Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends)

by Tracy Hickman

  “I find this all very difficult to believe,” stated the red-robed mage in a mild voice. “We all admit that young Raistlin is certainly powerful, but I find this talk of challenging a goddess quite ridiculous … quite ridiculous indeed.”

  There were murmured assents from both halves of the semi-circle.

  “Oh, do you?” Dalamar asked, and there was a lethal softness in his voice. “Then, let me tell you fools that you have no idea of the meaning of the word power. Not as it relates to him! You cannot begin to fathom the depths of his power or to soar the heights! I can! I have seen”—for a moment Dalamar paused, his voice lost its anger and was filled with wonder—“I have seen such things as none of you have dared imagine! I have walked the realms of dreams with my eyes open! I have seen beauty to make the heart burst with pain. I have descended into nightmares—I have witnessed horrors”—he shuddered—“horrors so nameless and terrible that I begged to be struck dead rather than look upon them!” Dalamar glanced around the semi-circle, gathering them all together with his flashing, dark-eyed gaze. “And all these wonders he summoned, he created, he brought to life with his magic.”

  There was no sound, no one moved.

  “You are wise to be afraid, Great One,” Dalamar’s voice sank to a whisper. “But no matter how great your fear, you do not fear him enough. Oh, yes, he lacks power to cross that dread threshold. But that power he goes to find. Even as we speak, he is preparing himself for the long journey. Upon my return tomorrow, he will leave.”

  Par-Salian raised his head. “Your return?” he asked, shocked. “But he knows you for what you are—a spy, sent by us, the Conclave, his fellows.” The great mage’s glance went to the chair that stood empty amidst the Black Robes, then he rose to his feet. “No, young Dalamar. You are very courageous, but I cannot allow you to return to what would undoubtedly be tortured death at his hands.”

  “You cannot stop me,” Dalamar said, and there was no emotion in his voice. “I said before—I would give my soul to study with such as he. And now, though it costs me my life, I will stay with him. He expects me back. He leaves me in charge of the Tower of High Sorcery in his absence.”

  “He leaves you to guard?” the red-robed mage said dubiously. “You, who have betrayed him?”

  “He knows me,” Dalamar said bitterly. “He knows he has ensnared me. He has stung my body and sucked my soul dry, yet I will return to the web. Nor will I be the first,” Dalamar motioned down at the still, white form lying on the pallet before him. Then, half-turning, the dark elf glanced at Caramon. “Will I, brother?” he said with a sneer.

  At last, Caramon seemed driven to action. Angrily shaking Bupu loose from his foot, the warrior took a step forward, both the kender and the gully dwarf crowding close behind him.

  “Who is this?” Caramon demanded, scowling at the dark elf. “What’s going on? Who are you talking about?”

  Before Par-Salian could answer, Dalamar turned to face the big warrior.

  “I am called Dalamar,” the dark elf said coldly. “And I speak of your twin brother, Raistlin. He is my master. I am his apprentice. I am, in addition, a spy, sent by this august company you see before you to report on the doings of your brother.”

  Caramon did not answer. He may not have even heard. His eyes—wide with horror—were fixed on the dark elf’s chest. Following Caramon’s gaze, Tas saw five burned and bloody holes in Dalamar’s flesh. The kender swallowed, feeling suddenly queasy.

  “Yes, your brother’s hand did this,” Dalamar remarked, guessing Caramon’s thoughts. Smiling grimly, the dark elf gripped the torn edges of his black robes with his hand and pulled them together, hiding the wounds. “It is no matter,” he muttered, “it was no more than I deserved.”

  Caramon turned away, his face so pale Tas slipped his hand in the big man’s hand, fearing he might collapse. Dalamar regarded Caramon with scorn.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Didn’t you believe him capable of this?” The dark elf shook his head in disbelief, his eyes swept the assemblage before him. “No, you are like the rest of them. Fools … all of you, fools!”

  The mages murmured together, some voices angry, some fearful, most questioning. Finally, Par-Salian raised his hand for silence.

  “Tell us, Dalamar, what he plans. Unless, of course, he has forbidden you to speak of it.” There was a note of irony in the mage’s voice that the dark elf did not miss.

  “No,” Dalamar smiled grimly. “I know his plans. Enough of them, that is. He even asked that I be certain and report them to you accurately.”

  There were muttered words and snorts of derision at this. But Par-Salian only looked more concerned, if that were possible. “Continue,” he said, almost without voice.

  Dalamar drew a breath.

  “He journeys back in time, to the days just prior to the Cataclysm, when the great Fistandantilus was at the height of his power. It is my Shalafi’s intention to meet this great mage, to study with him, and to recover those works of Fistandantilus we know were lost during the Cataclysm. For my Shalafi believes, from what he has read in the spellbooks he took from the Great Library at Palanthas, that Fistandantilus learned how to cross the threshold that exists between god and men. Thus, the great wizard was able to prolong his life after the Cataclysm to fight the Dwarven Wars. Thus, he was able to survive the terrible explosion that devastated the lands of Dergoth. Thus, was he able to live until he found a new receptacle for his soul.”

  “I don’t understand any of this! Tell me what’s going on!” Caramon demanded, striding forward angrily. “Or I’ll tear this place down around your miserable heads! Who is this Fistandantilus? What does he have to do with my brother?”

  “Shhh,” Tas said, glancing apprehensively at the mages.

  “We understand, kenderken,” Par-Salian said, smiling at Tas gently. “We understand his anger and his sorrow. And he is right—we owe him an explanation,” The old mage sighed. “Perhaps what I did was wrong. And yet—did I have a choice? Where would we be today if I had not made the decision I made?”

  Tas saw Par-Salian turn to look at the mages who sat on either side of him, and suddenly the kender realized Par-Salian’s answer was for them as much as for Caramon. Many had cast back their hoods and Tas could see their faces now. Anger marked the faces of those wearing the black robes, sadness and fear were reflected in the pale faces of those wearing white. Of the red robes, one man in particular caught Tas’s attention, mainly because his face was smooth, impassive, yet the eyes were dark and stirring. It was the mage who had doubted Raistlin’s power. It seemed to Tas that it was to this man in particular that Par-Salian directed his words.

  “Over seven years ago, Paladine appeared to me,” Par-Salian’s eyes stared into the shadows. “The great god warned me that a time of terror was going to engulf the world. The Queen of Darkness had awakened the evil dragons and was planning to wage war upon the people in an effort to conquer them. ‘One among your Order you will choose to help fight this evil.’ Paladine told me. ‘Choose well, for this person shall be as a sword to cleave the darkness. You may tell him nothing of what the future holds, for by his decisions, and the decisions of others, will your world stand or fall forever into eternal night.’ ”

  Par-Salian was interrupted by angry voices, coming particularly from those wearing the black robes. Par-Salian glanced at them, his eyes flashing. Within that moment, Tas saw revealed the power and authority that lay within the feeble old mage.

  “Yes, perhaps I should have brought the matter before the Conclave,” Par-Salian said, his voice sharp. “But I believed then—as I believe now—that it was my decision alone. I knew well the hours that the Conclave would spend bickering, I knew well none of you would agree! I made my decision. Do any of you challenge my right to do so?”

  Tas held his breath, feeling Par-Salian’s anger roll around the hall like thunder. The Black Robes sank back into their stone seats, muttering. Par-Salian was silent for a moment, then his
eyes went back to Caramon, and their stern glance softened.

  “I chose Raistlin,” he said.

  Caramon scowled. “Why?” he demanded.

  “I had my reasons,” Par-Salian said gently. “Some of them I cannot explain to you, not even now. But I can tell you this—he was born with the gift. And that is most important. The magic dwells deep within your brother. Did you know that, from the first day Raistlin attended school, his own master held him in fear and awe. How does one teach a pupil who knows more than the teacher? And combined with the gift of magic is intelligence. Raistlin’s mind is never at rest. It seeks knowledge, demands answers. And he is courageous—perhaps more courageous than you are, warrior. He fights pain every day of his life. He has faced death more than once and defeated it. He fears nothing—neither the darkness nor the light. And his soul …” Par-Salian paused. “His soul burns with ambition, the desire for power, the desire for more knowledge. I knew that nothing, not even the fear of death itself, would stop him from attaining his goals. And I knew that the goals he sought to attain might well benefit the world, even if he, himself, should choose to turn his back upon it.”

  Par-Salian paused. When he spoke, it was with sorrow. “But first he had to take the Test.”

  “You should have foreseen the outcome,” the red-robed mage said, speaking in the same mild tone. “We all knew he was waiting, biding his time.…”

  “I had no choice!” Par-Salian snapped, his blue eyes flashing. “Our time was running out. The world’s time was running out. The young man had to take the Test and assimilate what he had learned. I could delay no longer.”

  Caramon stared from one to the other. “You knew Raist was in some kind of danger when you brought him here?”

  “There is always danger,” Par-Salian answered. “The Test is designed to weed out those who might be harmful to themselves, to the Order, to the innocents in the world.” He put his hand to his head, rubbing his brows. “Remember, too, that the Test is designed to teach as well. We hoped to teach your brother compassion to temper his selfish ambition, we hoped to teach him mercy, pity. And, it was, perhaps, in my eagerness to teach that I made a mistake. I forgot Fistandantilus.”

  “Fistandantilus?” Caramon said in confusion. “What do you mean—forgot him? From what you’ve said, that old mage is dead.”

  “Dead? No,” Par-Salian’s face darkened. “The blast that killed thousands in the Dwarven Wars and laid waste a land that is still devastated and barren did not kill Fistandantilus. His magic was powerful enough to defeat death itself. He moved to another plane of existence, a plane far from here, yet not far enough. Constantly he watched, biding his time, searching for a body to accept his soul. And he found that body—your brother’s.”

  Caramon listened in tense silence, his face deathly white. Out of the corner of his eye, Tas saw Bupu start edging backward. He grabbed her hand and held onto her tightly, keeping the terrified gully dwarf from turning and fleeing headlong out of the hall.

  “Who knows what deal the two made during the Test? None of us, probably,” Par-Salian smiled slightly. “I know this. Raistlin did superbly, yet his frail health was failing him. Perhaps he could have survived the final test—the confrontation with the dark elf—if Fistandantilus had not aided him. Perhaps not.”

  “Aided him? He saved his life?”

  Par-Salian shrugged. “We know only this, warrior—it was not any of us who left your brother with that gold-tinted skin. The dark elf cast a fireball at him, and Raistlin survived. Impossible, of course—”

  “Not for Fistandantilus,” interrupted the red-robed mage.

  “No,” Par-Salian agreed sadly, “not for Fistandantilus. I wondered at the time, but I was not able to investigate. Events in the world were rushing to a climax. Your brother was himself when he came out of the Test. More frail, of course, but that was only to be expected. And I was right”—Par-Salian cast a swift, triumphant glance around the semi-circle—“he was strong in his magic! Who else could have gained power over a dragon orb without years of study?”

  “Of course,” the red-robed mage said, “he had help from one who’d had years of study.”

  Par-Salian frowned and did not answer.

  “Let me get this straight,” Caramon said, glowering at the white-robed mage. “This Fistandantilus … took over Raistlin’s soul? He’s the one that made Raistlin take the Black Robes.”

  “Your brother made his own choice,” Par-Salian spoke sharply. “As did we all.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Caramon shouted. “Raistlin didn’t make this decision. You’re lying—all of you! You tortured my brother, and then one of your old wizards claimed what was left of his body!” Caramon’s words boomed through the chamber and sent the shadows dancing in alarm.

  Tas saw Par-Salian regard the warrior grimly, and the kender cringed, waiting for the spell that would sizzle Caramon like a spitted chicken. It never came. The only sound was Caramon’s ragged breathing.

  “I’m going to get him back,” Caramon said finally, tears gleaming in his eyes. “If he can go back in time to meet this old wizard, so can I. You can send me back. And when I find Fistandantilus, I’ll kill him. Then Raist will be …” He choked back a sob, fighting for control. “He’ll be Raist again. And he’ll forget all this nonsense about challenging th-the Queen of Darkness and … becoming a god.”

  The semi-circle broke into chaos. Voices raised, clamboring in anger. “Impossible! He’ll change history! You’ve gone too far, Par-Salian—”

  The white-robed mage rose to his feet and, turning, stared at every mage in the semi-circle, his eyes going to each individually. Tas could sense the silent communication, swift and searing as lightning.

  Caramon wiped his hand across his eyes, staring at the mages defiantly. Slowly, they all sank back into their seats. But Tas saw hands clench, he saw faces that were unconvinced, faces filled with anger. The red-robed mage stared at Par-Salian speculatively, one eyebrow raised. Then he, too, sat back. Par-Salian cast a final, quick glance around the Conclave before he turned to face Caramon.

  “We will consider your offer,” Par-Salian said. “It might work. Certainly, it is not something he would expect—”

  Dalamar began to laugh.

  CHAPTER

  13

  xpects?” Dalamar laughed until he could scarcely breathe. “He planned all of this! Do you think this great idiot”—he waved at Caramon—“could have found his way here by himself? When creatures of darkness pursued Tanis Half-Elven and Lady Crysania—pursued but never caught them—who do you think sent them? Even the encounter with the death knight, an encounter plotted by his sister, an encounter that could have wrecked his plans—my Shalafi has turned to his own advantage. For, undoubtedly you fools will send this woman, Lady Crysania, back in time to the only ones who can heal her—the Kingpriest and his followers. You will send her back in time to meet Raistlin! Not only that, you’ll even provide her with this man—his brother—as bodyguard. Just what the Shalafi wants.”

  Tas saw Par-Salian’s clawlike fingers clench over the cold stone arms of his chair, the old man’s blue eyes gleamed dangerously.

  “We have suffered enough of your insults, Dalamar,” Par-Salian said. “I begin to think your loyalty to your Shalafi is too great. If that is true, your usefulness to this Conclave is ended.”

  Ignoring the threat, Dalamar smiled bitterly. “My Shalafi—” he repeated softly, then sighed. A shudder convulsed his slender body, he gripped the torn robes in his hand and bowed his head. “I am caught in the middle, as he intended,” the dark elf whispered. “I don’t know who I serve anymore, if anyone.” He raised his dark eyes, and their haunted look made Tas’s heart ache. “But I know this—if any of you came and tried to enter the Tower while he was gone, I would kill you. That much loyalty I owe him. Yet, I am just as frightened of him as you are. I’ll help you, if I can.”

  Par-Salian’s hands relaxed, though he still continued to regard Dalamar
sternly. “I fail to understand why Raistlin told you of his plans? Surely he must know we will move to prevent him from succeeding in his terrifying ambitions.”

  “Because—like me—he has you where he wants you,” Dalamar said. Suddenly he staggered, his face pale with pain and exhaustion. Par-Salian made a motion, and a chair materialized out of the shadows. The dark elf slumped into it. “You must go along with his plans. You must send this man back into time”—he gestured at Caramon—“along with the woman. It is the only way he can succeed—”

  “And it is the only way we can stop him,” Par-Salian said, his voice low. “But why Lady Crysania? What possible interest could he have in one so good, so pure—”

  “So powerful,” Dalamar said with a grim smile. “From what he has been able to gather from the writings of Fistandantilus that still survive, he will need a cleric to go with him to face the dread Queen. And only a cleric of good has power enough to defy the Queen and open the Dark Door. Oh, Lady Crysania was not the Shalafi’s first choice. He had vague plans to use the dying Elistan—but I won’t relate that. As it turned out, however, Lady Crysania fell into his hands—one might say literally. She is good, strong in her faith, powerful—”

  “And drawn to evil as a moth is drawn to the flame,” Par-Salian murmured, looking at Crysania with deep pity.

  Tas, watching Caramon, wondered if the big man was even absorbing half of this. He had a vague, dull-witted look about him, as if he wasn’t quite certain where—or who—he was. Tas shook his head dubiously. They’re going to send him back in time? the kender thought.

  “Raistlin has other reasons for wanting both this woman and his brother back in time with him, of that you may be certain,” the red-robed mage said to Par-Salian. “He has not revealed his game, not by any means. He has told us—through our agent—just enough to leave us confused. I say we thwart his plans!”

  Par-Salian did not reply. But, lifting his head, he stared at Caramon for long moments and in his eyes was a sadness that pierced Tas’s heart. Then, shaking his head, he lowered his gaze, looking fixedly at the hem of his robes. Bupu whimpered, and Tas patted her absently. Why that strange look at Caramon? the kender wondered uneasily. Surely they wouldn’t send him off to certain death? Yet, wasn’t that what they’d be doing if they sent him back the way he was now—sick, depressed, confused? Tas shifted from one foot to the other, then yawned. No one was paying any attention to him. All this talk was boring. He was hungry, too. If they were going to send Caramon back in time, he wished they’d just do it.