Test of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  Firmly turning his back upon them, wondering, with a pang, if they could see him as he could see them, Caramon drew his sword from its sheath and stood, feet firmly planted on the shifting ground, waiting for his twin.

  Caramon had no doubts, no doubts at all, that a battle between himself and Raistlin must end in his own death. Even weakened, Raistlin’s magic would still be strong. And Caramon knew his brother well enough to know that Raistlin would never—if he could help it—allow himself to become totally vulnerable. There would always be one spell left, or—at least—the silver dagger on his wrist.

  But, even though I will die, my objective will be accomplished, Caramon thought calmly. I am strong, healthy, and all it will take is one sword thrust through that thin, frail body.

  He could do that much, he knew, before his brother’s magic withered him as it had withered him once, long ago, in the Tower of High Sorcery.…

  Tears stung in his eyes, ran down his throat. He swallowed them, forcing his thoughts to something else to take his mind from his fear … his sorrow.

  Lady Crysania.

  Poor woman. Caramon sighed. He hoped, for her sake, she had died quickly … never knowing.…

  Caramon blinked, startled, staring ahead of him. What was happening? Where before there had been nothing to the pinkish, glowing horizon—now there was an object. It stood starkly black against the pink sky, and appeared flat, as if it had been cut out of paper. Tas’s words came to him again. But he recognized it—a wooden stake. The kind … the kind they had used in the old days to burn witches!

  Memories flooded back. He could see Raistlin tied to the stake, see the heaps of wood stacked about his brother, who was struggling to free himself, shrieking defiance at those whom he had attempted to save from their own folly by exposing a charlatan cleric. But they had believed him to be a witch. “We got there just in time, Sturm and I,” Caramon muttered, remembering the knight’s sword flashing in the sun, its light alone driving back the superstitious peasants.

  Looking closer at the stake—which seemed, of its own accord, to move closer to him—Caramon saw a figure lying at the foot. Was it Raistlin? The stake slid closer and closer—or was he walking toward it? Caramon turned his head again. The Portal was farther back, but he could still see it.

  Alarmed, fearing he might be swept away, he fought to stop himself and did so, immediately. Then, he heard the kender’s voice again. All you have to do to go anywhere is think yourself there. All you have to do to have anything you want is think of it, only be careful, because the Abyss can twist and distort what you see.

  Looking at the wooden stake, Caramon thought himself there and instantly was standing right beside it. Turning once again, he glanced in the direction of the Portal and saw it, hanging like a miniature painting in between the sky and ground. Satisfied that he could return at any second, Caramon hurried toward the figure lying below the stake.

  At first, he had thought it was garbed in black robes, and his heart lurched. But now he saw that it had only appeared as a black silhouette against the glowing ground. The robes it wore were white. And then he knew.

  Of course, he had been thinking of her.…

  “Crysania,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and turned her head toward the sound of his voice, but her eyes did not fix on him. They stared past him, and he realized she was blind.

  “Raistlin?” she whispered in a voice filled with such hope and longing that Caramon would have given anything, his life itself, to have confirmed that hope.

  But, shaking his head, he knelt down and took her hand in his. “It is Caramon, Lady Crysania.”

  She turned her sightless eyes toward the sound of his voice, weakly clasping his hand with her own. She stared toward him, confused. “Caramon? Where are we?”

  “I entered the Portal, Crysania,” he said.

  She sighed, closing her eyes. “So you are here in the Abyss, with us.…”

  “Yes.”

  “I have been a fool, Caramon,” she murmured, “but I am paying for my folly. I wish … I wish I knew.… Has harm come to … to anyone … other than myself? And him?” The last word was almost inaudible.

  “Lady—” Caramon didn’t know how to answer.

  But Crysania stopped him. She could hear the sadness in his voice. Closing her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks, she pressed his hand against her lips. “Of course. I understand!” she whispered. “That is why you have come. I’m sorry, Caramon! So sorry!”

  She began to weep. Gathering her close, Caramon held her, rocking her soothingly, like a child. He knew, then, that she was dying. He could feel her life ebbing from her body even as he held it. But what had injured her, what wounds she had suffered he could not imagine, for there was no mark upon her skin.

  “There is nothing to be sorry for, my lady,” he said, smoothing back the thick, shining black hair that tumbled over her deathly pale face. “You loved him. If that is your folly, then it is mine as well, and I pay for it gladly.”

  “If that were only true!” She moaned. “But it was my pride, my ambition, that led me here!”

  “Was it, Crysania?” Caramon asked. “If so, why did Paladine grant your prayers and open the Portal for you when he refused to grant the demands of the Kingpriest? Why did he bless you with that gift if not because he saw truly what was in your heart?”

  “Paladine has turned his face from me!” she cried. Taking the medallion in her hand she tried to wrench it from her neck. But she was too weak. Her hand closed over the medallion and remained there. And, as she did so, a look of peace filled her face. “No,” she said, talking softly to herself, “he is here. He holds me. I see him so clearly.…”

  Standing up, Caramon lifted her in his arms. Her head sank back against his shoulder, she relaxed in his firm grasp. “We are going back to the Portal,” he told her.

  She did not answer, but she smiled. Had she heard him, or was she listening to another voice?

  Facing the Portal that glimmered like a multicolored jewel in the distance, Caramon thought himself near it, and it moved rapidly forward.

  Suddenly the air around him split and cracked. Lightning stabbed from the sky, lightning such as he had never seen. Thousands of purple, sizzling branches struck the ground, penning him for a spectacular instant in a prison whose bars were death. Paralyzed by the shock, he could not move. Even after the lightning vanished, he waited, cringing, for the explosive blast of thunder that must deafen him forever.

  But there was only silence, silence and, far away, an agonized, piercing scream.

  Crysania’s eyes opened. “Raistlin,” she said. Her hand tightened around the medallion.

  “Yes,” Caramon replied.

  Tears slid down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and clung to Caramon. He moved on, toward the Portal, traveling slowly now, a disturbing, disquieting idea coming to his mind. Lady Crysania was dying, certainly. The lifebeat in her neck was weak, fluttering beneath his fingers like the heart of a baby bird. But she was not dead, not yet. Perhaps, if he could get her back through the Portal, she might live.

  Could he get her through, though, without taking her through himself?

  Holding her in his arms, Caramon drew nearer the Portal. Or rather, it drew nearer him, leaping up at him as he approached, growing in size, the dragon’s heads staring at him with their glittering eyes, their mouths open to grasp and devour him.

  He could still see through it, he could see Tanis and Dalamar—one standing, the other sitting; neither moving, both frozen in time. Could they help him? Could they take Crysania?

  “Tanis!” he called out. “Dalamar!”

  But if either heard him shouting, they did not react to his cries.

  Gently, he lowered Lady Crysania to the shifting ground before the Portal. Caramon knew then that it was hopeless. He had known all along. He could take her back and she would live. But that would mean Raistlin would live and escape, drawing the Queen after him, dooming the world
and its people to destruction.

  He sank down to the strange ground. Sitting beside Crysania, he took hold of her hand. He was glad she was here with him, in a way. He didn’t feel so alone. The touch of her hand was comforting. If only he could save her.…

  “What are you going to do to Raistlin, Caramon?” Crysania asked softly, after a moment.

  “Stop him from leaving the Abyss,” Caramon replied, his voice even, without expression.

  She nodded in understanding, her hand holding his firmly, her sightless eyes staring up at him.

  “He’ll kill you, won’t he?”

  “Yes,” Caramon answered steadily. “But not before he himself falls.”

  A spasm of pain contorted Crysania’s face. She gripped Caramon’s hand. “I’ll wait for you!” She choked, her voice weakening. “I’ll wait for you. When it is over, you will be my guide since I cannot see. You will take me to Paladine. You will lead me from the darkness.”

  Her eyes closed. Her head sank back slowly, as though she rested upon a pillow. But her hand still held Caramon’s. Her breast rose and fell with her breathing. He put his fingers on her neck, her life pulsed beneath them.

  He had been prepared to condemn himself to death, he was prepared to condemn his brother. It had all been so simple!

  But—could he condemn her?…

  Perhaps he still had time.… Perhaps he could carry her through the Portal and return.…

  Filled with hope, Caramon rose to his feet and started to lift Crysania in his arms again. Then he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye.

  Turning, he saw Raistlin.

  CHAPTER

  9

  “Enter, Knight of the Black Rose,” repeated Dalamar.

  Eyes of flame stared at Tanis, who put his hand on the hilt of his sword. At the same instant, slender fingers touched his arm, making him start.

  “Do not interfere, Tanis,” Dalamar said softly. “He does not care about us. He comes for one thing only.”

  The flickering, flaming gaze passed over Tanis. Candlelight glinted on the ancient, old-fashioned, ornate armor that bore still, beneath the blackened scorch-marks and the stains of his own blood—long since turned to dust—the faint outlines of the Rose, symbol of the Knights of Solamnia. Booted feet that made no sound crossed the room. The orange eyes had found their object in the shadowed corner—the huddled form lying beneath Tanis’s cloak.

  Keep him away! Tanis hear Kitiara’s frantic voice. I have always loved you, half-elf!

  Lord Soth stopped and knelt beside the body. But he appeared unable to touch it, as though constrained by some unseen force. Rising to his feet, he turned, his orange eyes flaming in the empty darkness beneath the helm he wore.

  “Release her to me, Tanis Half-Elven,” said the hollow voice. “Your love binds her to this plane. Give her up.”

  Tanis, gripping his sword, took a step forward.

  “He’ll kill you, Tanis,” Dalamar warned. “He’ll slay you without hesitation. Let her go to him. After all, I think perhaps he was the only one of us who ever truly understood her.”

  The orange eyes flared. “Understood her? Admired her! Like I myself, she was meant to rule, destined to conquer! But she was stronger than I was. She could throw aside love that threatened to chain her down. But for a twist of fate, she would have ruled all of Ansalon!”

  The hollow voice resounded in the room, startling Tanis with its passion, its hatred.

  “And there she was!” The chain mail fist clenched. “Penned up in Sanction like a caged beast, making plans for a war she could not hope to win. Her courage and resolve were beginning to weaken. She had even allowed herself to become chained like a slave to a dark-elf lover! Better she should die fighting than let her life burn out like a guttered candle.”

  “No!” Tanis muttered, his hand clenching his sword. “No—”

  Dalamar’s fingers closed over his wrist. “She never loved you, Tanis,” he said coldly. “She used you as she used us all, even him.” The dark elf glanced toward Soth. Tanis seemed about to speak, but Dalamar interrupted. “She used you to the end, Half-Elven. Even now, she reaches from beyond, hoping you will save her.”

  Still Tanis hesitated. In his mind burned the image of her horror-filled face. The image burned, flames rose.…

  Flames filled Tanis’s vision. Staring into them, he saw a castle, once proud and noble, now black and crumbling, falling into flame. He saw a lovely, delicate elf maid, a little child in her arms, falling into flame. He saw warriors, running, dying, falling into flame. And out of the flame, he heard Soth’s voice.

  “You have life, Half-Elven. You have much to live for. There are those among the living who depend upon you. I know, because all that you have was once mine. I cast it away, choosing to live in darkness instead of light. Will you follow me? Will you throw all you have aside for one who chose, long ago, to walk the paths of night?”

  I have the world, Tanis heard his own words. Laurana’s face smiled upon him.

  He closed his eyes … Laurana’s face, beautiful, wise, loving. Light shone from her golden hair, glistened in her clear, elven eyes. The light grew brighter, like a star. Purely, brilliantly, it gleamed, shining upon him with such radiance that he could no longer see in his memory the cold face beneath the cloak.

  Slowly, Tanis withdrew his hand from his sword.

  Lord Soth turned. Kneeling down, he lifted the body wrapped in the cloak, now stained dark with blood, in his unseen arms. He spoke a word of magic. Tanis had a sudden vision of a dark chasm yawning at the death knight’s feet. Soul-piercing cold swept through the room, the blast forcing him to avert his head, as if against a bitter wind.

  When he looked, the shadowed corner was empty.

  “They are gone.” Dalamar’s hand released his wrist. “And so is Caramon.”

  “Gone?” Turning unsteadily, shivering, his body drenched in chill sweat, Tanis faced the Portal once again. The burning landscape was empty.

  A hollow voice echoed. Will you throw all you have aside for one who chose, long ago, to walk the paths of night?

  Lord Soth’s Song

  Set aside the buried light

  Of candle, torch, and rotting wood,

  And listen to the turn of night

  Caught in your rising blood.

  How quiet is the midnight, love,

  How warm the winds where ravens fly,

  Where all the changing moonlight, love,

  Pales in your fading eye.

  How loud your heart is calling, love,

  How close the darkness at your breast,

  How hectic are the rivers, love,

  Drawn through your dying wrist.

  And love, what heat your frail skin hides,

  As pure as salt, as sweet as death,

  And in the dark the red moon rides

  The foxfire of your breath.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Ahead of him, the Portal.

  Behind him, the Queen. Behind him, pain, suffering …

  Ahead of him—victory.

  Leaning upon the Staff of Magius, so weak he could barely stand, Raistlin kept the image of the Portal ever in his mind. It seemed he had walked, stumbled, crawled mile after endless mile to reach it. Now he was close. He could see its glittering, beautiful colors, colors of life—the green of grass, blue of sky, white of clouds, black of night, red of blood.…

  Blood. He looked at his hands, stained with blood, his own blood. His wounds were too numerous to count. Struck by mace, stabbed by sword, scorched by lightning, burned by fire, he had been attacked by dark clerics, dark wizards, legions of ghouls and demons—all who served Her Dark Majesty. His black robes hung about him in stained tatters. He did not draw a breath that was not wrenching agony. He had, long ago, stopped vomiting blood. And though he coughed, coughed until he could not stand but was forced to sink to his knees, retching, there was nothing there. Nothing inside him.

  And, through
it all, he had endured.

  Exultation ran like fever through his veins. He had endured, he had survived. He lived … just barely. But he lived. The Queen’s fury thrummed behind him. He could feel the ground and sky pulsate with it. He had defeated her best, and there were none left now to challenge him. None, except herself.

  The Portal shimmered with myriad colors in his hourglass vision. Closer, closer he came. Behind him—the Queen, rage making her careless, heedless. He would escape the Abyss, she could not stop him now. A shadow crossed over him, chilling him. Looking up, he saw the fingers of a gigantic hand darkening the sky, the nails glistening blood red.

  Raistlin smiled, and kept advancing. It was a shadow, nothing more. The hand that cast the shadow reached for him in vain. He was too close, and she, having counted upon her minions to stop him, was too far away. Her hand would grasp the skirts of his tattered black robes when he crossed over the threshold of the Portal, and, with his last strength, he would drag it through the door.

  And then, upon his plane, who would prove the stronger?

  Raistlin coughed, but even as he coughed, even as the pain tore at him, he smiled—no, grinned—a thin-lipped, blood-stained grin. He had no doubts. No doubts at all.

  Clutching his chest with one hand, the Staff of Magius with the other, Raistlin moved ahead, carefully measuring out his life to himself as he needed it, cherishing every burning breath he drew like a miser gloating over a copper piece. The coming battle would be glorious. Now it would be his turn to summon legions to fight for him. The gods themselves would answer his call, for the Queen appearing in the world in all her might and majesty would bring down the wrath of the heavens. Moons would fall, planets shift in their orbits, stars change their courses. The elements would do his bidding—wind, air, water, fire—all under his command.