Test of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  “Balance, balance,” Rounce muttered, his teeth clicking together.

  Tas took his place upon the black crystal circles once again and Rounce crawled up onto his shoulders again. This time, the gully dwarf, after a few tense moments of wobbling, managed to stand up. Tas heaved a sigh. Reaching out his dirty hands, Rounce—after a few false starts—gingerly placed them upon the black crystal globes.

  Immediately, a curtain of light dropped down from the glowing circle in the ceiling, forming a brilliant wall around Tas and the gully dwarf. Runes appeared on the ceiling, glowing red and violet.

  And, with a heart-stopping lurch, the flying citadel began to move.

  Down the stairs in the corridor below the Wind Captain’s Chair, the jolt sent draconians and their magic-user crashing to the floor. Tanis fell backward against a wall, and Caramon slammed into him.

  Screaming and cursing, the Bozak wizard struggled to his feet. Stepping on his own men, who littered the corridor, and completely ignoring Tanis and Caramon, the draconian began to run toward the staircase leading up to the Wind Captain’s room.

  “Stop him!” Caramon growled, pushing himself away from the wall as the citadel canted to one side like a sinking ship.

  “I’ll try,” Tanis wheezed, having had the breath knocked out of him, “but I think this bracelet is about used up.”

  He made a lunge for the Bozak, but the citadel suddenly tipped in the opposite direction. Tanis missed and tumbled to the floor. The Bozak, intent only on stopping the thieves who were stealing his citadel, stumbled on toward the stairs. Drawing his dagger, Caramon hurled it at the Bozak’s back. But it struck a magical, invisible barrier around the black robes, and fell harmlessly to the floor.

  The Bozak had just reached the bottom of the spiral stairs leading up to the Wind Captain’s room, the other draconians were finally regaining their feet, and Tanis was just nearing the Bozak once again when the citadel leaped straight up into the air. The Bozak fell backward on top of Tanis, draconians went flying everywhere, and Caramon, just barely managing to keep his feet, jumped on the Bozak wizard.

  The sudden gyrations of the tower broke the mage’s concentration—the Bozak’s protection spell failed. The draconian fought desperately with its clawed hands, but Caramon—dragging the creature off Tanis—thrust his sword into the Bozak just as the wizard began shrieking another chant.

  The draconian’s body dissolved instantly in a horrible yellow pool, sending clouds of foul, poisonous smoke billowing through the chamber.

  “Get away!” Tanis cried, stumbling toward an open window, coughing. Leaning out, he took a deep breath of fresh air, then gasped.

  “Tas!” he shouted, “we’re going the wrong way! I said northwest!”

  He heard the kender’s shrill voice cry, “Think northwest, Rounce! Northwest.”

  “Rounce?” Caramon muttered, coughing and glancing at Tanis in sudden alarm.

  “How me think of two direction same time?” demanded a voice. “You want go north or you want go west? Make up mind.”

  “Northwest!” cried Tas. “It’s one direc—Oh, never mind. Look, Rounce, you think north and I’ll think west. That might work.”

  Closing his eyes, Caramon sighed in despair and slumped against a wall.

  “Tanis,” he said, “Maybe you better—”

  “No time,” Tanis answered grimly, his sword in his hand. “Here they come.”

  But the draconians, thrown into confusion by the death of their leader and completely unable to comprehend what was happening to their citadel, were eyeing each other—and their enemy—askance. At that moment, the flying citadel changed direction again, heading off northwest and dropping down about twenty feet at the same time.

  Turning, tripping, shoving and sliding, the draconians ran down the corridor and disappeared back through the secret way they had come.

  “We’re finally going in the right direction,” Tanis reported, staring out the window. Joining him, Caramon saw the Tower of High Sorcery drawing nearer and nearer.

  “Good! Let’s see what’s going on,” Caramon muttered, starting to climb the stairs.

  “No, wait”—Tanis stopped him—“Tas can’t see, apparently. We’re going to have to guide him. Besides, those draconians might come back any moment.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Caramon said, peering up the stairs dubiously.

  “We should be there in a few minutes,” Tanis said, leaning against the window ledge wearily. “But I think we’ve got time enough for you to tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s hard to believe,” said Tanis softly, looking out the window again, “even of Raistlin.”

  “I know,” Caramon said, his voice edged with sorrow. “I didn’t want to believe it, not for a long time. But when I saw him standing before the Portal and when I heard him tell what he was going to do to Crysania, I knew that the evil had finally eaten into his soul.”

  “You are right, you must stop him,” Tanis said, reaching out to grip the big man’s hand in his own. “But, Caramon, does that mean you have to go into the Abyss after him? Dalamar is in the Tower, waiting at the Portal. Surely, the two of you together can prevent Raistlin from coming through. You don’t need to enter the Portal yourself—”

  “No, Tanis,” Caramon said, shaking his head. “Remember—Dalamar failed to stop Raistlin the first time. Something must be going to happen to the dark elf—something that will prevent him from fulfilling his assignment.” Reaching into his knapsack, Caramon pulled out the leather-bound Chronicles.

  “Maybe we can get there in time to stop it,” Tanis suggested, feeling strange talking about a future that was already described.

  Turning to the page he had marked, Caramon scanned it hurriedly, then drew in his breath with a soft whistle.

  “What is it?” Tanis asked, leaning over to see. Caramon hastily shut the book.

  “Something happens to him, all right,” the big man muttered, avoiding Tanis’s eyes. “Kitiara kills him.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  alamar sat alone in the laboratory of the Tower of High Sorcery. The guardians of the Tower, both living and dead, stood at their posts by the entrance, waiting … watching.

  Outside the Tower window, Dalamar could see the city of Palanthas burning. The dark elf had watched the progress of the battle from his vantage point high atop the Tower. He had seen Lord Soth enter the gate, he had seen the knights scatter and fall, he had seen the draconians swoop down from the flying citadel. All the while, up above, the dragons battled, the dragon blood falling like rain upon the city streets.

  The last glimpse he had, before the rising smoke obscured his vision, showed him the flying citadel starting to drift in his direction, moving slowly and erratically, once even seeming to change its mind and head back toward the mountains. Puzzled, Dalamar watched this for several minutes, wondering what it portended. Was this how Kitiara planned to get into the Tower?

  The dark elf felt a moment of fear. Could the citadel fly over the Shoikan Grove? Yes, he realized, it might! His hand clenched. Why hadn’t he foreseen that possibility? He stared out the window, cursing the smoke that increasingly blocked his vision. As he watched, the citadel changed direction again, stumbling through the skies like a drunkard searching for his dwelling.

  It was once more headed for the Tower, but at a snail’s pace. What was going on? Was the operator wounded? He stared at it, trying to see. And then thick, black smoke rolled past the windows, completely blotting out his vision of the citadel. The odor of burning hemp and pitch was strong. The warehouses, Dalamar thought. As he was turning from the window with a curse, his attention was caught by the sight of a brief flare of firelight coming from a building almost directly opposite him—the Temple of Paladine. He could see, even through the smoke, the glow brightening, and he could picture, in his mind, the white robed clerics, wielding mace and stick, calling upon Paladine as they slew their enemies.

  Dalamar smiled grim
ly, shaking his head as he walked swiftly across the room, past the great stone table with its bottles and jars and beakers. He had shoved most of these aside, making room for his spellbooks, his scrolls and magical devices. He glanced over them for the hundredth time, making certain all was in readiness, then continued on, hurrying past the shelves lined with the nightblue-bound spellbooks of Fistandantilus, past the shelves lined with Raistlin’s own black-bound spellbooks. Reaching the door of the laboratory, Dalamar opened it and spoke one word into the darkness beyond.

  Instantly, a pair of eyes glimmered before him, the spectral body shimmering in and out of his vision as if stirred by hot winds.

  “I want guardians at the top of the Tower,” Dalamar instructed.

  “Where, apprentice?”

  Dalamar thought. “The doorway, leading down from the Death Walk. Post them there.”

  The eyes flickered closed in brief acknowledgment, then vanished. Dalamar returned to the laboratory, closing the door behind him. Then he hesitated, stopped. He could lay spells of enchantment upon the door, spells that would prevent anyone from entering. This had been a common practice of Raistlin’s in the laboratory when performing some delicate magical experiment in which the least interruption could prove fatal. A breath drawn at the wrong moment could mean the unleashing of magical forces that would destroy the Tower itself. Dalamar paused, his delicate fingers on the door, the words upon his lips.

  Then, no, he thought. I might need help. The guardians must be free to enter in case I am not able to remove the spells. Walking back across the room, he sat down in the comfortable chair that was his favorite—the chair he’d had brought from his own quarters to help ease the weariness of his vigil.

  In case I am not able to remove the spells. Sinking down into the chair’s soft, velvet cushions, Dalamar thought about death, about dying. His gaze went to the Portal. It looked as it had always looked—the five dragon heads, each a different color, facing inward, their five mouths open in five silent shouts of tribute to their Dark Queen. It looked the same as always—the heads dark and frozen, the void within the Portal empty, unchanging. Or was it? Dalamar blinked. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought the eyes of each of the heads were beginning to glow, slightly.

  The dark elf’s throat tightened, his palms began to sweat and he rubbed his hands upon his robes. Death, dying. Would it come to that? His fingers brushed over the silver runes embroidered on the black fabric, runes that would block or dispel certain magical attacks. He looked at his hands, the lovely green stone of a ring of healing sparkled there—a powerful magical device. But its power could only be used once.

  Hastily, Dalamar went over in his mind Raistlin’s lessons on judging whether a wound was mortal and required immediate healing or if the healing device’s power should be saved.

  Dalamar shuddered. He could hear the Shalafi’s voice coldly discussing varying degrees of pain. He could feel those fingers, burning with that strange inner heat, tracing over the different portions of his anatomy, pointing out the vital areas. Reflexively, Dalamar’s hand went to his breast, where the five holes Raistlin had burned into his flesh forever bled and festered. At the same time, Raistlin’s eyes burned into his mind—mirrorlike, golden, flat, deadly.

  Dalamar shrank back. Powerful magic surrounds me and protects me, he told himself. I am skilled in the Art, and, though not as skilled as he, the Shalafi will come through that Portal injured, weak, upon the point of death! It will be easy to destroy him! Dalamar’s hands clenched. Then why am I literally suffocating with fear? he demanded.

  A silver bell sounded, once. Startled, Dalamar rose from the chair, his fear of the imaginings of his mind replaced by a fear of something very real. And with the fear of something concrete, tangible, Dalamar’s body tensed, his blood ran cool in his veins, the dark shadows in his mind vanished. He was in control.

  The silver bell meant an intruder. Someone had won his way through the Shoikan Grove and was at the Tower entrance. Ordinarily, Dalamar would have left the laboratory instantly, on the words of a spell, to confront the intruder himself. But he dared not leave the Portal. Glancing back at it, the dark elf nodded to himself slowly. No, it had not been his imagination, the eyes of the dragon’s heads were glowing. He even thought he saw the void within stir and shift, as if a ripple had passed across its surface.

  No, he dared not leave. He must trust to the guardians. Walking to the door, he bent his head, listening. He thought he heard faint sounds down below—a muffled cry, a clash of steel. Then nothing but silence. He waited, holding his breath, hearing only the beating of his own heart.

  Nothing else.

  Dalamar sighed. The guardians must have handled the matter. Leaving the door, he crossed the laboratory to look out the window, but he could see nothing. The smoke was as thick as fog. He heard a distant rumble of thunder, or perhaps it was an explosion. Who had it been down there? he found himself wondering. Some draconian, perhaps? Eager for more killing, more loot. One of them might have won through—

  Not that it mattered, he told himself coldly. When all this was over, he would go down, examine the corpse.…

  “Dalamar!”

  Dalamar’s heart leaped, both fear and hope surging through him at the sound of that voice.

  “Caution, caution, my friend,” he whispered to himself. “She betrayed her brother. She betrayed you. Do not trust her.”

  Yet he found his hands shaking as he slowly crossed the laboratory toward the door.

  “Dalamar!” Her voice again, quivering with pain and terror. There was a thud against the door, the sound of a body sliding down it. “Dalamar,” she called again weakly.

  Dalamar’s hand was on the handle. Behind him, the dragon’s eyes glowed red, white, blue, green, black.

  “Dalamar,” Kitiara murmured faintly, “I—I’ve come … to help you.”

  Slowly, Dalamar opened the laboratory door.

  Kitiara lay on the floor at his feet. At the sight of her, Dalamar drew in his breath. If she had once worn armor, it had now been torn from her body by inhuman hands. He could see the marks of their nails upon her flesh. The black, tight-fitting garment she wore beneath her armor was ripped almost to shreds, exposing her tan skin, her white breasts. Blood oozed from a ghastly wound upon one leg, her leather boots were in tatters. Yet, she looked up at him with clear eyes, eyes that were not afraid. In her hand, she held the nightjewel, the charm Raistlin had given her to protect her in the Grove.

  “I was strong enough, barely,” she whispered, her lips parting in the crooked smile that made Dalamar’s blood burn. She raised her arms. “I’ve come to you. Help me stand.”

  Reaching down, Dalamar lifted Kitiara to her feet. She slumped against him. He could feel her body shivering and shook his head, knowing what poison worked in her blood. His arm around her, he half-carried her into the laboratory and shut the door behind them.

  Her weight upon him increased, her eyes rolled back. “Oh, Dalamar,” she murmured, and he saw she was going to faint. He put his arms completely around her. She leaned her head against his chest, breathing a thankful sigh of relief.

  He could smell the fragrance of her hair—that strange smell, a mixture of perfume and steel. Her body trembled in his arms. His grasp around her tightened. Opening her eyes, she looked up into his. “I’m feeling better now,” she whispered. Her hands slid down.…

  Too late, Dalamar saw the brown eyes glitter. Too late, he saw the crooked smile twist. Too late he felt her hand jerk, and the quick stabbing thrust of pain as her knife entered his body.

  “Well, we made it,” Caramon yelled, staring down from the crumbling courtyard of the flying citadel as it floated above the tops of the dark trees of the Shoikan Grove.

  “Yes, at least this far,” Tanis muttered. Even from this vantage point, high above the cursed forest, he could feel the cold waves of hatred and bloodlust rising up to grasp at them as if the guardians could, even now, drag them down. Shivering, Tanis f
orced his gaze to where the top of the Tower of High Sorcery loomed near. “If we can get close enough,” he shouted to Caramon above the rush of the wind in his ears, “we can drop down on that walkway that circles around the top.”

  “The Death Walk,” Caramon returned grimly.

  “What?”

  “The Death Walk!” Caramon edged closer, watching his footing as the dark trees drifted beneath them like the waves of a black ocean. “That’s where the evil mage stood when he called down the curse upon the Tower. So Raistlin told me. That’s where he jumped from.”

  “Nice, cheerful place,” Tanis muttered into his beard, staring at it grimly. Smoke rolled around them, blotting out the sight of the trees. The half-elf tried not to think about what was happening in the city. He’d already caught a glimpse of the Temple of Paladine in flames.

  “You know, of course,” he yelled, grabbing hold of Caramon’s shoulder as the two stood on the edge of the courtyard of the citadel, “there’s every possibility Tasslehoff is going to crash right into that thing!”

  “We’ve come this far,” Caramon said softly. “The gods are with us.”

  Tanis blinked, wondering if he’d heard right. “That doesn’t sound like the old jovial Caramon,” he said with a grin.

  “That Caramon’s dead, Tanis,” Caramon replied flatly, his eyes on the approaching Tower.

  Tanis’s grin softened to a sigh. “I’m sorry,” was all he could think of to say, putting a clumsy hand on Caramon’s shoulder.

  Caramon looked at him, his eyes bright and clear. “No, Tanis,” he said. “Par-Salian told me, when he sent me back in time, that I was going back to ‘save a soul. Nothing more. Nothing less.’ ” Caramon smiled sadly. “I thought he meant Raistlin’s soul. I see now he didn’t. He meant my own.” The big man’s body tensed. “C’mon,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “We’re close enough to jump for it.”

  A balcony that encircled the top of Tower appeared beneath them, dimly seen through the swirling smoke. Looking down, Tanis felt his stomach shrivel. Although he knew it was impossible, it seemed that the Tower itself was lurching around beneath him, while he was standing perfectly still. It had looked so huge, as they were nearing it. Now, he might have been planning to leap out of a vallenwood to land upon the roof of a child’s toy castle.