Test of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  The half-elf could only mutter a polite reply. Bowing, Garad hurried back to be with his dying master. Tanis paused a moment near the doorway in an effort to regain control of himself before stepping outside. As he stood there, thinking over Elistan’s words, he became aware of an argument being carried on near the Temple door.

  “I am sorry, sir, but I cannot permit you to go inside,” a young acolyte was saying firmly.

  “But I tell you I’m here to see Elistan,” returned a querulous, crotchety voice.

  Tanis closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. He knew that voice. Memories washed over him with an intensity so painful that, for a moment, he could neither move nor speak.

  “Perhaps, if you gave me your name,” the acolyte said patiently, “I could ask him—”

  “I am—The name is—” The voice hesitated, sounding a bit bewildered, then muttered. “I knew it yesterday …”

  Tanis heard the sound of a wooden staff thumping irritably against the Temple steps. The voice raised shrilly. “I am a very important person, young man. And I’m not accustomed to being treated with such impertinence. Now get out of my way before you force me to do something I’ll regret. I mean, you’ll regret. Well, one of us will regret it.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the acolyte repeated, his patience obviously wearing thin, “but without a name I cannot allow—”

  There was the sound of a brief scuffle, then silence, then Tanis heard a truly ominous sound—the sound of pages being turned. Smiling through his tears, the half-elf walked to the door. Looking outside, he saw an old wizard standing on the Temple stairs. Dressed in mouse-colored robes, his misshapen wizard’s hat appearing ready to topple from his head at the slightest opportunity, the ancient wizard was a most disreputable sight. He had leaned the plain wooden staff he carried against the Temple wall and now, ignoring the flushed and indignant acolyte, the wizard was flipping through the pages of his spellbook, muttering “Fireball … Fireball. How does that dratted spell go?…”

  Gently, Tanis placed his hand upon the acolyte’s shoulder. “He truly is an important person,” the half-elf said softly. “You can let him in. I’ll take full responsibility.”

  “He is?” The acolyte looked dubious.

  At the sound of Tanis’s voice, the wizard raised his head and glanced about. “Eh? Important person? Where?” Seeing Tanis, he started. “Oh, there! How do you do, sir?” He started to extend his hand, became entangled in his robes, and dropped his spellbook on his foot. Bending down to pick it up, he knocked over his staff, sending it down the steps with a clatter. In the confusion, his hat tumbled off. It took Tanis and the acolyte both to get the old man back together again.

  “Ouch, my toe! Confound it! Lost my place. Stupid staff! Where’s my hat?”

  Eventually, however, he was more or less intact. Stuffing the spellbook back in a pouch, he planted his hat firmly on his head. (Having attempted, at first, to do those two things in reverse order.) Unfortunately, the hat immediately slipped down, covering his eyes.

  “Struck blind, by the gods!” the old wizard stated in awe, groping about with his hands.

  This matter was soon remedied. The young acolyte—with an even more dubious glance at Tanis—gently pushed the wizard’s hat to the back of his white-haired head. Glaring at the acolyte irritably, the old wizard turned to Tanis. “Important person? Yes, so you are … I think. Have we met before?”

  “Indeed, yes,” Tanis replied. “But you are the important person I was referring to, Fizban.”

  “I am?” The old wizard seemed staggered for a moment. Then, with a humpf, he glared again at the young cleric. “Well, of course. Told you so! Stand aside, stand aside,” he ordered the acolyte irritably.

  Entering the Temple door, the old man turned to look at Tanis from beneath the brim of the battered hat. Pausing, he laid his hand on the half-elf’s arm. The befuddled look left the old wizard’s face. He stared at Tanis intently.

  “You have never faced a darker hour, Half-Elven,” the old wizard said gravely. “There is hope, but love must triumph.”

  With that, he toddled off and, almost immediately, blundered into a closet. Two clerics came to his rescue, and guided him on.

  “Who is he?” the young acolyte asked, staring, perplexed, after the old wizard.

  “A friend of Elistan’s,” Tanis murmured. “A very old friend.”

  As he left the Temple, Tanis heard a voice wail, “My hat!”

  CHAPTER

  8

  “Crysania.…”

  There was no reply, only a low moaning sound.

  “Shh. It’s all right. You have been hurt, but the enemy is gone. Drink this, it will ease the pain.”

  Taking some herbs from a pouch, Raistlin mixed them in a mug of steaming water and, lifting Crysania from the bed of blood-soaked leaves upon which she lay, he held the mug to her lips. As she drank it, her face smoothed, her eyes opened.

  “Yes,” she murmured, leaning against him. “That is better.”

  “Now,” continued Raistlin smoothly, “you must pray to Paladine to heal you, Revered Daughter. We have to keep going.”

  “I—I don’t know, Raistlin. I’m so weak and—and Paladine seems so far away!”

  “Pray to Paladine?” said a stern voice. “You blaspheme, Black Robe!”

  Frowning, annoyed, Raistlin glanced up. His eyes widened. “Sturm!” he gasped.

  But the young knight did not hear him. He was staring at Crysania, watching in awe as the wounds upon her body closed, though they did not heal completely. “Witches!” cried the knight, drawing his sword. “Witches!”

  “Witches!” Crysania raised her head. “No, Sir Knight. We are not witches. I am a cleric, a cleric of Paladine! Look at the medallion I wear!”

  “You lie!” Sturm said fiercely. “There are no clerics! They vanished in the Cataclysm. And, if you were, what would you be doing in the company of this dark one of evil?”

  “Sturm! It’s me, Raistlin!” The archmage rose to his feet. “Look at me! Don’t you recognize me?”

  The young knight turned his sword upon the mage, its point at Raistlin’s throat. “I do not know by what sorcerous ways you have conjured up my name, Black Robe, but, speak it once more and it will go badly for you. We deal shortly with witches in Solace.”

  “As you are a virtuous and holy knight, bound by vows of chivalry and obedience, I beg you for justice,” Crysania said, rising to her feet slowly, with Raistlin’s help.

  The young man’s stern face smoothed. He bowed, and sheathed his sword, but not without a sideways glance at Raistlin. “You speak truly, madam. I am bound by such vows and I will grant you justice.”

  Even as he spoke, the bed of leaves became a wooden floor; the trees—benches; the sky above—a ceiling; the road—an aisle between the benches. We are in a Hall of Judgment, Raistlin saw, momentarily dizzied by the sudden change. His arm around Crysania still, he helped her to sit down at a small table that stood in the center of the room. Before them loomed a podium. Glancing behind them, Raistlin saw that the room was packed with people, all watching with interest and enjoyment.

  He stared. He knew these people! There was Otik, the owner of the Inn of the Last Home, eating a plateful of spiced potatoes. There was Tika, her red curls bouncing, pointing at Crysania and saying something and laughing. And Kitiara! Lounging against the doorway, surrounded by admiring young men, her hand on the hilt of her sword, she looked over at Raistlin and winked.

  Raistlin glanced about feverishly. His father, a poor woodcutter, sat in a corner, his shoulders bent, that perpetual look of worry and care on his face. Laurana sat apart, her cool elven beauty shining like a bright star in the darkest night.

  Beside him, Crysania cried out, “Elistan!” Rising to her feet, she stretched out her hand, but the cleric only looked at her sadly and sternly and shook his head.

  “Rise and do honor!” rang out a voice.

  With much shuffling of feet and scr
aping of the benches, everyone in the Hall of Judgment stood up. A respectful silence descended upon the crowd as the judge entered. Dressed in the gray robes of Gilean, God of Neutrality, the judge took his place behind the podium and turned to face the accused.

  “Tanis!” Raistlin cried, taking a step forward.

  But the bearded half-elf only frowned at this unseemly conduct while a grumbling old dwarf—the bailiff—stumped over and prodded Raistlin in the side with the butt-end of his battle-axe. “Sit down, witch, and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

  “Flint?” Raistlin grabbed the dwarf by the arm. “Don’t you know me?”

  “And don’t touch the bailiff!” Flint roared, incensed, jerking his arm away. “Humpf,” he grumbled as he stalked back to take his place beside the judge. “No respect for my age or my station. You’d think I was a sack of meal to be handled by everyone—”

  “That will do, Flint,” said Tanis, sternly eyeing Raistlin and Crysania. “Now, who brings the charges against these two?”

  “I do,” said a knight in shining armor, rising to his feet.

  “Very well, Sturm Brightblade,” Tanis said, “you will have a chance to present your charges. And who defends these two?”

  Raistlin started to rise and reply, but he was interrupted.

  “Me! Here, Tanis—uh, your honorship! Me, over here! Wait. I—I seem to be stuck.…”

  Laughter filled the Hall of Judgment, the crowd turning and staring at a kender, loaded down with books, struggling to get through the doorway. Grinning, Kitiara reached out, grabbed him by his topknot of hair, and yanked him through the door, tossing him unceremoniously onto the floor. Books scattered everywhere, and the crowd roared with laughter. Unfazed, the kender picked himself up, dusted himself off, and, tripping over the books, managed eventually to make it up to the front.

  “I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” the kender said, holding out his small hand for Raistlin to shake. The archmage stared at Tas in amazement and did not move. With a shrug, Tas looked at his hand, sighed, and then, turning, started toward the judge. “Hi, my name’s Tasslehoff Burrfoot—”

  “Sit down!” roared the dwarf. “You don’t shake hands with the judge, you doorknob!”

  “Well,” said Tas indignantly. “I think I might if I liked. I’m only being polite, after all, something you dwarves know nothing about. I—”

  “Sit down and shut up!” shouted the dwarf, thudding the butt-end of the axe on the floor.

  His topknot bouncing, the kender turned and meekly made his way over to sit beside Raistlin. But, before sitting, he faced the audience and mimicked the dwarf’s dour look so well that the crowd howled with glee, making the dwarf angrier than ever. But this time the judge intervened.

  “Silence,” called Tanis sternly, and the crowd hushed.

  Tas plopped himself down beside Raistlin. Feeling a soft touch brush against him, the mage glared down at the kender and held out his hand.

  “Give that back!” he demanded.

  “What back? Oh, this? Is that yours? You must have dropped it,” Tas said innocently, handing over one of Raistlin’s spell component pouches. “I found it on the floor—”

  Snatching it from the kender, Raistlin attached it once more to the cord he wore around his waist.

  “You might at least have said thank you,” Tas remarked in a shrill whisper, then subsided as he caught the stern gaze of the judge.

  “What are the charges against these two?” Tanis asked.

  Sturm Brightblade came to the front of the room. There was some scattered applause. The young knight with his high standards of honor and melancholy mien was apparently well-liked.

  “I found these two in the wilderness, your honor. The Black Robed one spoke the name of Paladine”—there was angry mutterings from the crowd—“and, even as I watched, he brewed up some foul concoction and gave it to the woman to drink. She was badly hurt when I first saw them. Blood covered her robes, and her face was burned and scarred as if she had been in a fire. But when she drank that witch’s brew, she was healed!”

  “No!” cried Crysania, rising unsteadily to her feet. “That is wrong. The potion Raistlin gave me simply eased the pain. It was my prayers that healed me! I am a cleric of Paladine—”

  “Pardon us, your honor,” yelled the kender, leaping to his feet. “My client didn’t mean to say she was a cleric of Paladine. Performing a pantomime. That’s what she meant to say. Yes, that’s it,” Tas giggled. “Just having a little fun to lighten the journey. It’s a game they play all the time. Hah, hah.” Turning to Crysania, the kender frowned and said in a whisper that was audible to everyone in the room, “What are you doing? How can I possibly get you off if you go around telling the truth like that! I simply won’t put up with it!”

  “Quiet!” roared the dwarf.

  The kender whirled around. “And I’m getting a bit tired of you, too, Flint!” he shouted. “Quit pounding that axe on the floor or I’ll wrap it around your neck.”

  The room dissolved into laughter, and even the judge grinned.

  Crysania sank back down beside Raistlin, her face deathly pale. “What is this mockery?” she murmured fearfully.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to put an end to it.” Raistlin rose to his feet.

  “Silence, all of you.” His soft, whispering voice brought immediate quiet to the room. “This lady is a holy cleric of Paladine! I am a wizard of the Black Robes, skilled in the arts of magic—”

  “Oh, do something magic!” the kender cried, jumping to his feet again. “Whoosh me into a duck pond—”

  “Sit down!” yelled the dwarf.

  “Set the dwarf’s beard on fire!” Tasslehoff laughed.

  There was a round of applause for this suggestion.

  “Yes, show us some magic, wizard.” Tanis called out over the hilarity in the Hall.

  Everyone hushed, and then the crowd began to murmur, “Yes, wizard, show us some magic. Do some magic, wizard!” Kitiara’s voice rang out above the others, strong and powerful. “Perform some magic, frail and sickly wretch, if you can!”

  Raistlin’s tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Crysania was staring at him, hope and terror in her gaze. His hands trembled. He caught up the Staff of Magius, which stood at his side, but, remembering what it had done to him, he dared not use it.

  Drawing himself up, he cast a look of scorn upon the people around him. “Hah! I do not need to prove myself to such as you—”

  “I really think it might be a good idea,” Tas muttered, tugging at Raistlin’s robe.

  “You see!” shouted Sturm. “The witch cannot! I demand judgment!”

  “Judgment! Judgment!” chanted the crowd. “Burn the witches! Burn their bodies! Save their souls!”

  “Well, wizard?” Tanis asked sternly. “Can you prove you are what you claim?”

  Spell words slithered from his grasp. Crysania’s hands clutched at him. The noise deafened him. He couldn’t think! He wanted to be alone, away from the laughing mouths and pleading, terror-filled eyes. “I—” He faltered, and bowed his head.

  “Burn them.”

  Rough hands caught hold of Raistlin. The courtyard disappeared before his eyes. He struggled, but it was useless. The man who held him was big and strong, with a face that might once have been jovial but was now serious and intent.

  “Caramon! Brother!” Raistlin cried, twisting in the big man’s grasp to look into his twin’s face.

  But Caramon ignored him. Gripping Raistlin firmly, he dragged the frail mage up a hill. Raistlin looked around. Before him, on the top of the hill, he saw two tall, wooden stakes that had been driven into the ground. At the foot of each stake, the townspeople—his friends, his neighbors—were gleefully tossing great armloads of dry tinder onto a mound.

  “Where’s Crysania?” he asked his brother, hoping she might have escaped and could now return to help him. Then Raistlin caught a glimpse of white robes. Elistan was binding her to a stake. She fought,
trying to escape his grasp, but she was weakened from her suffering. At last, she gave up. Weeping in fear and despair, she slumped against the stake as they tied her hands behind it and bound her feet to the base.

  Her dark hair fell over the smooth bare shoulders as she wept. Her wounds had opened, blood staining her robes red. Raistlin thought he heard her cry out to Paladine, but, if she did, the words could not be heard above the howling of the mob. Her faith was weakening even as she herself weakened.

  Tanis advanced, a flaming torch in his hand. He turned to look at Raistlin.

  “Witness her fate and see your own, witch!” the half-elf shouted.

  “No!” Raistlin struggled, but Caramon held him fast.

  Leaning down, Tanis thrust the blazing torch into the oil-soaked, drying tinder. It caught. The fire spread quickly, soon engulfing Crysania’s white robes. Raistlin heard her anguished scream above the roar of the flame. She managed to raise her head, seeking for one final look at Raistlin. Seeing the pain and terror in her eyes, yet, seeing, too, love for him, Raistlin’s heart burned with a fire hotter than any man could create.

  “They want magic! I’ll give them magic!” And, before he thought, he shoved the startled Caramon away and, breaking free, raised his arms to the heavens.

  And, at that moment, the words of magic entered his soul, never to leave again.

  Lightning streaked from his fingertips, striking the clouds in the red-tinged sky. The clouds answered with lightning, streaking down, striking the ground before the mage’s feet.

  Raistlin turned in fury upon the crowd—but the people had vanished, disappeared as though they had never existed.

  “Ah, my Queen!” Laughter bubbled on his lips. Joy shot through his soul as the ecstasy of his magic burned in his blood. And, at last, he understood. He perceived his great folly and he saw his great chance.

  He had been deceived—by himself! Tas had given him the clue at Zhaman, but he had not bothered to think it through. I thought of something in my mind, the kender said, and there it was! When I wanted to go somewhere, all I had to do was think about it, and either it came to me or I went to it, I’m not sure. It was all the cities I have ever been in and yet none. So the kender had told him.