Test of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  “Maybe Raistlin protected her,” Tasslehoff said before he thought.

  Caramon scowled. “Bah! It’s just coincidence, that’s all,” he said harshly. “You know gully dwarves, Tas. They can live on anything. My guess is that they were the last creatures to survive. Bupu, being the smartest of the lot, just managed to survive longer than the rest. But—in the end, even a gully dwarf would perish in this god-cursed land.” He shrugged. “Here, help me stand.”

  “What—what are we going to do with her, Caramon?” Tas asked bleakly. “Are—are we just going to leave her?”

  “What else can we do?” Caramon muttered gruffly. The sight of the gully dwarf and the nearness of the Forest were bringing back painful, unwelcome memories. “Would you want to be buried in that mud?” He shivered and glanced about. The storm clouds were rushing closer; he could see the lightning streaking down to the ground and hear the roar of the thunder. “Besides, we don’t have much time, not the way those clouds are moving in.”

  Tas continued to stare at him sorrowfully.

  “There’s nothing left alive to bother her anyway, Tas,” he snapped irritably. Then, seeing the grieved expression on the kender’s face, Caramon slowly removed his own cloak and carefully spread it over the emaciated corpse. “We better get going,” he said.

  “Good-bye, Bupu,” Tas said softly. Patting the stiff little hand that was tightly clutching the dead rat, he started to pull the corner of the cloak over it when he saw something flash in Lunitari’s red light. Tas caught his breath, thinking he recognized the object. Carefully, he pried the gully dwarf’s death-stiffened fingers apart. The dead rat fell to the ground and—with it—an emerald.

  Tas picked up the jewel. In his mind, he was back to … where had it been? Xak Tsaroth?

  They had been in a sewer pipe hiding from draconian troops. Raistlin had been seized by a fit of coughing.…

  Bupu gazed at him anxiously, then thrust her small hand into her bag, fished around for several moments, and came up with an object that she held up to the light. She squinted at it then sighed and shook her head. “This not what I want,” she mumbled.

  Tasslehoff, catching sight of a brilliant, colorful flash, crept closer. “What is it?” he asked, even though he knew the answer. Raistlin, too, was staring at the object with wide glittering eyes.

  Bupu shrugged. “Pretty rock,” she said without interest, searching through the bag once more.

  “An emerald!” Raistlin wheezed.

  Bupu glanced up. “You like?” she asked Raistlin.

  “Very much!” The mage gasped.

  “You keep.” Bupu put the jewel in the mage’s hand. Then, with a cry of triumph, she brought out what she had been searching for. Tas, leaning up close to see the new wonder, drew back in disgust. It was a dead—very dead—lizard. There was a piece of chewed-on leather tied around the lizard’s stiff tail. Bupu held it toward Raistlin.

  “You wear around neck,” she said. “Cure cough.”

  “So Raistlin was here,” Tas murmured. “He gave this to her, he must have! But why? A charm … a gift?…” Shaking his head, the kender sighed and stood up. “Caramon—” he began, then he saw the big man standing, staring into the Forest of Wayreth. He saw Caramon’s pale face and he guessed what he must be thinking, remembering.

  Tasslehoff slipped the emerald into a pocket.

  The Forest of Wayreth seemed as dead and desolate as the rest of the world around them. But, to Caramon, it was alive with memories. Nervously he stared at the strange trees, their wet trunks and decaying limbs seeming to glisten with blood in Lunitari’s light.

  “I was frightened the first time I came here,” Caramon said to himself, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I wouldn’t have gone in at all if it hadn’t been for Raistlin. I was even more frightened the second time, when we brought Lady Crysania here to try to find help for her. I wouldn’t have gone in then for any reason except those birds lured me with their sweet song.” He smiled grimly. “ ‘Easeful the forest. Easeful the mansions perfected. Where we grow and decay no longer,’ they sang. I thought they promised help. I thought they promised me all the answers. But I see now what the song meant. Death, that is the only perfect mansion, the only dwelling place where we grow and decay no longer!”

  Staring into the woods, Caramon shivered, despite the oppressive heat of the night air. “I’m more frightened of it this time than ever before,” he muttered. “Something’s wrong in there.” A brilliant flash lit up sky and ground with the brightness of day, followed by a dull boom and the splash of rain upon his cheek. “But at least it’s still standing,” he said. “Its magic must be strong—to survive the storm.” His stomach wrenched painfully. Reminded of his thirst, he licked his dry, parched lips. “ ‘Easeful the forest,’ ” he muttered.

  “What did you say?” asked Tas, coming up beside him.

  “I said as good one death as another,” Caramon answered, shrugging.

  “You know, I’ve died three times,” said Tas solemnly. “The first was in Tarsis, where the dragons knocked a building down on top of me. The second was in Neraka, where I was poisoned by a trap and Raistlin saved me. And the last was when the gods dropped a fiery mountain on me. And, all in all”—he pondered a moment—“I think I could say that was a fair statement. One death is just about the same as another. You see, the poison hurt a great deal, but it was over pretty quickly. While the building, on the other hand—”

  “C’mon”—Caramon grinned wearily—“save it to tell Flint.” He drew his sword. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” answered Tas stoutly. “ ‘Always save the best for last,’ my father used to say. Although”—the kender paused—“I think he meant that in reference to dinner, not to dying. But perhaps it has the same significance.”

  Drawing his own small knife, Tas followed Caramon into the enchanted Forest of Wayreth.

  CHAPTER

  5

  he darkness swallowed them. Light from neither moon nor stars could penetrate the night of the Forest of Wayreth. Even the brilliance of the deadly, magical lightning was lost here. And though the booming of the thunder could be heard, it seemed nothing but a distant echo of itself. Behind them, Caramon could hear, too, the drumming of the rain and the pelting of the hail. In the Forest, it was dry. Only the trees that stood on the outer fringes were affected by the rain.

  “Well, this is a relief!” said Tasslehoff cheerfully. “Now, if we just had some light. I—”

  His voice was cut off with a choking gurgle. Caramon heard a thud and creaking wood and a sound like something being dragged along the ground.

  “Tas?” he called.

  “Caramon!” Tas cried. “It’s a tree! A tree’s got me! Help, Caramon! Help!”

  “Is this a joke, Tas?” Caramon asked sternly. “Because it’s not funny—”

  “No!” Tas screamed. “It’s got me and it’s dragging me off somewhere!”

  “What … where?” Caramon yelled. “I can’t see in this damn darkness? Tas?”

  “Here! Here!” Tas screamed wildly. “It’s got hold of my foot and it’s trying to tear me in two!”

  “Keep yelling, Tas!” Caramon cried, stumbling about in the rustling blackness. “I think I’m close—”

  A huge tree limb bashed Caramon in the chest, knocking him to the ground and slamming his breath from his body. He lay there, trying to draw in air, when he heard a creaking to his right. As he slashed at it blindly with his sword, he rolled away. Something heavy crashed right where he’d been lying. He staggered to his feet, but another limb struck him in the small of his back, sending him sprawling face first onto the barren floor of the Forest.

  The blow to the back caught him in the kidneys, making him gasp in pain. He tried to struggle back up, but his knee throbbed painfully, his head spun. He couldn’t hear Tas anymore. He couldn’t hear anything except the creaking, rustling sounds of the trees closing in on him. Something scraped along his arm. Caramon flinched and crawled ou
t of its reach, only to feel something grab his foot. Desperately he hacked at it with his sword. Flying wood chips stung his leg, but apparently did no harm to his attacker.

  The strength of centuries was in the tree’s massive limbs. Magic gave it thought and purpose. Caramon had trespassed on land it guarded, land forbidden to the uninvited. It was going to kill him, he knew.

  Another tree limb caught hold of Caramon’s thick thigh. Branches clutched at his arms, seeking a firm grip. Within seconds, he would be ripped apart.… He heard Tas cry out in pain.…

  Raising his voice, Caramon shouted desperately, “I am Caramon Majere, brother of Raistlin Majere! I must speak to Par-Salian or whoever is Master of the Tower now!”

  There was a moment’s silence, a moment’s hesitation. Caramon felt the will of the trees waver, the branches loosen their grip ever so slightly.

  “Par-Salian, are you there? Par-Salian, you know me! I am his twin. I am your only hope!”

  “Caramon?” came a quavering voice.

  “Hush, Tas!” Caramon hissed.

  The silence was as thick as the darkness. And then, slowly, he felt the branches release him. He heard the creaking and rustling sounds again, only this time they were moving slowly away from him. Gasping in relief, weak from fear and the pain and the growing sickness inside him, Caramon lay his head on his arm, trying to catch his breath.

  “Tas, are you all right?” he managed to call out.

  “Yes, Caramon,” came the kender’s voice beside him. Reaching out his hand, Caramon caught hold of the kender and pulled him close.

  Though he heard the sounds of movement in the darkness and knew the trees were withdrawing, he also had the feeling the trees were watching his every move, listening to every word. Slowly and cautiously, he sheathed his sword.

  “I am truly thankful you thought of telling Par-Salian who you are, Caramon,” Tas said, panting for breath. “I was just imagining trying to explain to Flint how I’d been murdered by a tree. I’m not certain whether or not you’re allowed to laugh in the Afterlife, but I’ll bet he would have roared—”

  “Shhhh,” Caramon said weakly.

  Tas paused, then whispered, “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, just let me catch my breath. I’ve lost my crutch.”

  “It’s over here. I fell over it.” Tas crawled off and returned moments later, dragging the padded tree branch. “Here.” He helped Caramon stagger to his feet.

  “Caramon,” he asked after a moment, “how long do you think it will take us to get to the Tower? I—I’m awfully thirsty and, while my insides are a little better since I was sick a while back, I still get queer squirmy feelings in my stomach sometimes.”

  “I don’t know, Tas,” Caramon sighed. “I can’t see a damn thing in this darkness. I don’t know where we’re going or what’s the right way or how we’re going to manage to walk without running smack into something—”

  The rustling sounds suddenly started again, as though a storm wind were tossing the branches of the trees. Caramon tensed and even Tas stiffened in alarm as they heard the trees start to close in around them once more. Tas and Caramon stood helpless in the darkness as the trees came nearer and nearer. Branches touched their skin and dead leaves brushed their hair, whispering strange words in their ears. Caramon’s shaking hand closed over his sword hilt, though he knew it would do little good. But then, when the trees were pressed close around them, the movement and the whispering ceased. The trees were silent once more.

  Reaching out his hand, Caramon touched solid trunks to his right and his left. He could feel them massed behind him. An idea occurred to him. He stretched his arm out into the darkness and felt around ahead of him. All was clear.

  “Keep close to me, Tas,” he ordered and, for once in his life, the kender didn’t argue. Together, they walked forward into the opening provided by the trees.

  At first they moved cautiously, fearful of stumbling over a root or a fallen branch or becoming entangled in brush or tumbling into a hole. But gradually they came to realize that the forest floor was smooth and dry, cleared of all obstacles, free from undergrowth. They had no idea where they were going. They walked in absolute darkness, kept to some irreversible path only by the trees that parted before them and closed in after them. Any deviation from the set path brought them into a wall of trunks and tangled branches and dead, whispering leaves.

  The heat was oppressive. No wind blew, no rain fell. Their thirst, lost in their fear, returned to plague them. Wiping the sweat from his face, Caramon wondered at the strange, intense heat, for it was much greater here than outside the Forest. It seemed as if the heat were being generated by the Forest itself. The Forest was more alive that he had noticed the last two times he had been here. It was certainly more alive than the world outside. Amid the rustling of the trees, he could hear—or thought he heard—movements of animals or the rush of birds’ wings, and sometimes he caught a glimpse of eyes shining in the darkness. But being among living beings once more brought no sense of comfort to Caramon. He felt their hatred and their anger and, even as he felt it, he realized that it wasn’t directed against him. It was directed against itself.

  And then he heard the birds’ songs again, as he had heard them the last time he’d entered this eerie place. High and sweet and pure, rising above death and darkness and defeat, rose the song of a lark. Caramon stopped to listen, tears stinging his eyes at the beauty of the song, feeling his heart’s pain ease.

  The light in the eastern skies

  Is still and always morning,

  It alters the renewing air

  Into belief and yearning.

  And larks rise up like angels,

  Like angels larks ascend

  From sunlit grass as bright as gems

  Into the cradling wind.

  But even as the lark’s song pierced his heart with its sweetness, a harsh cackle made him cringe. Black wings fluttered around him, and his soul was filled with shadows.

  The plain light in the east

  Contrives out of the dark

  The machinery of day,

  The diminished song of the lark.

  But ravens ride the night

  And the darkness west,

  The wingbeat of their hearts

  Large in a buried nest.

  “What does it mean, Caramon?” Tas asked in awe as they continued to grope their way through the Forest, guided, always, by the angry trees.

  The answer to his question came, not from Caramon, but from other voices, mellow, deep, sad with the ancient wisdom of the owl.

  Through night the seasons ride into the dark,

  The years surrender in the changing lights,

  The breath turns vacant on the dusk or dawn

  Between the abstract days and nights.

  For there is always corpselight in the fields

  And corposants above the slaughterhouse,

  And at deep noon the shadowy vallenwoods

  Are bright at the topmost boughs.

  “It means the magic is out of control,” Caramon said softly. “Whatever will holds this Forest in check is just barely hanging on.” He shivered. “I wonder what we’ll find when we get to the Tower.”

  “If we get to the Tower,” Tas muttered. “How do we know that these awful, old trees aren’t leading us to the edge of a tall cliff?”

  Caramon stopped, panting for breath in the terrible heat. The crude crutch dug painfully into his armpit. With his weight off of it, his knee had begun to stiffen. His leg was inflamed and swollen, and he knew he could not go on much longer. He, too, had been sick, purging his system of the poison, and now he felt somewhat better. But thirst was a torment. And, as Tas reminded him, he had no idea where these trees were leading them.

  Raising his voice, his throat parched, Caramon cried out harshly, “Par-Salian! Answer me or I’ll go no farther! Answer me!”

  The trees broke out in a clamor, branches shaking and stirring as if in a high wind, though
no breeze cooled Caramon’s feverish skin. The birds’ voices rose in a fearful cacophony, intermingling, overlapping, twisting their songs into horrible, unlovely melodies that filled the mind with terror and foreboding.

  Even Tas was a bit startled by this, creeping closer to Caramon (in case the big man needed comfort), but Caramon stood resolutely, staring into the endless night, ignoring the turmoil around him.

  “Par-Salian!” he called once more.

  Then he heard his answer—a thin, high-pitched scream.

  At the dreadful sound, Caramon’s skin crawled. The scream pierced through the darkness and the heat. It rose above the strange singing of the birds and drowned out the clashing of the trees. It seemed to Caramon as if all the horror and sorrow of the dying world had been sucked up and released at last in that fearful cry.

  “Name of the gods!” Tas breathed in awe, catching hold of Caramon’s hand (in case the big man should feel frightened). “What’s happening?”

  Caramon didn’t answer. He could feel the anger in the Forest grow more intense, mingled now with an overwhelming fear and sadness. The trees seemed to be prodding them ahead, crowding them, urging them on. The screaming continued for as long as it might take a man to use up his breath, then it quit for the space of a man drawing air into his lungs, then it began again. Caramon felt the sweat chill on his body.

  He kept walking, Tas close by his side. They made slow progress, made worse by the fact that they had no idea if they were making progress at all, since they could not see their destination nor even know if they were headed in the right direction. The only guide they had to the Tower was that shrill, inhuman scream.

  On and on they stumbled and, though Tas helped as best he could, each step for Caramon was agony. The pain of his injuries took possession of him and soon he lost all conception of time. He forgot why they had come or even where they were going. To stagger ahead, one step at a time through the darkness that had become a darkness of the mind and soul, was Caramon’s only thought.