“For though some might choose to walk the paths of night, looking to the black moon to guide them, while others walk the paths of day, the rough and rock-strewn trails of both can be made easier by the touch of a hand, the voice of a friend. The capacity to love, to care, is given to us all—the greatest gift of the gods to all the races.
“Our beautiful city has perished in flame.” Her voice softened. “We have lost many whom we loved, and it seems perhaps that life is too difficult a burden for us to bear. But reach out your hand, and it will touch the hand of someone reaching out to you, and—together—you will find the strength and hope you need to go on.”
After the ceremonies, when the clerics had borne the body of Elistan to its final resting place, Caramon and Tas sought out Lady Crysania. They found her among the clerics, her arm resting upon the arm of the young woman who was her guide.
“Here are two who would speak with you, Revered Daughter,” said the young cleric.
Lady Crysania turned, holding out her hand. “Let me touch you,” she said.
“It’s Caramon,” the big man began awkwardly, “and—”
“Me,” said Tas in a meek, subdued voice.
“You have come to say good-bye,” Lady Crysania smiled.
“Yes. We’re leaving today,” Caramon said, holding her hand in his.
“Do you go straight home to Solace?”
“No, not—not quite yet,” Caramon said, his voice low. “We’re going back to Solanthas with Tanis. Then, when—when I feel a little more myself, I’ll use the magical device to get back to Solace.”
Crysania gripped his hand tightly, drawing him near to her.
“Raistlin is at peace, Caramon,” she said softly. “Are you?”
“Yes, my lady,” Caramon said, his voice firm and resolute. “I am at peace. At last.” He sighed. “I just need to talk to Tanis and get things sorted out in my life, put back in order. For one thing,” he added with a blush and a shame-faced grin, “I need to know how to build a house! I was dead drunk most of the time I worked on ours, and I haven’t the faintest notion what I was doing.”
He looked at her, and she—aware of his scrutiny though she could not see it—smiled, her pale skin tinged with the faintest rose. Seeing that smile, and seeing the tears that fell around it, Caramon drew her close, in turn. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have spared you this—”
“No, Caramon,” she said softly. “For now I see. I see clearly, as Loralon promised.” She kissed his hand, pressing it to her cheek. “Farewell, Caramon. May Paladine go with you.”
Tasslehoff snuffled.
“Good-bye, Crysani—I mean, Rev-revered Daughter,” said Tas in a small voice, feeling suddenly lonely and short. “I—I’m sorry about the mess I made of things—”
But Lady Crysania interrupted him. Turning from Caramon, she reached out her hand and smoothed back his topknot of hair. “Most of us walk in the light and the shadow, Tasslehoff,” she said, “but there are the chosen few who walk this world, carrying their own light to brighten both day and night.”
“Really? They must get awfully tired, hauling around a light like that? Is it a torch? It can’t be a candle. The wax would melt all over and drip down into their shoes and—say—do you suppose I could meet someone like that?” Tas asked with interest.
“You are someone like that,” Lady Crysania replied. “And I do not think you ever need worry about your wax dripping into your shoes. Farewell, Tasslehoff Burrfoot. I need not ask Paladine’s blessing on you, for I know you are one of his close, personal friends.…”
“Well,” asked Caramon abruptly as he and Tas made their way through the crowd. “Have you decided what you’re going to do yet? You’ve got the flying citadel, Lord Amothus gave it to you. You can go anywhere on Krynn. Maybe even a moon, if you want.”
“Oh, that.” Tas, looking a little awestruck after his talk with Lady Crysania, seemed to have trouble remembering what Caramon was referring to. “I don’t have the citadel anymore. It was awfully big and boring once I got around to exploring it. And it wouldn’t go to the moon. I tried. Do you know,” he said, looking at Caramon with wide eyes, “that if you go up high enough, your nose starts to bleed? Plus it’s extremely cold and uncomfortable. Besides, the moons seem to be a lot farther away than I’d imagined. Now, if I had the magical device—” He glanced at Caramon out of the corner of his eye.
“No,” said Caramon sternly. “Absolutely not. That’s going back to Par-Salian.”
“I could take it to him,” Tas offered helpfully. “That would give me a chance to explain about Gnimsh fixing it and my disrupting the spell and—No?” He heaved a sigh. “I guess not. Well, anyway, I’ve decided to stick with you and Tanis, if you want me, that is?” He looked at Caramon a bit wistfully.
Caramon replied by reaching out and giving the kender a hug that crushed several objects of interest and uncertain value in his pouches.
“By the way,” Caramon added as an afterthought, “what did you do with the flying citadel?”
“Oh”—Tas waved his hand nonchalantly—“I gave it to Rounce.”
“The gully dwarf!” Caramon stopped, appalled.
“He can’t fly it, not by himself!” Tas assured him. “Although,” he added after a moment’s profound thought, “I suppose he could if he got a few more gully dwarves to help. I never thought of that—”
Caramon groaned. “Where is it?”
“I set it down for him in a nice place. A very nice place. It was a really wealthy part of some city we flew over. Rounce took a liking to it—the citadel, not the city. Well, I guess he took a liking to the city, too, come to think of it. Anyway, he was a big help and all, so I asked him if he wanted the citadel and he said he did so I just plunked the thing down in this vacant lot.
“It caused quite a sensation,” Tas added happily. “A man came running out of this really big castle that sat on a hill right next to where I dropped the citadel, and he started yelling about that being his property and what right did we have to drop a castle on it, and creating a wonderful row. I pointed out that his castle certainly didn’t cover the entire property and I mentioned a few things about sharing that would have helped him quite a bit, I’m certain, if he’d only listened. Then Rounce starting saying how he was going to bring all the Burp clan or something like that and they were going to come live in the citadel and the man had a fit of some sort and they carried him away and pretty soon the whole town was there. It was real exciting for a while, but it finally got boring. I was glad Fireflash had decided to come along. He brought me back.”
“You didn’t tell me any of this!” Caramon said, glaring at the kender and trying hard to look grim.
“I—I guess it just slipped my mind,” Tas mumbled. “I’ve had an awful lot to think about these days, you know.”
“I know you have, Tas,” Caramon said. “I’ve been worried about you. I saw you talking to some other kender yesterday. You could go home, you know. You told me once how you’ve thought about it, about going back to Kendermore.”
Tas’s face took on an unusually serious expression. Slipping his hand into Caramon’s, he drew nearer, looking up at him earnestly. “No, Caramon,” he said softly. “It isn’t the same. I—I can’t seem to talk to other kender anymore.” He shook his head, his topknot swishing back and forth. “I tried to tell them about Fizban and his hat, and Flint and his tree and … and Raistlin and poor Gnimsh.” Tas swallowed and, fishing out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes. “They don’t seem to understand. They just don’t … well … care. It’s hard—caring—isn’t it, Caramon? It hurts sometimes.”
“Yes, Tas,” Caramon said quietly. They had entered a shady grove of trees. Tanis was waiting for them, standing beneath a tall, graceful aspen whose new spring leaves glittered golden in the morning sun. “It hurts a lot of the time. But the hurt is better than being empty inside.”
Walking over to them, Tanis put one arm around Caramon’s broad shoulders, the other
arm around Tas. “Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” Caramon replied.
“Good. The horses are over here. I thought we’d ride. We could have taken the carriage, but—to be perfectly honest—I hate being cooped up in the blasted thing. So does Laurana, though she’ll never admit it. The countryside’s beautiful this time of year. We’ll take our time, and enjoy it.”
“You live in Solanthas, don’t you, Tanis?” Tas said as they mounted their horses and rode down the blackened, ruined street. Those people leaving the funeral, returning to pick up the pieces of their lives, heard the kender’s cheerful voice echo through the streets long after he had gone.
“I was in Solanthas once. They have an awfully fine prison there. One of the nicest I was ever in. I was sent there by mistake, of course. A misunderstanding over a silver teapot that had tumbled, quite by accident, into one my pouches.…”
Dalamar climbed the steep, winding stairs leading up to the laboratory at the top of the Tower of High Sorcery. He climbed the stairs, instead of magically transporting himself, because he had a long journey ahead of him that night. Though the clerics of Elistan had healed his wounds, he was still weak and he did not want to tax his strength.
Later, when the black moon was in the sky, he would travel through the ethers to the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, there to attend a Wizard’s Conclave—one of the most important to be held in this era. Par-Salian was stepping down as Head of the Conclave. His successor must be chosen. It would probably be the Red Robe, Justarius. Dalamar didn’t mind that. He knew he was not yet powerful enough to become the new archmage. Not yet, at any rate. But there was some feeling that a new Head of the Order of the Black Robes should be chosen, too. Dalamar smiled. He had no doubt who that would be.
He had made all his preparations for leaving. The guardians had their instructions: no one—living or dead—was to be admitted to the Tower in his absence. Not that this was likely. The Shoikan Grove maintained its own grim vigil, unharmed by the flames that had swept through the rest of Palanthas. But the dark loneliness that the Tower had known for so long would soon be coming to an end.
On Dalamar’s order, several rooms in the Tower had been cleaned out and refurbished. He planned to bring back with him several apprentices of his own—Black Robes, certainly, but maybe a Red Robe or two if he found any who might be suitable. He looked forward to passing on the skills he had acquired, the knowledge he had learned. And—he admitted to himself—he looked forward to the companionship.
But, first, there was something he must do.
Entering the laboratory, he paused on the doorstep. He had not been back to this room since Caramon had carried him from it that last, fateful day. Now, it was nighttime. The room was dark. At a word, candles flickered into flame, warming the room with a soft light. But the shadows remained, hovering in the corners like living things.
Lifting the candlestand in his hand, Dalamar made a slow circuit of the room, selecting various items—scrolls, a magic wand, several rings—and sending them below to his own study with a word of command.
He passed the dark corner where Kitiara had died. Her blood stained the floor still. That spot in the room was cold, chill, and Dalamar did not linger. He passed the stone table with its beakers and bottles, the eyes still staring out at him pleadingly. With a word, he caused them to close—forever.
Finally, he came to the Portal. The five heads of the dragon, facing eternally into the void, still shouted their silent, frozen paen to the Dark Queen. The only light that gleamed from the dark, lifeless metallic heads was the reflected light of Dalamar’s candles. He looked within the Portal. There was nothing. For long moments, Dalamar stared into it. Then, reaching out his hand, he pulled on a golden, silken cord that hung from the ceiling. A thick curtain dropped down, shrouding the Portal in heavy, purple velvet.
Turning away, Dalamar found himself facing the bookshelves that stood in the very back of the laboratory. The candlelight shone on rows of nightblue-bound volumes decorated with silver runes. A cold chill flowed from them.
The spellbooks of Fistandantilus—now his.
And where these rows of books ended, a new row of books began—volumes bound in black decorated with silver runes. Each of these volumes, Dalamar noticed, his hand going to touch one, burned with an inner heat that made the books seem strangely alive to the touch.
The spellbooks of Raistlin—now his.
Dalamar looked intently at each book. Each held its own wonders, its own mysteries, each held power. The dark elf walked the length of the bookshelves. When he reached the end—near the door—he sent the candlestand back to rest upon the great stone table. His hand upon the door handle, his gaze went to one, last object.
In a dark corner stood the Staff of Magius, leaning up against the wall. For a moment, Dalamar caught his breath, thinking perhaps he saw light gleaming from the crystal on top of the staff—the crystal that had remained cold and dark since that day. But then he realized, with a sense of relief, that it was only reflected candlelight. With a word, he extinguished the flame, plunging the room into darkness.
He looked closely at the corner where the staff stood. It was lost in the night, no sign of light glimmered.
Drawing a deep breath, then letting it out with a sigh, Dalamar walked from the laboratory. Firmly, he shut the door behind him. Reaching into a wooden box set with powerful runes, he withdrew a silver key and inserted it into an ornate silver doorlock—a doorlock that was new, a doorlock that had not been made by any locksmith on Krynn. Whispering words of magic, Dalamar turned the key in the lock. It clicked. Another click echoed it. The deadly trap was set.
Turning, Dalamar summoned one of the guardians. The disembodied eyes floated over at his command.
“Take this key,” Dalamar said, “and keep it with you for all eternity. Give it up to no one—not even myself. And, from this moment on, your place is to guard this door. No one is to enter. Let death be swift for those who try.”
The guardian’s eyes closed in acquiescence. As Dalamar walked back down the stairs, he saw the eyes—open again—framed by the doorway, their cold glow staring out into the night.
The dark elf nodded to himself, satisfied, and went upon his way.
The Homecoming
Thud, thud, thud.
Tika Waylan Majere sat straight up in bed.
Trying to hear above the pounding of her heart, she listened, waiting to identify the sound that had awakened her from deep sleep.
Nothing.
Had she dreamed it? Shoving back the mass of red curls falling over her face, Tika glanced sleepily out the window. It was early morning. The sun had not yet risen, but night’s deep shadows were stealing away, leaving the sky clear and blue in the half-light of predawn. Birds were up, beginning their household chores, whistling and bickering cheerfully among themselves. But no one in Solace would be stirring yet. Even the night watchman usually succumbed to the warm, gentle influence of the spring night and slept at this hour, his head slumped on his chest, snoring blissfully.
I must have been dreaming, thought Tika drearily. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to sleeping alone? Every little sound has me wide awake. Burrowing back down in the bed, she drew up the sheet and tried to go back to sleep. Squinching her eyes tightly shut, Tika pretended Caramon was there. She was lying beside him, pressed up against his broad chest, hearing him breathe, hearing his heart beat, warm, secure.… His hand patted her on the shoulder as he murmured sleepily, “It’s just a bad dream, Tika … be all gone by morning.…”
Thud, thud, thudthudthud.
Tika’s eyes opened wide. She hadn’t been dreaming! The sound—whatever it was—was coming from up above! Someone or something was up there—up in the vallenwood!
Throwing aside the bedclothes and moving with the stealth and quiet she had learned during her war adventures, Tika grabbed a nightrobe from the foot of her bed, struggled into it (mixing up the sleeves in her nervousness), and crept out o
f the bedroom.
Thud, thud, thud.
Her lips tightened in firm resolve. Someone was up there, up in her new house. The house Caramon was building for her up in the vallenwood. What were they doing? Stealing? There were Caramon’s tools—
Tika almost laughed, but it came out a sob instead. Caramon’s tools—the hammer with the wiggly head that flew off every time it hit a nail, the saw with so many teeth missing it looked like a grinning gully dwarf, the plane that wouldn’t smooth butter. But they were precious to Tika. She’d left them right where he’d left them.
Thud, thud, thud.
Creeping out into the living area of her small house, Tika’s hand was on the door handle when she stopped.
“Weapon,” she muttered. Looking around hastily, she grabbed the first thing she saw—her heavy iron skillet. Holding it firmly by the handle, Tika opened the front door slowly and quietly and sneaked outside.
The sun’s rays were just lighting the tops of the mountains, outlining their snow-capped peaks in gold against the clear, cloudless blue sky. The grass sparked with dew like tiny jewels, the morning air was sweet and crisp and pure. The new bright green leaves of the vallenwoods rustled and laughed as the sun touched them, waking them. So fresh and clear and glittering was this morning that it might well have been the very first morning of the very first day, with the gods looking down upon their work and smiling.
But Tika was not thinking about gods or mornings or the dew that was cold upon her bare feet. Clutching the skillet in one hand, keeping it hidden behind her back, she stealthily climbed the rungs of the ladder leading up into the unfinished house perched among the strong branches of the vallenwood. Near the top she stopped, peeping over the edge.
Ah, ha! There was someone up here! She could just barely make out a figure crouched in a shadowy corner. Hauling herself up over the edge, still making no sound, Tika padded softly across the wooden floor, her fingers getting a firm grip on the skillet.
Test of the Twins Page 30