War of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  Raistlin closed his eyes wearily and his hand went to his chest. “Please,” he whispered in agony, “the pain …”

  “Of course,” Crysania said gently, overwhelmed with shame. What would it be like to live with such pain, day after day? Leaning forward, she drew the curtain from her own shoulders and tucked it carefully around Raistlin. The mage nodded thankfully but could not speak. Then, shivering, Crysania crossed the room to where Caramon lay.

  Putting her hand out to touch his shoulder, she hesitated. What if he’s still blind? she thought, or what if he can see and decides … decides to kill Raistlin?

  But her hesitation lasted only a moment. Resolutely, she put her hand on his shoulder and shook him. If he does, she said to herself grimly, I will stop him. I did it once, I can do it again.

  Even as she touched him, she was aware of the pale guardians, lurking in the darkness, watching her every move.

  “Caramon,” she called softly, “Caramon, wake up. Please! We need—”

  “What?” Caramon sat up quickly, his hand going reflexively to his sword hilt—that wasn’t there. His eyes focused on Crysania, and she saw with relief tinged with fear that he could see her. He stared at her blankly, however, without recognition, then looked quickly around his surroundings.

  Then Crysania saw remembrance in the darkening of his eyes, saw them fill with a haunted pain. She saw remembrance in the clenching of his jaw muscles and the cold gaze he turned upon her. She was about to say something—apologize, explain, rebuke—when his eyes grew suddenly tender as his face softened with concern.

  “Lady Crysania,” he said, sitting up and dragging the curtain from his body, “you’re freezing! Here, put this around you.”

  Before she could say a word in protest, Caramon wrapped the curtain around her snugly. She noticed as he did so that he looked once at his twin. But his gaze passed quickly over Raistlin, as if he did not exist.

  Crysania caught hold of his arm. “Caramon,” she said, “he saved our lives. He cast a spell. Those things out there in the darkness leave us alone because he told them to!”

  “Because they recognize one of their own!” Caramon said harshly, lowering his gaze and trying to withdraw his arm from her grasp. But Crysania held him fast, more with her eyes than her cold hand.

  “You can kill him now,” she said angrily. “Look, he’s helpless, weak. Of course, if you do, we’ll all die. But you were prepared to do that anyway, weren’t you!”

  “I can’t kill him,” Caramon said. His brown eyes were clear and cold, and Crysania—once again—saw a startling resemblance between the twins. “Let’s face it, Revered Daughter, if I tried, you’d only blind me again.”

  Caramon brushed her hand from his arm.

  “One of us, at least, should see clearly,” he said.

  Crysania felt herself flush in shame and anger, hearing Loralon’s words echo in the warrior’s sarcasm. Turning away from her, Caramon stood up quickly.

  “I’ll build a fire,” he said in a cold, hard voice, “if those”—he waved a hand—“friends of my brother’s out there will let me.”

  “I believe they will,” Crysania said, speaking with equal coolness as she, too, rose to her feet. “They did not hinder me when … when I tore down the curtains.” She could not help a quiver creeping into her voice at the memory of being trapped by those shadows of death.

  Caramon glanced around at her and, for the first time, it occurred to Crysania what she must look like. Wrapped in a rotting black velvet curtain, her white robes torn and stained with blood, black with dust and ash from the floor. Involuntarily, her hand went to her hair—once so smooth, carefully braided and coiled. Now it hung about her face in straggling wisps. She could feel the dried tears upon her cheeks, the dirt, the blood.…

  Self-consciously, she wiped her hand across her face and tried to pat back her hair. Then, realizing how futile and even stupid she must look, and angered still further by Caramon’s pitying expression, she drew herself up with shabby dignity.

  “So, I am no longer the marble maiden you first met,” she said haughtily, “just as you are no longer the sodden drunk. It seems we have both learned a thing or two on our journey.”

  “I know I have,” Caramon said gravely.

  “Have you?” Crysania retorted. “I wonder! Did you learn—as I did—that the mages sent me back in time, knowing that I would not return?”

  Caramon stared at her. She smiled grimly.

  “No. You were unaware of that small fact, or so your brother said. The time device could be used by only one person—the person to whom it was given—you! The mages sent me back in time to die—because they feared me!”

  Caramon frowned. He opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head. “You could have left Istar with that elf who came for you”

  “Would you have gone?” Crysania demanded. “Would you have given up your life in our time if you could help it? No! Am I so different?”

  Caramon’s frown deepened and he started to reply, but at that moment, Raistlin coughed. Glancing at the mage, Crysania sighed and said, “You better build the fire, or we’ll all perish anyway.” Turning her back on Caramon, who still stood regarding her silently, she walked over to his brother.

  Looking at the frail mage, Crysania wondered if he had heard. She wondered if he were even still conscious.

  He was conscious, but if Raistlin was at all aware of what had passed between the other two, he appeared to be too weak to take any interest in it. Pouring some of the water into a cracked bowl, Crysania knelt down beside him. Tearing a piece from the cleanest portion of her robe, she wiped his face; it burned with fever even in the chill room.

  Behind her, she heard Caramon gathering up bits of the broken wooden furniture and stacking it in the grate.

  “I need something for tinder,” the big man muttered to himself. “Ah, these books—”

  At that, Raistlin’s eyes flared open, his head moved and he tried feebly to rise.

  “Don’t, Caramon!” Crysania cried, alarmed. Caramon stopped, a book in his hand.

  “Dangerous, my brother!” Raistlin gasped weakly. “Spellbooks! Don’t touch them.…”

  His voice failed, but the gaze of his glittering eyes was fixed on Caramon with a look of such apparent concern that even Caramon seemed taken aback. Mumbling something unintelligible, the big man dropped the book and began to search about the desk. Crysania saw Raistlin’s eyes close in relief.

  “Here’s—Looks like … letters,” Caramon said after a moment of shuffling through paper on the floor. “Would—would these be all right?” he asked gruffly.

  Raistlin nodded wordlessly, and, within moments, Crysania heard the crackling of flame. Lacquer-finished, the wood of the broken furniture caught quickly, and soon the fire burned with a bright, cheering light. Glancing into the shadows, Crysania saw the pallid faces withdraw—but they did not leave.

  “We must move Raistlin near the fire,” she said, standing up, “and he said something about a potion—”

  “Yes,” Caramon answered tonelessly. Coming to stand beside Crysania, he stared down at his brother. Then he shrugged. “Let him magic himself over there if that’s what he wants.”

  Crysania’s eyes flashed in anger. She turned to Caramon, scathing words on her lips, but, at a weak gesture from Raistlin, she bit her lower lip and kept silent.

  “You pick an inopportune time to grow up, my brother,” the mage whispered.

  “Maybe,” said Caramon slowly, his face filled with unutterable sorrow. Shaking his head, he walked back over to stand by the fire. “Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Crysania, watching Raistlin’s gaze follow his brother, was startled to see him smile a swift, secret smile and nod in satisfaction. Then, as he looked up at her, the smile vanished quickly. Lifting one arm, he motioned her to come near him.

  “I can stand,” he breathed, “with your help.”

  “Here, you’ll need your staff,” she said,
extending her hand for it.

  “Don’t touch it!” Raistlin ordered, catching hold of her hand in his. “No,” he repeated more gently, coughing until he could scarcely breathe. “Other hands … touch it … light fails.…”

  Shivering involuntarily, Crysania cast a swift glance around the room. Raistlin, seeing her, and seeing the shimmering shapes hovering just outside the light of the staff, shook his head. “No, I do not believe they would attack us,” he said softly as Crysania put her arms around him and helped him to rise. “They know who I am.” His lip curled in a sneer at this, and he choked. “They know who I am,” he repeated more firmly, “and they dare not cross me. But—” he coughed again, and leaned heavily upon Crysania, one arm around her shoulder, the other hand clutching his staff—“it will be safer to keep the light of the staff burning.”

  The mage staggered as he spoke and nearly fell. Crysania paused to let him catch his breath. Her own breath was coming more rapidly than normal, revealing the confused tangle of her emotions. Hearing the harsh rattle of Raistlin’s labored breathing, she was consumed with pity for his weakness. Yet, she could feel the burning heat of the body pressed so near hers. There was the intoxicating scent of his spell components—rose petals, spice—and his black robes were soft to the touch, softer than the curtain around her shoulders. His gaze met hers as they stood there; for a moment, the mirrorlike surface of his eyes cracked and she saw warmth and passion. His arm around her tightened reflexively, drawing her closer without seeming to mean to do so.

  Crysania flushed, wanting desperately to both run away and stay forever in that warm embrace. Quickly, she lowered her gaze, but it was too late. She felt Raistlin stiffen. Angrily, he withdrew his arm. Pushing her aside, he gripped his staff for support.

  But he was still too weak. He staggered and started to fall. Crysania moved to help him, but suddenly a huge body interposed itself between her and the mage. Strong arms caught Raistlin up as if he were no more than a child. Caramon carried his brother to a frayed and blackened, heavily cushioned chair he had dragged near the fire.

  For a few moments, Crysania could not move from where she stood, leaning against the desk. It was only when she realized that she was alone in the darkness, outside the light of both fire and staff, that she walked hurriedly over near the fire herself.

  “Sit down, Lady Crysania,” said Caramon, drawing up another chair and beating the dust and ash off with his hands as best he could.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, trying, for some reason, to avoid the big man’s gaze. Sinking down into the chair, she huddled near the blaze, staring fixedly into the flames until she felt she had regained some of her composure.

  When she was able to look around, she saw Raistlin lying back in his chair, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. Caramon was heating water in a battered iron pot that he had dragged, from the looks of it, out of the ashes of the fireplace.

  He stood before it, staring intently into the water. The firelight glistened on his golden armor, glowed on his smooth, tan skin. His muscles rippled as he flexed his great arms to keep warm.

  He is truly a magnificently built man, Crysania thought, then shuddered. Once again, she could see him entering that room beneath the doomed Temple, the bloody sword in his hand, death in his eyes.…

  “The water’s ready,” Caramon announced, and Crysania returned to the Tower with a start.

  “Let me fix the potion,” she said quickly, thankful for something to do.

  Raistlin opened his eyes as she came near him. Looking into them, she saw only a reflection of herself, pale, wan, disheveled. Wordlessly, he held out a small, velvet pouch. As she took it, he gestured to his brother, then sank back, exhausted.

  Taking the pouch, Crysania turned to find Caramon watching her, a look of mingled perplexity and sadness giving his face an unaccustomed gravity. But all he said was, “Put a few of the leaves in this cup, then fill it with the hot water.”

  “What is it?” Crysania asked curiously. Opening the pouch, her nose wrinkled at the strange, bitter scent of the herbs. Caramon poured the water into the cup she held.

  “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “Raist always gathered the herbs and mixed them himself. Par-Salian gave the recipe to him after … after the Test, when he was so sick. I know”—he smiled at her—“it smells awful and must taste worse.” His glance went almost fondly to his brother. “But it will help him.” His voice grated harshly. Abruptly, he turned away.

  Crysania carried the steaming potion to Raistlin, who clutched at it with trembling hands and eagerly brought the cup to his lips. Sipping at it, he breathed a sigh of relief and, once more, sank back among the cushions of the chair.

  An awkward silence fell. Caramon was staring down at the fire once more. Raistlin, too, looked into the flames and drank his potion without comment. Crysania returned to her own chair to do what each of the others must be doing, she realized—trying to sort out thoughts, trying to make some sense of what had happened.

  Hours ago, she had been standing in a doomed city, a city destined to die by the wrath of the gods. She had been on the verge of complete mental and physical collapse. She could admit this now, though she could not have then. How fondly she had imagined her soul to be girded round by the steel walls of her faith. Not steel, she saw now, with shame and regret. Not steel, but ice. The ice had melted in the harsh light of truth, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. If it had not been for Raistlin, she would have perished back there in Istar.

  Raistlin … Her face flushed. This was something else she had never thought to contend with—love, passion. She had been betrothed to a young man, years ago, and she had been quite fond of him. But she had not loved him. She had, in fact, never really believed in love—the kind of love that existed in tales told to children. To be that wrapped up in another person seemed a handicap, a weakness to be avoided. She remembered something Tanis Half-Elven had said about his wife, Laurana—what was it? “When she is gone, it is like I’m missing my right arm.…”

  What romantic twaddle, she had thought at the time. But now she asked herself, did she feel that way about Raistlin? Her thoughts went to the last day in Istar, the terrible storm, the flashing of the lightning, and how she had suddenly found herself in Raistlin’s arms. Her heart contracted with the swift ache of desire as she felt, once again, his strong embrace. But there was also a sharp fear, a strange revulsion. Unwillingly, she remembered the feverish gleam in his eyes, his exultation in the storm—as if he himself had called it down.

  It was like the strange smell of the spell components that clung to him—the pleasant smell of roses and spice, but—mingled with it—the cloying odor of decaying creatures, the acrid smell of sulfur. Even as her body longed for his touch, something in her soul shrank away in horror.…

  Caramon’s stomach rumbled loudly. The sound, in the deathly still chamber, was startling.

  Looking up, her thoughts shattered, Crysania saw the big man blush deeply in embarrassment. Suddenly reminded of her own hunger—she couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to choke down a mouthful of food—Crysania began to laugh.

  Caramon looked at her dubiously, perhaps thinking her hysterical. At the puzzled look on the big man’s face, Crysania only laughed harder. It felt good to laugh, in fact. The darkness in the room seemed pushed back, the shadows lifted from her soul. She laughed merrily and, finally, caught by the infectious nature of her mirth, Caramon began to laugh, too, though he still shook his head, his face red.

  “Thus do the gods remind us we’re human,” Crysania said when she could speak, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Here we are, in the most horrible place imaginable, surrounded by creatures waiting eagerly to devour us whole, and all I can think of right now is how desperately hungry I am!”

  “We need food,” said Caramon soberly, suddenly serious. “And decent clothing, if we’re going to be here long.” He looked at his brother. “How long are we going to be here?”

&
nbsp; “Not long,” Raistlin replied. He had finished the potion, and his voice was already stronger. Some color had returned to his pale face. “I need time to rest, to recover my strength, and to complete my studies. This lady”—his glittering gaze went to Crysania, and she shivered at the sudden impersonal tone in his voice—“needs to commune with her god and renew her faith. Then, we will be ready to enter the Portal. At which time, my brother, you may go where you will.”

  Crysania felt Caramon’s questioning glance, but she kept her face smooth and expressionless, though Raistlin’s cool, casual mention of entering the dread Portal, of going into the Abyss and facing the Queen of Darkness froze her heart. She refused to meet Caramon’s eyes, therefore, and stared into the fire.

  The big man sighed, then he cleared his throat. “Will you send me home?” he asked his twin.

  “If that is where you wish to go.”

  “Yes,” Caramon said, his voice deep and stern. “I want to go back to Tika and to … talk to Tanis.” His voice broke. “I’ll have to … to explain, somehow, about Tas dying … back there in Istar.…”

  “In the name of the gods, Caramon,” Raistlin snapped, making an irritated motion with his slender hand, “I thought we had seen some glimmer of an adult lurking in that hulking body of yours! You will undoubtedly return to find Tasslehoff sitting in your kitchen, regaling Tika with one stupid story after another, having robbed you blind in the meantime!”

  “What?” Caramon’s face grew pale, his eyes widened.

  “Listen to me, my brother!” Raistlin hissed, pointing a finger at Caramon. “The kender doomed himself when he disrupted Par-Salian’s spell. There is a very good reason for the prohibition against those of his race and the races of dwarves and gnomes traveling back in time. Since they were created by accident, through a quirk of fate and the god, Reorx’s, carelessness, these races are not within the flow of time, as are humans, elves, and ogres—those races first created by the gods.