe and,

eventually, the cleric departed. Raistlin thought no more of him, soon forgot the man entirely.

Lying in the wagon, Raistlin tried to sleep. Every time he closed his eves, he saw the flames, felt the heat, smelled

the smoke, and he was wide awake, awake and shivering.

He recalled with terrifying clarity his feeling of helplessness. Resting his hand on the hilt of his new knife, he

wrapped his fingers around the weapon, felt the blade, cold, sharp, reassuring. From now on, he would never be

without it. His last measure of defense, even if it meant his life was his to take and not his enemy's.

His thoughts went from this knife to the other knife, the bloody knife he'd found lying beside the murdered

woman. The knife he had recognized as belonging to Kitiara.

Raistlin sighed deeply, and at last he was able to close hiseyes, relax into slumber.

Rosamun's children had taken their revenge.

Book5

The aspiring magus, Raistlin Majere, is hereby summoned to theTowerofHigh Sorceryat Wayreth to appear before the Conclave of

Wizards on the seventh day of the seventh month at the seventh minute of the seventh hour. At this time, in this place, you will be tested

by your superiors for inclusion into the ranks of those gifted by the three gods, Solinari, Lunitari, Nuitari.

-The Conclave of Wizards

That winter was one of the mildest Solace had known, with rain and fog in place of snow and frost. The residents

packed away their Yule decorations for another

year, took down the pine boughs and the mistletoe, and congratulated themselves on having escaped the

inconveniences of a hard winter. People were already talking of an early spring when a terrifying and most

unwelcome visitor came to Solace. The visitor was Plague, and accompanying him was his ghastly mate, Death.

No one was certain who invited this dread guest. The number of travelers had increased during the mild winter,

any one of them might have been a carrier. Blame was also ascribed to the standing bogs aroundCrystalmirLake,

bogs that had not frozen as they should have during the winter. The symptoms were the same in all cases, beginning

with a high fever and extreme lethargy, followed by headache, vomiting, and diarrhea. The disease ran its course in a

week or two; the strong and healthy survived it. The very young, the very old, or those in weak health did not.

In the days before the Cataclysm, clerics had called upon the goddess Mishakal for aid. She had granted them

healing powers, and the plague had been virtually unknown. Mishakal had left Krynn with the rest of the gods. Those

who practiced the healing arts in these days had to rely on their own skill and knowledge. They could not cure the

disease, but they could treat the symptoms, try to prevent the patient from becoming so weak that he or she

developed pneumonia, which led inevitably to death.