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Egg’s brothers had all been different. Now, after the spring sickness, there were fewer of them—Egg would never see Valarr or Matarys again. Baelor’s sons had always treated him kindly, as had his own brothers, Daeron and Aemon. Aerion, on the other hand, had delighted in tormenting him, forever spitting venom.
Watching the Majere brothers, the prince could not help thinking how much they reminded him of Ser Duncan and...
At first, of course, Egg had compared the younger of the two to Aerion. The yellow-skinned youth showered both his elder brother and the pointy-eared dwarf with insults in a manner that felt all too familiar. But on the second day, when the young man demanded they stop for a rest and wandered off to sit alone beneath a tree at the edge of a copse, Egg realized that Raistlin Majere was far more like Daeron. His cutting remarks and sharp temper came less from malice than from the despair of someone who suddenly found himself utterly helpless. The staff that, by all appearances, possessed great power in his own world had become nothing more than an ordinary stick here, and the spells he uttered in an unfamiliar tongue simply refused to work. The young man was a sorcerer, just like Egg’s cousin, the Hand...
The appearance of complete strangers in the middle of the road on a sweltering day, seemingly from nowhere, could only be explained by magic. That was why Egg had suggested they seek out Brynden Rivers in King’s Landing. If anyone would believe these poor souls—and help them—it would be the Raven.
To be fair, Ser Duncan and Egg had believed them as well, after witnessing the spectacle with their own eyes: a shimmering green tear hanging in the very air. Egg was not entirely sure he understood it all, but it seemed the strange object over which his cousin and Raistlin Majere were now puzzling together was to blame.
Egg had even been allowed to examine the “artifact.”
There was nothing remarkable about it at first glance. Merely a tiny silver door, no longer than a man’s hand, studded with emeralds. It looked more like a child’s toy than anything else—something to open and shut for amusement. Over the past few days, they had opened it at least a hundred times.
“Hands off!”
Prince Aegon tore himself away from his thoughts just in time. The dwarf had decided to make off with his cousin’s inkwell.
“Don’t you understand? You can’t take what belongs to someone else! You little thief—you’ve no shame at all.”
Aegon had never considered himself a perfect child, and as a squire he was still... mediocre, at best. Yet beside the dwarf, he felt like the very model of good sense and obedience. Tas Burrfoot was insufferable and had more than earned his nickname.
“I’ve never stolen anything!” Tas protested, frowning. “I just... protect whatever’s been left unattended.”
“Put it... back,” the yellow-skinned youth whispered. “When we return... to Krynn... I’ll turn you...” He dissolved into another fit of coughing.
A terrible illness. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, Ser Duncan had whispered to Egg once.
The sickness showed itself in more ways than the golden skin that gleamed beneath the sun like polished metal. Raistlin coughed often, tired quickly, and always spoke in a voice so soft one had to strain to hear him.
On top of that, he had silver hair and strange eyes. Yellow, like a serpent’s. Perhaps the first Targaryens had possessed such eyes. After all, Egg’s ancestors carried the blood of the dragon.
“...into a worm,” the dwarf finished for the mage. “You said that already. And that you’d eat me.”
“Did he?” Brynden Rivers asked with genuine surprise, then laughed.
The prospect of being eaten did not seem to trouble Tas in the slightest. Still, he returned the inkwell to the desk. His attention had already shifted to the crystals lining the shelves. In the Hand’s study, strange magical objects shared space with maps and books, standing out plainly among them.
Egg decided it was best to keep an eye on Tas, but Raistlin’s older brother reached him first.
“Stop, Tasslehoff,” the big man ordered, sternly yet with unmistakable embarrassment. “Quit bothering the good lord.”
His armor clanking, Caramon Majere crossed the room from the wall where he and Ser Duncan had been sitting to the Hand’s desk in only a few long strides.
“My apologies, Lord Rivers. Raist, are you all right?”
His younger brother shot him an irritated glance.
“Of course. Everything is... simply wonderful, Caramon.”
Caramon seized Tas by the back of the collar and carried him over to the bench against the wall. Egg followed and perched himself on the edge beside Ser Duncan.
“Sit still and don’t wriggle,” the elder brother ordered in exactly the tone Ser Duncan always used whenever he threatened to give Egg a clout to the ear. Then he turned to Duncan. “Kender are all like this. Nobody wants anything to do with them. Well... except fools like us. Though Raist isn’t a fool. Neither is Tanis, or Flint... Did I tell you about Tanis? He’s a friend of ours. Mine and Raist’s.”
***
Ser Duncan the Tall understood nothing of magic and distrusted it besides. Even so, the two wizards—one the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms in all but name, the other a visitor from another world—hardly seemed like dangerous men.
And Dunk of Flea Bottom found himself inexplicably glad they had met.
There was nothing better than speaking honestly with someone who understood you without taking you for a madman.
Especially... when misfortune had cast you into a strange land, and there was no road home.
Just as the boy had predicted, Brynden Rivers had been fascinated by this “unprecedented case” of travel between worlds. The Hand of King Aerys the First hungered for knowledge. His lordship now searched with tireless enthusiasm for either a spell—or some other means—to return the brothers and the dwarf to their own world.
Dunk had spent a week recovering from the dwarfs at that ill-fated wedding in Whitewalls. They had haunted his dreams. But this one, with his topknot and ears that looked as though only the gods knew what they belonged to... Handsome enough in the face, perhaps, but let him anywhere near you, and you were asking for trouble.
“So once we decided to take the Crystal Staff to the Seekers, Tanis ended up becoming our leader, and...” Caramon finished his tale. “That’s about it.”
To his shame, Dunk realized he had missed most of the story about this Tanis fellow. He searched his memory.
Yes, Caramon had already told him about the staff of some ancient goddess.
And that was only one of the marvels of their homeland.
Krynn was no Westeros.
On Krynn, dragons had not died out. More than that, they were intelligent and spoke the tongue of men. Alongside kender and dragons lived bearded dwarves, nearly immortal elves, dim-witted monsters called trolls, goblins, hobgoblins, and half-draconic creatures known as draconians. Those beasts, together with dishonorable men, conquered cities, oppressed the weak, and spread chaos wherever they went.
Had Dunk lived on Krynn, he would never have needed to wander in search of a worthy lord or a tournament. There would always have been evil enough to fight, and people enough to defend, without wondering whether he had chosen the right side.
No red dragons, no black dragons flying from banners.
“Your friend, ser,” Duncan said at last, feeling he ought to answer Caramon somehow, “must be worried about you. As far as everyone back home knows, you simply vanished.”
“I suppose...” Caramon echoed, then shook his head. “Stop that! I’m not ‘ser,’ not a knight. I was a mercenary. Sturm’s the knight. Sturm’s another friend of ours.”
“But you look every bit a true knight,” Egg put in. “You’re just as tall and strong as my Ser Duncan. And your brother—”
He got no further.
Dunk’s enormous hand clamped over the boy’s mouth.
“My apologies,” Dunk muttered. “My squire is far too fond of idle chatter. I’ve yet to break him of the habit.”
And what had Egg been about to blurt out now?
Your brother looks exactly like my cousin, except he’s yellow while my cousin’s as pale as a ghost, and they both insist on wearing red.
Something along those lines, no doubt.
Better he kept quiet.
When Raistlin had asked who Lord Rivers was, Aegon had eagerly told him everything he knew about the Hand, making sure to add that common folk called him Bloodraven, the White Worm, and Kinslayer. At the last of those names, Raistlin and Caramon had exchanged a glance, and their spirits had visibly darkened.
That had been when Dunk first tried to draw Caramon into conversation. Since then, the big man had poured out one tale after another about the adventures he had shared with his brother.
Dunk did not mind.
He had taken a liking to Caramon Majere, a fondness he had once felt only for Raymun Fossoway. In truth, Caramon was even easier to speak with, for he came from no noble house.
Deep down, Dunk hoped the brothers—and the dwarf as well, for they could hardly throw him down a well—would remain for at least another day or two.
He would ask Caramon Majere to cross swords with him.
And perhaps he would tell him about...
About what, you great oaf? What deeds have you to boast of? They’re worth less than nothing if men keep dying because of you. The worthiest of men. Baelor Targaryen would tell you as much.
The memory of Ashford came unbidden, and Dunk felt sick at heart.
Then he felt worse still.
His stomach growled, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.
“Cousin, it’s evening already,” Egg said at once. “We ought to have supper—and our guests should eat as well. We’ll need chambers prepared for them.”
Giving orders already.
A prince was a prince.
“Is it?” The King’s Hand looked up abruptly, and for a brief instant his silver hair slipped aside, revealing the empty socket where one eye should have been. “Hm... Indeed. I doubt we shall accomplish anything more today. We all need our rest.”
Brynden Rivers set the book aside and rose from behind his desk.
Raistlin Majere remained where he was, utterly absorbed in his reading.
It struck Dunk, all of a sudden, how fortunate it was that they could understand one another. And not merely because they spoke the same tongue. For the past several hours, Lord Rivers and Raistlin Majere had spoken with an easy warmth, despite having only just met. His lordship had even managed to make the yellow-skinned mage laugh twice. Their conversation revolved around matters beyond Dunk’s grasp—wizard’s talk, no doubt—broken now and then as they thumbed through the Raven’s books.
“There is no shortage of vacant chambers in the Red Keep. And judging by what I’ve seen, our hospitality has been to your liking...” the Hand remarked, casting a brief glance at Caramon, who instinctively hunched his shoulders. “Arranging lodgings will pose no difficulty. As for His Grace, King Aerys the First, I shall speak with him tomorrow, just to be safe. But first...” The Raven reached into the folds of his robes and withdrew an elegant bracelet. Holding it for a moment in his fist, he extended his hand. “Put this on, boy.”
It took Dunk a moment to realize that by “boy,” Rivers meant Tas Burrfoot. Despite his slight build and short stature, the fellow looked nothing like a child. To Dunk, he had the face of a grown man—only with the witless expression of one of those simpletons forever begging alms outside a sept.
“For me? A present!” Tasslehoff sprang from the bench. An instant later, he was practically snatching the bracelet from Lord Rivers’s hand, shouting at the top of his lungs, “How wonderful! No one’s given me a present in ages! It’s magical, isn’t it?”
Lord Rivers winced in annoyance, though he quickly regained the genial composure befitting a gracious host.
“Careful. The bracelet will create an illusion, changing the shape of your ears. You can hardly spend your days wandering the castle wrapped in a cloak.”
“Oh, I know all about that!” Tas nodded so vigorously that the tuft of hair atop his head swayed like a ship’s mast in a storm. “Raistlin turned me into a pond once! Before that, he turned me into a giant! Well... I was still me, really. Everyone else just saw a giant. You should’ve seen those false priests panic!”
“Spend your... days...?” Raistlin Majere looked up at last from the hefty tome, his voice suddenly sharp. “Tas... quiet...”
Another coughing fit overtook him, but he forced himself upright nonetheless, leaning heavily upon his staff. Dunk had noticed the first time they met that the crystal at its head was held in the talons of a dragon.
“I... am grateful... for your willingness... to help us, my lord,” Raistlin said after catching his breath.
Standing before the King’s Hand, he was slightly shorter than Brynden Rivers and immeasurably beneath him in rank. Yet somehow, he seemed the Raven’s equal.
“I won’t deny... I’ve enjoyed... speaking with you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Brynden Rivers replied with a smile.
“Few people... ever wished... to discuss gods or dragons with me...” Raistlin continued, tightening his grip upon the staff. “And magic... least of all.”
A bitter smile touched the young mage’s lips.
“But I have no intention... of remaining here... any longer than necessary.”
“You’ve said that before!” Tas declared while admiring the bracelet on his wrist and feeling his “new” ears. “Back in the tunnels! Remember? When Laurana was sneaking after us, and—”
Had hatred alone possessed the power to burn someone alive, the kender would have been reduced to a handful of ash.
“I’ll...” the mage rasped. “Throttle you... By Lunitari, I swear... I’ll throttle you...”
Instead of carrying out the threat, Raistlin snatched up the magical object—the little silver door.
“Where,” he demanded, barely containing his fury, “did you even find this?”
“In Xak Tsaroth.” Tas shrugged. “You remember, Raistlin. Those gully dwarves leave a mess everywhere. This little door was just lying there, and nobody wanted it...”
“To the Abyss with it!”
***
Egg nearly toppled from the bench in surprise.
Everything happened far too quickly.
The artifact struck a bookcase, fell to the floor—
—and the silver door swung open.
A torrent of green light burst forth.
It flowed across the floor in shimmering waves, glittering with countless emerald sparks, before rising toward the ceiling. A luminous veil spread across the bookcase and swallowed part of the wall behind it.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
For nearly a full minute, silence held the room.
Tas was the first to break it.
“Well,” the kender observed with perfect calm, “it’s not so bad after all, Raistlin. No need to hiss at me. On the other side are the Hylar dwarves’ caves!”
And indeed, peering through the shimmering curtain, Egg could make out what looked like underground caverns beyond.
“How would... you...” Every trace of bitterness and anger had vanished from Raistlin’s voice. “How would you explain... this, my lord?”
“Well...” The Raven stroked his chin thoughtfully. His astonishment seemed no less profound than anyone else’s, yet he bore it with far greater composure. “I would venture that some doors merely need to be pushed open... while others must be kicked in.”
“Quite right,” Raistlin said with a faint smile. Then he called, “Caramon. Come here. Tell me... are those truly the caves?”
Caramon confirmed there could be no mistake.
“Yes, Raist. They are. That’s the Audience Hall.” He pointed into the darkness, stopping within a few feet of the shimmering green veil. “And over there—the kitchens and the cellars.”
“You’re always thinking with your stomach,” Raistlin replied, scarcely bothering to hide his delight, his words almost carrying a tune. “And it seems... even without magic... I’m good for something after all.”
The farewell was brief—
far too brief, in Egg’s opinion.
Dunk and Caramon exchanged a firm clasp of hands.
Egg's cousin and Raistlin Majere settled for restrained nods.
As for the prince, he received an enthusiastic embrace from the kender. By sheer miracle, Egg did not lose the folding dagger his father had given him after the events at Butterwell’s wedding.
“I’ve no idea how that happened,” Tasslehoff sighed heavily as he returned the weapon to its owner. “I can keep the bracelet, can’t I?”