War of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  “Thus, the kender could have altered time, as he was quick to realize when I inadvertently let slip that fact. I could not allow that to happen! Had he stopped the Cataclysm, as he intended, who knows what might have occurred? Perhaps we might have returned to our own time to find the Queen of Darkness reigning supreme and unchallenged, since the Cataclysm was sent, in part, to prepare the world to face her coming and give it the strength to defy her—”

  “So you murdered him!” Caramon interrupted hoarsely.

  “I told him to get the device”—Raistlin bit the words—“I taught him how to use it, and I sent him home!”

  Caramon blinked. “You did?” he asked suspiciously.

  Raistlin sighed and laid his head back into the cushions of the chair. “I did, but I don’t expect you to believe me, my brother.” His hands plucked feebly at the black robes he wore. “Why should you, after all?”

  “You know,” said Crysania softly, “I seem to remember, in those last horrible moments before the earthquake struck, seeing Tasslehoff. He … he was with me … in the Sacred Chamber.…”

  She saw Raistlin open his eyes a slit. His glittering gaze pierced her heart and startled her, distracting her thoughts for a moment.

  “Go on,” Caramon urged.

  “I—I remember … he had the magical device. At least I think he did. He said something about it.” Crysania put her hand to her forehead. “But I can’t think what it was. It-it’s all so dreadful and confused. But—I’m certain he said he had the device!”

  Raistlin smiled slightly. “Surely, you will believe Lady Crysania, my brother?” He shrugged. “A cleric of Paladine will not lie.”

  “So Tasslehoff’s home? Right now?” Caramon said, trying to assimilate this startling information. “And, when I go back, I’ll find him—”

  “—safe and sound and loaded down with most of your personal possessions,” Raistlin finished wryly. “But, now, we must turn our attention to more pressing matters. You are right, my brother. We need food and warm clothing, and we are not likely to find either here. The time we have come forward to is about one hundred years after the Cataclysm. This Tower”—he waved his hand—“has been deserted all those years. It is now guarded by the creatures of darkness called forth by the curse of the magic-user whose body is still impaled upon the spikes of the gates below us. The Shoikan Grove has grown up around it, and there are none on Krynn who dare enter.

  “None except myself, of course. No, no one can get inside. But the guardians will not prevent one of us—you, my brother, for example—from leaving. You will go into Palanthas and buy food and clothing. I could produce it with my magic, but I dare not expend any unnecessary energy between now and when I—that is Crysania and I—enter the Portal.”

  Caramon’s eyes widened. His gaze went to the soot-blackened window, his thoughts to the horrifying stories of the Shoikan Grove beyond.

  “I will give you a charm to guard you, my brother,” Raistlin added in exasperation, seeing the frightened look on Caramon’s face. “A charm will be necessary, in fact, but not to aid your way through the Grove. It is far more dangerous in here. The guardians obey me, but they hunger for your blood. Do not set foot outside this room without me. Remember that. You, too, Lady Crysania.”

  “Where is this … this Portal?” Caramon asked abruptly.

  “In the laboratory, above us, at the top of the Tower,” Raistlin replied. “The Portals were kept in the most secure place the wizards could devise because, as you can imagine, they are extremely dangerous!”

  “It’s like wizards to go tampering with what they should best leave alone,” Caramon growled. “Why in the name of the gods did they create a gateway to the Abyss?”

  Placing the tips of his fingers together, Raistlin stared into the fire, speaking to the flames as if they were the only ones with the power to understand him.

  “In the hunger for knowledge, many things are created. Some are good, that benefit us all. A sword in your hands, Caramon, champions the cause of righteousness and truth and protects the innocent. But a sword in the hands of, say, our beloved sister, Kitiara, would split the heads of the innocent wide open if it suited her. Is this the fault of the sword’s creator?”

  “N—” Caramon began, but his twin ignored him.

  “Long ago, during the Age of Dreams, when magic-users were respected and magic flourished upon Krynn, the five Towers of High Sorcery stood as beacons of light in the dark sea of ignorance that was this world. Here, great magics were worked, benefiting all. There were plans for greater still. Who knows but that now we might have been riding on the winds, soaring the skies like dragons. Maybe even leaving this wretched world and inhabiting other worlds, far away … far away.…”

  His voice grew soft and quiet. Caramon and Crysania held very still, spellbound by his tone, caught up in the vision of his magic.

  He sighed. “But that was not to be. In their desire to hasten their great works, the wizards decided they needed to communicate directly with each other, from one Tower to another, without the need for cumbersome teleportation spells. And so, the Portals were constructed.”

  “They succeeded?” Crysania’s eyes shone with wonder.

  “They succeeded!” Raistlin snorted. “Beyond their wildest dreams”—his voice dropped—“their worst nightmares. For the Portals could not only provide movement in one step between any of the far-flung Towers and fortresses of magic—but also into the realms of the gods, as an inept wizard of my own order discovered to his misfortune.”

  Raistlin shivered, suddenly, and drew his black robes more tightly around him, huddling close to the fire.

  “Tempted by the Queen of Darkness, as only she can tempt mortal man when she chooses”—Raistlin’s face grew pale—“he used the Portal to enter her realm and gain the prize she offered him nightly, in his dreams,” Raistlin laughed, bitter, mocking laughter. “Fool! What happened to him, no one knows. But he never returned through the Portal. The Queen, however, did. And with her, came legions of dragons—”

  “The first Dragon Wars!” Crysania gasped.

  “Yes, brought upon us by one of my own kind with no discipline, no self-control. One who allowed himself to be seduced—” Breaking off, Raistlin stared broodingly into the fire.

  “But, I never heard that!” Caramon protested. “According to the legends, the dragons came together—”

  “Your history is limited to bedtime tales, my brother!” Raistlin said impatiently. “And just proves how little you know of dragons. They are independent creatures, proud, self-centered, and completely incapable of coming together to cook dinner, much less coordinate any sort of war effort. No, the Queen entered the world completely that time, not just the shadow she was during our war with her. She waged war upon the world, and it was only through Huma’s great sacrifice that she was driven back.”

  Raistlin paused, hands to his lips, musing. “Some say that Huma did not use the Dragonlance to physically destroy her, as the legend goes. But, rather, the lance had some magical property allowing him to drive her back into the Portal and seal it shut. The fact that he did drive her back proves that—in this world—she is vulnerable.” Raistlin stared fixedly into the flames. “Had there been someone—someone of true power at the Portal when she entered, someone capable of destroying her utterly instead of simply driving her back—then history might well have been rewritten.”

  No one spoke. Crysania stared into the flames, seeing, perhaps, the same glorious vision as the archmage. Caramon stared at his twin’s face.

  Raistlin’s gaze suddenly left the flames, flashing into focus with a clear, cold intensity. “When I am stronger, tomorrow, I will ascend to the laboratory alone”—his stern glance swept over both Caramon and Crysania—“and begin my preparations. You, lady, had best start communing with your god.”

  Crysania swallowed nervously. Shivering, she drew her chair nearer the fire. But suddenly Caramon was on his feet, standing before her. Reaching down
, his strong hands gripped her arms, forcing her to look up into his eyes.

  “This is madness, lady,” he said, his voice soft and compassionate. “Let me take you from this dark place! You’re frightened—you have reason to be afraid! Maybe not everything Par-Salian said about Raistlin was true. Maybe everything I thought about him wasn’t true, either. Perhaps I’ve misjudged him. But I see this clearly, lady. You’re frightened and I don’t blame you! Let Raistlin do this thing alone! Let him challenge the gods—if that’s what he wants! But you don’t have to go with him! Come home! Let me take you back to our time, away from here.”

  Raistlin did not speak, but his thoughts echoed in Crysania’s mind as clearly as if he had. You heard the Kingpriest! You said yourself that you know his mistake! Paladine favors you. Even in this dark place, he grants your prayers. You are his chosen! You will succeed where the Kingpriest failed! Come with me, Crysania. This is our destiny!

  “I am frightened,” Crysania said, gently disengaging Caramon’s hands from her arms. “And I am truly touched by your concern. But this fear of mine is a weakness in me that I must combat. With Paladine’s help, I will overcome it—before I enter the Portal with your brother.”

  “So be it,” Caramon said heavily, turning away.

  Raistlin smiled, a dark, secret smile that was not reflected in either his eyes or his voice.

  “And now, Caramon,” he said caustically, “if you are quite through meddling in matters you are completely incapable of comprehending, you had best prepare for your journey. It is midmorning, now. The markets—such as they are in these bleak times—are just opening.” Reaching into a pocket in his black robes, Raistlin withdrew several coins and tossed them at his brother. “That should be sufficient for our needs.”

  Caramon caught the coins without thinking. Then he hesitated, staring at his brother with the same look Crysania had seen him wear in the Temple at Istar, and she remembered thinking, what terrible hate … what terrible love!

  Finally, Caramon lowered his gaze, stuffing the money into his belt.

  “Come here to me, Caramon,” Raistlin said softly.

  “Why?” he muttered, suddenly suspicious.

  “Well, there is the matter of that iron collar around your neck. Would you walk the streets with the mark of slavery still? And then there is the charm.” Raistlin spoke with infinite patience. Seeing Caramon hesitate still, he added, “I would not advise you leave this room without it. Still, that is your decision—”

  Glancing over at the pallid faces, who were still watching intently from the shadows, Caramon came to stand before his brother, his arms crossed before his chest. “Now what?” he growled.

  “Kneel down before me.”

  Caramon’s eyes flashed with anger. A bitter oath burned on his lips, but, his eyes going furtively to Crysania, he choked back and swallowed his words.

  Raistlin’s pale face appeared saddened. He sighed. “I am exhausted, Caramon. I do not have the strength to rise. Please—”

  His jaw clenched, Caramon slowly lowered himself, bending knee to floor so that he was level with his frail, black-robed twin.

  Raistlin spoke a soft word. The iron collar split apart and fell from Caramon’s neck, landing with a clatter on the floor.

  “Come nearer,” Raistlin said.

  Swallowing, rubbing his neck, Caramon did as he was told. though he stared at his brother bitterly. “I’m doing this for Crysania,” he said, his voice taut. “If it were just you and me, I’d let you rot in this foul place!”

  Reaching out his hands, Raistlin placed them on either side of his twin’s head with a gesture that was tender, almost caressing. “Would you, my brother?” the mage asked so softly it was no more than a breath. “Would you leave me? Back there, in Istar—would you truly have killed me?”

  Caramon only stared at him, unable to answer. Then, Raistlin bent forward and kissed his brother on the forehead. Caramon flinched, as though he had been touched with a redhot iron.

  Raistlin released his grip.

  Caramon stared at him in anguish. “I don’t know!” he murmured brokenly. “The gods help me—I don’t know!”

  With a shuddering sob, he covered his face with his hands. His head sank into his brother’s lap.

  Raistlin stroked his brother’s brown, curling hair. “There, now, Caramon,” he said gently. “I have given you the charm. The things of darkness cannot harm you, not so long as I am here.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  aramon stood in the doorway to the study, peering out into the darkness of the corridor beyond—a darkness that was alive with whispers and eyes. Beside him was Raistlin, one hand on his twin’s arm, the Staff of Magius in his other.

  “All will be well, my brother,” Raistlin said softly. “Trust me.”

  Caramon glanced at his twin out of the corner of his eye. Seeing his look, Raistlin smiled sardonically. “I will send one of these with you,” the mage continued, motioning with his slender hand.

  “I’d rather not!” Caramon muttered, scowling as the pair of disembodied eyes nearest him drew nearer still.

  “Attend him,” Raistlin commanded the eyes. “He is under my protection. You see me? You know who I am?”

  The eyes lowered their gaze in reverence, then fixed their cold and ghastly stare upon Caramon. The big warrior shuddered and cast one final glance at Raistlin, only to see his brother’s face turn grim and stern.

  “The guardians will guide you safely through the Grove. You may have more to fear, however, once you leave it. Be wary, my brother. This city is not the beautiful, serene place it will become in two hundred years Now, refugees pack it, living in the gutters, the streets, wherever they can. Carts rumble over the cobblestones every morning, removing the bodies of those who died during the night. There are men out there who will murder you for your boots. Buy a sword, first thing, and carry it openly in your hand.”

  “I’ll worry about the town,” Caramon snapped. Turning abruptly, he walked off down the corridor, trying without much success to ignore the pale, glowing eyes that floated near his shoulder.

  Raistlin watched until his brother and the guardian had passed beyond the staff’s radius of magical light and were swallowed up by the noisome darkness. Waiting until even the echoes of his brother’s heavy footfalls had faded, Raistlin turned and reentered the study.

  Lady Crysania sat in her chair, trying without much success to comb her fingers through her tangled hair. Padding softly across the floor to stand near her, unseen, Raistlin reached into one of the pockets of his black robes and drew forth a handful of fine white sand. Coming up behind her, the mage raised his hand and let the sand drift down over the woman’s dark hair.

  “Ast tasark simiralan krynawi,” Raistlin whispered, and almost immediately Crysania’s head drooped, her eyes closed, and she drifted into a deep, magical sleep. Moving to stand before her, Raistlin stared at her for long moments.

  Though she had washed the stain of tears and blood from her face, the marks of her journey through darkness were still visible in the blue shadows beneath her long lashes, a cut upon her lip, and the pallor of her complexion. Reaching out his hand, Raistlin gently brushed back the hair that fell in dark tendrils across her eyes.

  Crysania had cast aside the velvet curtain she had been using as a blanket as the room was warmed by the fire. Her white robes, torn and stained with blood, had come loose around her neck. Raistlin could see the soft curves of her breasts beneath the white cloth rising and falling with her deep, even breathing.

  “Were I as other men, she would be mine,” he said softly.

  His hand lingered near her face, her dark, crisp hair curling around his fingers.

  “But I am not as other men,” Raistlin murmured. Letting her hair fall, he pulled the velvet curtain up around her shoulders and across her slumbering form. Crysania smiled from some sweet dream, perhaps, and nestled more snugly into the chair, resting her cheek upon her hand as she laid her head
on the armrest.

  Raistlin’s hand brushed against the smooth skin of her face, recalling vivid memories. He began to tremble. He had but to reverse the sleep spell, take her in his arms, hold her as he held her when he cast the magic spell that brought them to this place. They would have an hour alone together before Caramon returned.…

  “I am not as other men!” Raistlin snarled.

  Abruptly walking away, his dour gaze encountered the staring, watchful eyes of the guardians.

  “Watch over her while I am gone,” he said to several half-seen, hovering spectres lurking in the dark shadows in the corner of the study. “You two,” he ordered the two who been with him when he awakened, “accompany me.”

  “Yes, Master,” the two murmured. As the staff’s light fell upon them, the faint outlines of black robes could be seen.

  Stepping out into the corridor, Raistlin carefully closed the door to the study behind him. He gripped the staff, spoke a soft word of command, and was instantly taken to the laboratory at the top of the Tower of High Sorcery.

  He had not even drawn a breath when, materializing out of the darkness, he was attacked.

  Shrieks and howls of outrage screamed around him. Dark shapes darted out of the air, daring the light of the staff as bone-white fingers clutched for his throat and grasped his robes, rending the cloth. So swift and sudden was the attack and so awful the sense of hatred that Raistlin very nearly lost control.

  But he was in command of himself quickly. Swinging the staff in a wide arc, shouting hoarse words of magic, he drove back the spectres.

  “Talk to them!” he commanded the two guardians with him. “Tell them who I am!”

  “Fistandantilus,” he heard them say through a roaring in his ears, “… though his time has not yet come as was foretold … some magical experiment.…”

  Weakened and dizzy, Raistlin staggered to a chair and slumped down into it. Bitterly cursing himself for not being prepared for such an onslaught and cursing the frail body that was, once again, failing him, he wiped blood from a jagged cut upon his face and fought to remain conscious.