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The Blue Star	By : sinaline Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 1900 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the book(s) that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 7
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- 9
A/N: I hope everyone likes the parts to come, because they took a lot of research to get right into the Bedouin, the dress, the culture, and the names. With that said, enjoy a departure from the typical Dragonlance tale, because I don’t think the desert tribes have really been explored this way....

Chapter Six

“Is it not written that if a man goes missing in the Sun’s Anvil that our Prophet has called him away from the mortal world and that we should allow his passing?” demanded one of the elders of the village.
Jafir brushed off the comment easily, “I understand your concern, Prince Hassan, but, is it not also written that if a man is meant to find the one missing that he has been called back to us?”
Hassan thinned his eyes. “I will bow to your wisdom in this, Sheikh, but understand that one false step by your accursed ‘Pale Stranger’ will mean his swift death.”
“I understand clearly, Prince,” with the stress on the title as Jafir, Sheikh of the Ten Tribes, bowed slightly to make it very clear that as far as he was concerned the conversation was finished.
Jafir moved into the back of his tent into the inner rooms to see how his wives and daughters were faring with making the sick and weak stranger return to health. “How is he?” he asked his first and eldest wife.
“He is very weak, my lord,” she answered quietly. “I fear that if you and your son had not found him when you had it would have been too late.”
“It was the will of our Prophet,” he murmured.
“Indeed, Jafir, it was,” she said equally as quiet as they watched the stranger sleep with the herbs he had been given.

Raistlin woke next to a parched mouth and nearly a dozen pillows, as well as the sensation of motion. His eyes, which seemed almost too heavy to open from the haze that he lay in, only opened enough to see that he was in some sort of a wagon. Either way, it was truly small and there was only one other person in said ‘wagon’, a woman who was dressed head to toe in some sort of robes that he had never seen before. She moved over to him, and he looked up to see that she wore a veil over her face in the same sheer fabric, “Are you thirsty, Wanderer?”
“Yes... extremely,” he managed to croak out as she brought a waterskin to his lips.
He was relieved to find that it was only water, but to him it was sweeter than any elven wine he had ever tasted. He fell back into the pillows, and whispered, “Thank you, it appears I am in your debt, my lady.”
With much bemusement in her voice, she corrected him, “No, you are not. You owe your life to my father and his son who found you, and to the Departed Ancestors who led them to you. I merely follow his wishes in making sure you live long enough to reach the next oasis.”
Raistlin thought about that, and then asked, “When do we find this next oasis?”
“Before the sun sets,” she answered.
That pretty well ended the conversation. In between the motion of the back of the cart pulled by the horse, the peaceful quiet, and the vague opulence that he lay in, he fell asleep again. He awoke sharply again to darkness, and the fact that he was now in a tent and this time a man sat by him. “My daughter tells me you woke earlier today,” he said, then in a curious bowing motion that involved his hand, the old man introduced himself. “My name is Jafir, and I am the Sheikh of the Ten Tribes of the Tarsis Desert.”
Raistlin struggled to sit, and nodded his understanding, “My name is Raistlin Majere, a wizard of the Red Robes of the Towers of High Sorcery.”
“You have interesting eyes, Sorcerer Majere,” said Jafir, lifting a brow.
“A lesson from the Head of the Conclave,” answered Raistlin, and he saw Jafir nodding. “You know of Par-Salian?”
“In passing,” answered Jafir. “My brother’s cousin.”
Raistlin bemusedly wondered how a blood relation passed as only a ‘passing acquaintance’, but held his tongue, but Jafir, with a slight twinkle in his eye explained, “I never much liked my brother, the son of a daughter of a camel thief, and so I do not much know his cousin.”
“Excuse me?” Raistlin practically choked.
“My younger brother was the son of my father’s fourth wife. She was... as you Northerners would call it... ‘a pain in the ass’ to my mother, whose was my father’s first wife,” this was spoken with more than a little pride, even if Raistlin was having a difficult time picking through the interesting family line. “Oh, I see your confusion. Forgive me, unlike you Northerners, we of the desert take more than one wife... at a time... my father had eight wives.”
“If I’m not too forward...”
“I have nine.”
“Oh.”
“The daughter you met, Fahira, is the daughter of my second wife. A lovely girl, is she not? She was quite taken by you, you know. Something about your future being the most painful,” Jafir sighed. “Had we caught her gift, we would have sent her for training, however...”
He made a gesture that showed regret, “I love my son and my daughters, and my wives. If Fahira had shown her gift earlier on, we would have much liked for her to learn the Arts of Magic, but that was not to be.”
“She would have had to go very far to the North... to Palanthas,” explained Raistlin. “As that is where all girls are taught. Boys are taught in Solace.”
“Then it is better she did not,” said Jafir. “She would have never survived such cool, damp climes. Speaking of different climes, I lead us to the subject of you. What would lead an obvious Northerner into the desert?”
For a moment Raistlin paused, not exactly sure of what to say and what not to say. “A lost item.”
“You come all this way for something lost?” Jafir leaned forward. “It must be valuable indeed.”
“Extremely,” agreed Raistlin.

The three companions skirted around the Thorbardin chain of mountains. Where the plains met savannah, then the savannah gave way to desert. At this point one of the horses died. Tanis stood facing the trackless desert to the South, and then the forbidding mountains to the North. Flint looked at Caramon who looked out forlornly to the South where there was no end to the desert sands as the hundred foot high dunes shifted as they watched. “I have heard tales of sandstorms that whip up with no warning and bury everything in sight,” began Flint. “But I never believed that it would be possible, that there would be a nothingness like I see today. There is naught but death to the South, Caramon. When the sands end, the ice begins. There is only a slight, cold, savannah not unlike the one we rode through, only filled with scrub land if the maps are correct.”
“He had to go this way,” maintained Caramon as he closed his eyes and Tanis laid a hand on his shoulder. “I can still feel that he’s alive... somewhere...”
“Somewhere...” Tanis breathed. “If he lives through the desert and gets to where he is going, he is stronger than we all gave him credit for.”
“He’ll live,” said Caramon, turning back to face the South. “He has to.”

Raistlin was well enough to stand up and walk around the tent although Jafir’s first wife kept a very close eye on him. He was well aware that he was much smaller and lighter of build than any of Jafir’s men, or even Jafir himself. Not to mention, besides the nasty sunburn, that he was also fairer than any of the men. Jafir’s first wife, who was head woman of Jafir’s harem, said to him from behind her veil, “You are more restless than his stallions. Is our hospitality not good enough for you, Pale Stranger?”
“Oh no, my lady,” he said sincerely. “You all have been more than gracious to me, and for that I am very thankful, but my sojourn this way is far from over, and it is vital that I finish what I set out to do.”
She inclined her head, “You need to rest more, and let your skin get used to the sun first, or another of the tribes will find you. And perhaps not be as gracious as we are.”
Raistlin sat down in one of the pillows in frustration and she, again, inclined her head, “But perhaps we can help speed you on your way when the time comes. But you must recover or the next time it will be much worse.”
“I concede that point,” he looked over to her and realized that she, unlike the other wives, had actually spoken to him. “Is there a reason why the others don’t speak to me?”
“It is forbidden for them to,” she answered. “In fact, I am almost overstepping my own boundaries by even speaking to you unless spoken to. But that is my privilege as the head wife.”
“Where I come from, the woman are generally treated as equals to the men,” he said. “I’m not used to this at all.”
“Here, if we wish that privilege, we must prove ourselves.”
“Harsh.”
“So the desert is,” she pointed out. “I find you strange, and I get the feeling that even among your own brethren that you are not exactly the norm, am I correct?”
Raistlin was a bit startled by the sudden change in subject, “Yes. Wizards are not exactly treated well outside of the Towers.”
“I get the feeling there is more to it than that,” she sighed a bit. “You are not being honest with us, and I feel it my duty to find out if you are a threat like the other elders feel you are.”
He turned to face her, with a gaze so that she could see his eyes, “I thought as much,” she moved her veil aside only enough for him to see her eyes. “I am curious, why would the Conclave feel that is necessary for you?”
Raistlin was still in shock to see another set of hourglass eyes outside of his own, “Reylanna... you’re Reylanna?”
“The same,” she conceded, then he noted the black trim to everything she wore. “I saw in your pack that you wear the Red Robes, though the hem is Black. You and I share this curse, Brethren.”
“So it would seem,” he mused. “Par-Salian ‘bestowed’ them upon me to teach me humility and compassion. Now I see death in everything.”
“Ah, I would not be so quick to dismiss their power...” she waved a finger. “Like all magical items, all magical blessings and curses, it is a double-edged sword. Yes, it can be used as a curse, and is often referred to as such, but is as much blessing as curse in my long experience. And, Red Robe, I have been around a very long time. You may not be able to see them, but I also happen to be half-elven.”
“Dark Elf,” he said matter of factly, not with any inflection, as if he was pointing out a herb used in spell casting.
She nodded her head, “Now, I ask again, what made you so different?”
Raistlin took a breath, knowing now that he dare not tell Jafir, or anyone else in the camp, that he sought the Blue Star. He owed them a debt, yes, but if he even let on that he was after one of the most powerful artifacts known to Krynn and beyond, he may as well hand over the Blue Star to the Dark Queen herself and be done with it. “I... ah... made a decision I really should not have,” he said finally, measuring his words as he did so, and the answer was honest enough. “But the Conclave made both my brother and I swear never to tell anyone what had transpired during my Test.”
“They gave you the eyes after your Test?” her surprise was evident. “Wait, I know you now, you came with a big burly man... Your name was Rays, Rast...”
“Raistlin,” he corrected gently. “Raistlin Majere.”
“Ah yes, they also gave you this,” she turned, stood up, walked a short distance and then brought him out his staff and presented it to him. “The eyes, the Red Robes, and the Staff of the Magius. Par-Salian has some rather high hopes for you, Red Robe.”
“So I’ve been told...”

Hours later when the sun had truly fallen and the chill in the air was quite pronounced, Jafir came back to the tent. Raistlin sat by the fire that was within the tent, futilely trying to keep warm. “You Northerners are a confusing puzzle to me,” said Jafir. “First you are too hot and collapse in the desert, now you are too cold.”
“Typically, I’m always too cold,” answered Raistlin. “I must admit being too warm to be an interesting occasion.”
Jafir nodded in interest before sitting on the opposite side from Raistlin. “I also find it very interesting that you are so far from home, as it were. What are you running from, or seeking?”
Raistlin measured what to tell Jafir, and suspected that it would likely have to measure up to what Reylanna would say. “I am searching for something that was stolen from me and my colleagues,” he finally answered, before shrugging. “And while I would like to recover as soon as possible and be after it, I understand I owe you my life. Undoubtably, if you had not found me out there, I would be dead right now.”
For a moment Jafir’s eyes thinned, then he cheered and said, “I must admit, it is nice to have a wizard owing me something.”
And what of your lovely wife? wondered Raistlin. Did Jafir honestly know what Reylanna was capable of? There was no way to tell. Perhaps it was common practice for women to have ‘otherworldly’ arts, be seers, but not considered truly wizards. For a moment they sat there, getting the other’s measure. Finally Jafir clapped and women came in with trays laden with food and sat them before them. Jafir motioned to the youngest of the girls, which could not have been more than fifteen, and said, “You are right, though, you do owe me your life. You see my youngest daughter?”
Raistlin looked over, wishing for the millionth time that he didn’t see the young girl withering in front of him. He cast his eyes downward before looking back at Jafir. “Yes.”
“Now, if I wanted to, I could order you to marry the girl, and, I think you would because you would owe me,” Jafir smiled. “Then, of all ironies, you and I would be tied by marriage as my daughter would be your first wife.”
“Only wife.”
Jafir blinked.
“Remember, where I come from, a man is only allowed one wife, unless he somehow gets a divorce, or the first one dies,” explained Raistlin. “We are only allowed one wife at one time. And trust me, given how independent and warrior-like our women can be, that’s all you would want.”
Heaven have mercy on the man who married not only Kitiara, but another just like her, mused Raistlin. Or worse yet, like in this culture, five of them... Jafir nodded, “So then I would have you, now wouldn’t I?”
Raistlin shrugged, “If she felt like keeping ties with you, yes. If not, it wouldn’t make any difference to me.”
Again the silence fell, as the two used the metaphor of the women as a method to tell each other just where they stood. They both knew that neither actually spoke of women, of marriage, nor of family ties. It was another method to have a power struggle with two intelligent men who could see what the other actually meant. Jafir’s eyes thinned again, while Raistlin regarded him cooly, giving nothing away. Finally Jafir laughed and said, “You are a very deep man, Raistlin Majere.”
“So, your wife did speak to you,” mused Raistlin. “This was a test to see if I was telling you the truth.”
“And you passed,” said Jafir. “I have the feeling there is more to you, but as you have dealt honestly, I shall deal honestly with you. My name is Jafir ibn Qual-hasir. My wive’s names are Reylanna, the first, Jazeera is my second, Mati the third, Rishi is my fourth wife, Cavalaya is my fifth wife, Zora my sixth wife, Berul is my seventh wife, Vania my eighth wife and my ninth wife is Tal-hira. They run my harem.”
Raistlin, while he had been skeptical at first, was impressed with how well Jafir kept track of all nine wives. During the evening, Jafir talked a bit with his wives, and not only could keep them all straight and not confuse which wife was which, but also her likes and dislikes. Raistlin also saw, unlike a few of the other men in the tribe, he also accorded his wives with quite a bit of respect. Finally, after learning a bit of their culture so that he wouldn’t make a cultural faux pas, Jafir noticed that Raistlin was beginning to nod off in the pillows. Jafir motioned to Berul, “Berul, Raistlin looks like he is about to fall asleep on us... perhaps too much wine...?”
Raistlin could barely keep track of that, but he heard clearly, “Take him to Wellint’s tent, and tell him that my debt to him is cleared with this young man.”
Jafir looked down to Raistlin, “Forgive me, but I feel the ancestors sent you to free my tribes from the thrall of Wellint. Consider your debt clear... and may the Gods go with you.”
With that Raistlin passed out.

He awoke again to another tent, this one still of the desert people, but he knew that Jafir’s people had moved on. He leaned on his elbows and looked up at the man that sat in a wooden chair. The man looked over and said, “Ah, you’re awake. Good. Jafir told me that you are named Raistlin Majere. My name is Wellint Rortin.”
“That’s not a desert name.”
“No, it is not,” Wellint stood and walked over, although Raistlin noticed that the walk was strange, as if the legs were not quite aligned right.
When Wellint came closer he saw it was because Wellint’s legs were insectoid and there were four of those said legs. He fought against the rising bile, “What are you?”
Wellint’s hands, if they could be called that, came out of his sleeves and seized Raistlin by the throat. “I am what you call a ‘quasit’, a demon of the Nine Hells.”
“The Nine Hells don’t exist...”
The grip tightened and Wellint giggled, “Not on Krynn they don’t. But on other worlds they do. And that is where I would like to return. And you, my new friend, are going to help me...”
Raistlin decided he did not like the sound of that...
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The Blue Star