Test of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  I assumed the Abyss was a reflection of the world, Raistlin realized. And thus I journeyed through it. It isn’t, however. It is nothing more than a reflection of my mind! All I have been doing is traveling through my own mind!

  The Queen is in Godshome because that is where I perceived her to be. And Godshome is as far away or as near as I choose! My magic did not work because I doubted it, not because she prevented it from working. I have come close to defeating myself! Ah, but now I know, my Queen! Now I know and now I can triumph! For Godshome is just a step away and it is only another step to the Portal.…

  “Raistlin!”

  The voice was low, agonized, weary, spent. Raistlin turned his head. The crowd had vanished because it had never existed. It had been his creation. The village, the land, the continent, everything he had imagined was gone. He stood upon flat, undulating nothingness. Sky and ground were impossible to tell apart, both were the same eerie, burning pink. A faint horizon line was like a knife slit across the land.

  But one object had not vanished—the wooden stake. Surrounded by charred wood, it stood outlined against the pink sky, thrusting up from the nothingness below. A figure lay below it. The figure might once have worn white robes, but these were now burnt black. The smell of burned flesh was strong.

  Raistlin drew closer. Kneeling down upon the still-warm ashes, he turned the figure over.

  “Crysania,” he murmured.

  “Raistlin?” Her face was horribly burned, sightless eyes stared into the emptiness around her, she reached out a hand that was little more than a blackened claw. “Raistlin?” She moaned in agony.

  His hand closed over hers. “I can’t see!” she whimpered. “All is darkness! Is that you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Raistlin, I’ve failed—”

  “No, Crysania, you have not,” he said, his voice cool and even. “I am unharmed. My magic is strong now, stronger than it has ever been before in any of the times I have lived. I will go forward, now, and defeat the Dark Queen.”

  The cracked and blistered lips parted in a smile. The hand holding Raistlin’s tightened its feeble grasp. “Then my prayers have been granted.” She choked, a spasm of pain twisted her body. When she could draw breath, she whispered something. Raistlin bent close to hear. “I am dying, Raistlin. I am weakened past endurance. Soon, Paladine will take me to him. Stay with me, Raistlin. Stay with me while I die.…”

  Raistlin gazed down at the remains of the wretched woman before him. Holding her hand, he had a sudden vision of her as he had seen her in the forest near Caergoth the one time he had come close to losing control and making her his own—her white skin, her silken hair, her shining eyes. He remembered the love in those eyes, he remembered holding her close in his arms, he remembered kissing the smooth skin.…

  One by one, Raistlin burned those memories in his mind, setting fire to them with his magic, watching them turn to ash and blow away in smoke.

  Reaching out his other hand, he freed himself from her clinging grasp.

  “Raistlin!” she cried, her hand clutching out at the empty air in terror.

  “You have served my purpose, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said, his voice as smooth and cold as the silver blade of the dagger he wore at his wrist. “Time presses. Even now come those to the Portal at Palanthas who will try to stop me. I must challenge the Queen, fight my final battle with her minions. Then, when I have won, I must return to the Portal and enter it before anyone has a chance to stop me.”

  “Raistlin, don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me alone in the darkness!”

  Leaning upon the Staff of Magius, which now gleamed with a bright, radiant light, Raistlin rose to his feet. “Farewell, Revered Daughter,” he said in a soft, hissing whisper. “I need you no longer.”

  Crysania heard the rustle of his black robes as he walked away. She heard the soft thud of the Staff of Magius. Through the choking, acrid smell of smoke and burned flesh, she caught the faintest scent of rose petals.…

  And then, there was only silence. She knew he was gone.

  She was alone, her life dwindling through her veins as her illusions slowly dwindled from her mind.

  “The next time you will see, Crysania, is when you are blinded by darkness … darkness unending.”

  So spoke Loralon, the elven cleric, at the fall of Istar. Crysania would have cried, but the fire had burned away her tears and their source.

  “I see now,” she whispered into the darkness. “I see so clearly! I have deceived myself! I’ve been nothing to him—nothing but his gamepiece to move about the board of his great game as he chose. And even as he used me—so I used him!” She moaned. “I used him to further my pride, my ambition! My darkness only deepened his own! He is lost, and I have led him to his downfall. For if he does defeat the Dark Queen, it will be but to take her place!”

  Staring up at the heavens she could not see, Crysania screamed in agony. “I have done this, Paladine! I have brought this harm upon myself, upon the world! But, oh, my god, what greater harm have I brought upon him?”

  Lying there, in the eternal darkness, Crysania’s heart wept the tears her eyes could not. “I love you, Raistlin,” she murmured. “I could never tell you. I could never admit it to myself.” She tossed her head, gripped by a pain that seared her more deeply than the flames. “What might have changed, if I had?”

  The pain eased. She seemed to be slipping away, losing her grasp upon consciousness.

  “Good,” she thought wearily, “I am dying. Let death come swiftly, then, and end my bitter torment.”

  She drew a breath. “Paladine, forgive me,” she murmured.

  Another breath. “Raistlin …”

  Another, softer breath. “… forgive …”

  Crysania’s Song

  Water from dust, and dust rising out of the water

  Continents forming, abstract as color or light

  To the vanished eye, to the touch of Paladine’s daughter

  Who knows with a touch that the robe is white,

  Out of that water a country is rising, impossible

  When first imagined in prayer,

  And the sun and the seas and the stars invisible

  As gods in a code of air.

  Dust from the water, and water arising from dust,

  And the robe containing all colors assumed into white,

  Into memory, into countries assumed in the trust

  Of ever returning color and light,

  Out of that dust arises a wellspring of tears

  To nourish the work of our hands

  In forever approaching country of yearning and years,

  In due and immanent lands.

  CHAPTER

  9

  anis stood outside the Temple, thinking about the old wizard’s words. Then he snorted. Love must triumph!

  Brushing away his tears, Tanis shook his head bitterly. Fizban’s magic wasn’t going to work this time. Love didn’t even have a bit part in this play. Raistlin had long ago twisted and used his twin’s love to his own ends, finally crushing Caramon into a sodden mass of blubbery flesh and dwarf spirits. Marble had more capacity to love than did the marble maiden, Crysania. And, as for Kitiara.… Had she ever loved?

  Tanis scowled. He hadn’t meant to think of her, not again. But an attempt to shove the memories of her back into the dark closet of his soul only made the light seem to shine upon them more brightly. He caught himself going back to the time they’d first met, in the wilderness near Solace. Discovering a young woman fighting for her life against goblins, Tanis had raced to the rescue—only to have the young woman turn upon him in anger, accusing him of spoiling her fun!

  Tanis was captivated. Up until then, his only love interest had been a delicate elven maiden, Laurana. But that had been a childish romance. He and Laurana had grown up together, her father having taken in the bastard half-elf out of charity when his mother died in childbirth. It was, in fact, partly because of Laurana’s girl
ish infatuation with Tanis—a love her father would never have approved—that the half-elf left his elven homeland and traveled into the world with old Flint, the dwarven metalsmith.

  Certainly Tanis had never met a woman like Kitiara—bold, courageous, lovely, sensual. She made no secret of the fact that she found the half-elf attractive on that first meeting. A playful battle between them ended in a night of passion beneath Kitiara’s fur blankets. After that, the two had often been together, traveling by themselves or in the company of their friends, Sturm Brightblade, and Kitiara’s half-brothers, Caramon and his frail twin, Raistlin.

  Hearing himself sigh, Tanis shook his head angrily. No! Grasping the thoughts, he hurled them back into the darkness, shut and locked the door. Kitiara had never loved him. She had been amused by him, that was all. He had kept her entertained. When a chance came to gain what she truly wanted—power—she had left him without a second thought. But, even as he turned the key in the lock of his soul, Tanis heard, once again, Kitiara’s voice. He heard the words she had spoken the night of the downfall of the Queen of Darkness, the night Kitiara had helped him and Laurana escape.

  “Farewell, Half-Elven. Remember, I do this for love of you!”

  A dark figure, like the embodiment of his own shadow, appeared beside Tanis. The half-elf started in a sudden, unreasonable fear that he had, perhaps, conjured up an image from his own subconscious. But the figure spoke a word of greeting, and Tanis realized it was flesh and blood. He sighed in relief, then hoped the dark elf had not noticed how abstracted his thoughts had been. He was more than half afraid, in fact, that Dalamar might have guessed them. Clearing his throat gruffly, the half-elf glanced at the black-robed mage.

  “Is Elistan dead?” said Dalamar coldly. “No, not yet. But I sensed the approach of one whose presence I would find most uncomfortable, and so, seeing that my services were no longer necessary, I left.”

  Stopping on the lawn, Tanis turned to face the dark elf. Dalamar had not drawn up his black hood, and his features were plainly visible in the peaceful twilight. “Why did you do it?” Tanis demanded.

  The dark elf stopped walking as well, looking at Tanis with a slight smile. “Do what?”

  “Come here, to Elistan! Ease his pain.” Tanis waved a hand. “From what I saw last time, setting foot on this ground makes you suffer the torments of the damned.” His face became grim. “I cannot believe a pupil of Raistlin’s could care so much about anyone!”

  “No,” Dalamar replied smoothly, “Raistlin’s pupil personally didn’t give a cracked iron piece what became of the cleric. But Raistlin’s pupil is honorable. He was taught to pay his debts, taught to be beholden to no one. Does that accord with what you know of my Shalafi?”

  “Yes,” Tanis admitted grudgingly, “but—”

  “I was repaying a debt, nothing more,” Dalamar said. As he resumed his walk across the lawn, Tanis saw a look of pain upon his face. The dark elf obviously wanted to leave this place as quickly as possible. Tanis had some trouble keeping pace with him. “You see,” Dalamar continued, “Elistan came once to the Tower of High Sorcery to help my Shalafi.”

  “Raistlin?” Tanis stopped again, stunned. Dalamar did not halt, however, and Tanis was forced to hurry after him.

  “Yes,” the dark elf was saying, as if caring little whether Tanis heard him or not, “no one knows this, not even Raistlin. The Shalafi grew ill once about a year ago, terribly ill. I was alone, frightened. I know nothing of sickness. In desperation, I sent for Elistan. He came.”

  “Did … did he … heal Raistlin?” Tanis asked in awe.

  “No.” Dalamar shook his head, his long black hair falling down around his shoulders. “Raistlin’s malady is beyond the healing arts, a sacrifice made for his magic. But Elistan was able to ease the Shalafi’s pain and give him rest. And so, I have done nothing more than discharge my debt.”

  “Do you … care about Raistlin as much as this?” Tanis asked hesitantly.

  “What is this talk of caring, half-elf?” Dalamar snapped impatiently. They were near the edge of the lawn. Evening’s shadows spread across it like soothing fingers, gently reaching out to close the eyes of the weary. “Like Raistlin, I care for one thing only—and that is the Art and the power that it gives. For that, I gave up my people, my homeland, my heritage. For that, I have been cast in darkness. Raistlin is the Shalafi, my teacher, my master. He is skilled in the Art, one of the most skilled who has ever lived. When I volunteered to the Conclave to spy upon him, I knew I might well sacrifice my life. But how little was that price to pay for the chance of studying with one so gifted! How could I afford to lose him? Even now, when I think of what I must do to him, when I think of the knowledge he has gained that will be lost when he dies, I almost—”

  “Almost what?” Tanis said sharply, in sudden fear. “Almost let him through the Portal? Can you truly stop him, when he comes back, Dalamar? Will you stop him?”

  They had reached the end of the Temple grounds. Soft darkness blanketed the land. The night was warm and filled with the smells of new life. Here and there among the aspen trees, a bird chirped sleepily. In the city, lighted candles were set in the windows to guide loved ones home. Solinari glimmered on the horizon, as though the gods had lit their own candle to brighten the night. Tanis’s eyes were drawn to the one patch of chill blackness in the warm, perfumed evening. The Tower of High Sorcery stood dark and forbidding. No candles flickered in its windows. He wondered, briefly, who or what waited within that blackness to welcome the young apprentice home.

  “Let me tell you of the Portals, Half-Elven,” Dalamar replied. “I will tell you as my Shalafi told me.” His gaze followed Tanis’s, going to the very topmost room in Tower. When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “There is a corner in that laboratory where stands a doorway, a doorway without a lock. Five dragon’s heads made of metal surround it. Look within it, you will see nothing—simply a void. The dragon’s heads are cold and still. That is the Portal. Another exists beside this one—it stands in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. The only other one, as far as we know, was in Istar and it was destroyed in the Cataclysm. The one in Palanthas was originally moved to the magical fortress in Zhaman to protect it when the mobs of the Kingpriest tried to take over the Tower here. It moved again when Fistandantilus destroyed Zhaman, returning to Palanthas. Created long ago by mages who desired faster communication with each other, it led them too far—it led them onto other planes.”

  “The Abyss,” Tanis murmured.

  “Yes. Too late the mages realized what a perilous gate they had devised. For if someone from this plane entered the Abyss and returned through the Portal, the Queen would have the entrance into the world she has long sought. Thus with the help of the holy clerics of Paladine, they insured—so they thought—that none could ever use the Portals. Only one of the most profound evil, who had committed his very soul to darkness, could hope to gain the knowledge necessary to open that dread doorway. And only one of goodness and purity, with absolute trust in the one person upon this world who could never merit trust, could hold the doorway open.”

  “Raistlin and Crysania.”

  Dalamar smiled cynically. “In their infinite wisdom, those dried-up old mages and clerics never foresaw that love would overthrow their grand design. So, you see, Half-Elven, when Raistlin attempts to reenter the Portal from the Abyss, I must stop him. For the Queen will be right behind him.”

  None of this explanation did much to ease Tanis’s doubts. Certainly the dark elf appeared cognizant of the grave danger. Certainly he appeared calm, confident.… “But can you stop him?” Tanis persisted, his gaze going—without meaning to—to the dark elf’s chest where he had seen those five holes burned into his smooth skin.

  Noticing Tanis’s look, Dalamar’s hand went involuntarily to his chest. His eyes grew dark and haunted. “I know my own limitations, Half-Elven,” he said softly. Then, he smiled and shrugged. “I will be honest with you. If my Shalafi were in the full streng
th of his power when he tried to come through the Portal, then, no, I could not stop him. No one could. But Raistlin will not be. He will already have expended much of his power in destroying the Queen’s minions and forcing her to face him alone. He will be weak and injured. His only hope—to draw the Dark Queen out here onto his plane. Here he can regain strength, here she will be the weaker of the two. And thus, yes, because he will be injured, I can stop him. And, yes, I will stop him!”

  Noticing Tanis still looked dubious, Dalamar’s smile twisted. “You see, Half-Elven,” he said coolly, “I have been offered enough to make it worth my while.” With that, he bowed, and—murmuring the words of a spell—vanished.

  But as he left, Tanis heard Dalamar’s soft, elven voice speak through the night. “You have looked upon the sun for the last time, Half-Elven. Raistlin and the Dark Queen have met. Takhisis now gathers her minions. The battle begins. Tomorrow, there will be no dawn.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  And so, Raistlin, we meet again.

  “My Queen.”

  You bow before me, wizard?

  “This one last time, I do you homage.”

  And I bow to you, Raistlin.

  “You do me too much honor, Majesty.”

  On the contrary, I have watched your gameplay with the keenest pleasure. For every move of mine, you had a counter move. More than once, you risked all you had to win a single turn. You have proved yourself a skilled player, and our game has brought me much amusement. But now it comes to the end, my worthy opponent. You have one gamepiece left upon the board—yourself. Ranged against you is the full might of my dark legions. But, because I have found pleasure in you, Raistlin, I will grant you one favor.

  Return to your cleric. She lies dying, alone, in such torment of mind and body as only I can inflict. Return to her. Kneel down beside her. Take her in your arms and hold her close. The mantle of death will fall upon you both. Gently it will cover you, and you will drift into the darkness and find eternal rest.