War of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  But the smile was back, half an hour later, when Caramon burst into his tent. The big man’s face was flushed, his eyes dilated, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “I should kill you, you damned bastard!” he said in a choked voice.

  “What for this time, my brother?” Raistlin asked in irritation, continuing to read the spellbook he was studying. “Have I murdered another of your pet kender?”

  “You know damn well what for!” Caramon snarled with an oath. Lurching forward, he grabbed the spellbook and slammed it shut. His fingers burned as he touched its nightblue binding, but he didn’t even feel the pain. “I found Lady Crysania in the woods, her clothes ripped off, crying her heart out! Those marks on your face—”

  “Were made by my hands. Did she tell you what happened?” Raistlin interrupted.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Did she tell you that she offered herself to me?”

  “I don’t believe—”

  “And that I turned her down,” Raistlin continued coldly, his eyes meeting his brother’s unwaveringly.

  “You arrogant son of a—”

  “And even now, she probably sits weeping in her tent, thanking the gods that I love her enough to cherish her virtue.” Raistlin gave a bitter, mocking laugh that pierced Caramon like a poisoned dagger.

  “I don’t believe you!” Caramon said softly. Grabbing hold of his brother’s robes, he yanked Raistlin from his chair. “I don’t believe her! She’d say anything to protect your miserable—”

  “Remove your hands, brother!” Raistlin said in a flat, soft whisper.

  “I’ll see you in the Abyss!”

  “I said remove your hands!” There was a flash of blue light, a crackle and sizzling sound, and Caramon screamed in pain, loosening his hold as a jarring, paralyzing shock surged through his body.

  “I warned you,” Raistlin straightened his robes and resumed his seat.

  “By the gods, I will kill you this time!” Caramon said through clenched teeth, drawing his sword with a trembling hand.

  “Then do so,” Raistlin snapped, looking up from the spellbook he had reopened, “and get it over with. This constant threatening becomes boring!”

  There was an odd gleam in the mage’s eyes, an almost eager gleam—a gleam of invitation.

  “Try it!” he whispered, staring at his brother. “Try to kill me! You will never get home again.…”

  “That doesn’t matter!” Lost in blood-lust, overwhelmed by jealousy and hatred, Caramon took a step toward his brother, who sat, waiting, that strange, eager look upon his thin face.

  “Try it!” Raistlin ordered again.

  Caramon raised his sword.

  “General Caramon!” Alarmed voices shouted outside; there was the sound of running footsteps. With an oath, Caramon checked his swing and hesitated, half-blinded by tears of rage, staring grimly at his brother.

  “General! Where are you?” The voices sounded closer, and there were the answering voices of his guard, directing them to Raistlin’s tent.

  “Here!” Caramon finally shouted. Turning from his brother, he thrust the sword back into its scabbard and yanked open the tent flap. “What is it?”

  “General, I—Sir, your hands! They’re burned. How—?”

  “Never mind. What’s the matter?”

  “The witch, sir. She’s gone!”

  “Gone?” Caramon repeated in alarm. Casting his brother a vicious glance, the big man hurried out of the tent. Raistlin heard his booming voice demanding explanations, the men giving them.

  Raistlin did not listen. He closed his eyes with a sigh. Caramon had not been allowed to kill him.

  Ahead of him, stretched out before him in a straight, narrow line, the footsteps led inexorably on.

  CHAPTER

  4

  aramon had once complimented her on her riding skill. Until leaving Palanthas with Tanis Half-Elven to ride south to seek the magical Forest of Wayreft, Crysania had never been nearer a horse than seated inside one of her father’s elegant carriages. Women of Palanthas did not ride, not even for pleasure, as did the other Solamnic women.

  But that had been in her other life.

  Her other life. Crysania smiled grimly to herself as she leaned over her mount’s neck and dug her heels into its flanks, urging it forward at a trot. How far away it seemed; long ago and distant.

  She checked a sigh, ducking her head to avoid some low-hanging branches. She did not look behind her. Pursuit would not be very swift in coming, she hoped. There were the messengers—Caramon would have to deal with them first—and he dared not send any of his guards out without him. Not after the witch!

  Suddenly, Crysania laughed. If anyone ever looked like a witch, I do! She had not bothered to change her torn robes. When Caramon had found her in the woods, he had fastened them together with clasps from his cloak. The robes had ceased, long ago, to be snowy white; from travel and wear and being washed in streams, they had dulled to a dove-colored gray. Now, torn and mud-spattered, they fluttered around her like bedraggled feathers. Her cloak whipped out behind her as she rode. Her black hair was a tangled mass. She could scarcely see through it.

  She rode out of the woods. Ahead of her stretched the grasslands, and she reined in the horse for a moment to study the land lying ahead of her. The animal, used to plodding along with the ranks of the slow-moving army, was excited by this unaccustomed exercise. It shook its head and danced sideways a few steps, looking longingly at the smooth expanse of grass, begging for a run. Crysania patted its neck.

  “Come on, boy,” she urged, giving it free rein.

  Nostrils flaring, the horse laid back its ears and sprang forward, galloping across the open grasslands, thrilling in its newfound freedom. Clinging to the creature’s neck, Crysania gave herself up to the pleasure of her newfound freedom. The warm afternoon sun was a pleasant contrast to the sharp, biting wind in her face. The rhythm of the animal’s gallop, the excitement of the ride, and the faint edge of fear she always felt on horseback numbed her mind, easing the ache in her heart.

  As she rode, her plans crystallized in her mind, becoming clearer and sharper. Ahead of her, the land darkened with the shadows of a pine forest; above her, to her right, the snowcapped peaks of the Garnet Mountains glistened in the bright sunshine. Giving the reins a sharp jerk to remind the animal that she was in control, Crysania slowed the horse’s mad gallop and guided it toward the distant woods.

  Crysania had been gone from camp almost an hour before Caramon managed to get matters organized enough to set off in pursuit. As Crysania had foreseen, he had to explain the emergency to the messengers and make certain they were not offended before he could leave. This involved some time, because the Plainsman spoke very little Common and no dwarven, and, while the dwarf spoke Common fairly well (one reason he had been chosen as messenger), he couldn’t understand Caramon’s strange accent and was constantly forcing the big man to repeat himself.

  Caramon had begun trying to explain who Crysania was and what her relationship was to him, but that proved impossible for either the dwarf or the Plainsman to comprehend. Finally, Caramon gave up and told them, bluntly, what they were bound to hear in camp anyway—that she was his woman and she had run off.

  The Plainsman nodded in understanding. The women of his tribe, being notably wild, occasionally took it into their heads to do the same thing. He suggested that when Caramon caught her, he have all her hair cut off—the sign of a disobedient wife. The dwarf was somewhat astonished—a dwarven woman would as soon think of running away from home and husband as she would of shaving her chin whiskers. But, he reminded himself dourly, he was among humans and what could you expect?

  Both bid Caramon a quick and successful journey and settled down to enjoy the camp’s stock of ale. Heaving a sigh of relief, Caramon hurried out of his tent to find that Garic had saddled a horse and was holding it ready for him.

  “We picked up her trail, General,” the young man said, pointing. “
She rode north, following a small animal trail into the woods. She’s on a fast horse—” Garic shook his head a moment in admiration. “She stole one of the best, I’ll say that for her, sir. But, I wouldn’t think she’d get far.”

  Caramon mounted. “Thank you, Garic,” he began, then stopped as he saw another horse being led up. “What’s this?” he growled. “I said I was going alone—”

  “I am coming, too, my brother,” spoke a voice from the shadows.

  Caramon looked around. The archmage came out of his tent, dressed in his black traveling cloak and boots. Caramon scowled, but Garic was already respectfully helping Raistlin to mount the thin, nervous black horse the archmage favored. Caramon dared not say anything in front of the men—and his brother knew it. He saw the amused glint in Raistlin’s eyes as he raised his head, the sunlight hitting their mirrored surface.

  “Let’s be off, then,” Caramon muttered, trying to conceal his anger. “Garic, you’re in command while I’m gone. I don’t expect it will be long. Make certain that our guests are fed and get those farmers back out there on the field. I want to see them spearing those straw dummies when I return, not each other!”

  “Yes, sir,” Garic said gravely, giving Caramon the Knight’s salute.

  A vivid memory of Sturm Brightblade came to Caramon’s mind, and with it days of his youth; days when he and his brother had traveled with their friends—Tanis, Flint the dwarven metalsmith, Sturm.… Shaking his head, he tried to banish the memories as he guided his horse out of camp.

  But they returned to him more forcefully when he reached the trail into the woods and caught a glimpse of his brother riding next to him, the mage keeping his horse just a little behind the warrior’s, as usual. Though he did not particularly like riding, Raistlin rode well, as he did all things well if he set his mind to it. He did not speak nor even look at his brother, keeping his hood cast over his head, lost in his own thoughts. This was not unusual—the twins had sometimes traveled for days with little verbal communication.

  But there was a bond between them, nonetheless, a bond of blood and bone and soul. Caramon felt himself slipping into the old, easy comradeship. His anger began to melt away—it had been partly at himself, anyhow.

  Half-turning, he spoke over his shoulder.

  “I—I’m sorry … about … back there, Raist,” he said gruffly as they rode deeper into the forest, following Crysania’s clearly marked trail. “What you said was true—she did tell me that … that she—” Caramon floundered, blushing. He twisted around in the saddle. “That she—Damn it, Raist! Why did you have to be so rough with her?”

  Raistlin lifted his hooded head, his face now visible to his brother. “I had to be rough,” he said in his soft voice. “I had to make her see the chasm yawning at her feet, a chasm that, if we fell into it, would destroy us all!”

  Caramon stared at his twin in wonder. “You’re not human!”

  To his astonishment, Raistlin sighed. The mage’s harsh, glittering eyes softened a moment. “I am more human than you realize, my brother,” he said in a wistful tone that went straight to Caramon’s heart.

  “Then love her, man!” Caramon said, dropping back to ride beside his brother. “Forget this nonsense about chasms and pits or whatever! You may be a powerful wizard and she may be a holy cleric, but, underneath those robes, you’re both flesh and blood! Take her in your arms and … and.…”

  Caramon was so carried away that he checked his horse, stopping in the middle of the trail, his face lit with his passion and enthusiasm. Raistlin brought his horse to a stop, too. Leaning forward, he laid his hand on his brother’s arm, his burning fingers searing Caramon’s skin. His expression was hard, his eyes once again brittle and cold as glass.

  “Listen to me, Caramon, and try to understand,” Raistlin said in an expressionless tone that made his twin shudder. “I am incapable of love. Haven’t you realized that, yet? Oh, yes, you are right—beneath these robes I am flesh and blood, more’s the pity. Like any other man, I am capable of lust. That’s all it is … lust.”

  He shrugged. “It would probably matter little to me if I gave in to it, perhaps weaken me some temporarily, nothing more. It would certainly not affect my magic. But”—his gaze went through Caramon like a sliver of ice—“it would destroy Crysania when she found out. And she would find out!”

  “You black-hearted bastard!” Caramon said through clenched teeth.

  Raistlin raised an eyebrow. “Am I?” he asked simply. “If I were, wouldn’t I just take my pleasure as I found it? I am capable of understanding and controlling myself—unlike others.”

  Caramon blinked. Spurring his horse, he proceeded down the trail again, lost in confusion. Somehow, his brother had managed, once again, to turn everything upside down. Suddenly he, Caramon, felt consumed with guilt—a prey to animal instincts he wasn’t man enough to control, while his brother—by admitting he was incapable of love—appeared noble and self-sacrificing. Caramon shook his head.

  The two followed Crysania’s trail deeper into the woods. It was easy going, she had kept to the path, never veering, never bothering, even, to cover her tracks.

  “Women!” Caramon muttered after a time. “If she was going to have a sulking fit, why didn’t she just do it the easy way and walk! Why did she have to take a blasted horseback ride halfway into the countryside?”

  “You do not understand her, my brother,” Raistlin said, his gaze on the trail. “Such is not her intent. She has a purpose in this ride, believe me.”

  “Bah!” Caramon snorted. “This from the expert on women! I’ve been married! I know! She’s ridden off in a huff, knowing we’ll come after her. We’ll find her somewhere along here, her horse ridden into the ground, probably lame. She’ll be cold and haughty. We’ll apologize and … and I’ll let her have her damn tent if she wants it and—see there! What’d I tell you?” Bringing his horse to a halt, he gestured across the flat grasslands. “There’s a trail a blind gully dwarf could follow! Come on.”

  Raistlin did not answer, but there was a thoughtful look on his thin face as he galloped after his brother. The two followed Crysania’s trail across the grasslands. They found where she entered the woods again, came to a stream and crossed it. But there, on the bank of the stream Caramon brought his horse to a halt.

  “What the—” He looked left and right, guiding his animal around in a circle. Raistlin stopped, sighing, and leaned over the pommel of his saddle.

  “I told you,” he said grimly. “She has a purpose. She is clever, my brother. Clever enough to know your mind and how it works … when it does work!”

  Caramon glowered at his twin but said nothing.

  Crysania’s trail had disappeared.

  As Raistlin said, Crysania had a purpose. She was clever and intelligent, she guessed what Caramon would think and she purposefully misled him. Though certainly not skilled in woodslore herself, for months now, she had been with those who were. Often lonely—few spoke to the “witch”—and often left to her own devices by Caramon, who had problems of command to deal with, and Raistlin, who was wrapped up in his studies, Crysania had little to do but ride by herself, listening to the stories of those about her and learning from them.

  Thus it had been a simple thing to double back on her own trail, riding her horse down the center of the stream, leaving no tracks to follow. Coming to a rocky part of the shore where, again, her horse would leave no tracks, she left the stream. Entering the woods, she avoided the main trail, searching instead for one of the many, smaller animal trails that led to the stream. Once on it, she covered her tracks as best she could. Although she did it crudely, she was fairly certain Caramon would not give her credit enough even for that, so she had no fear he would follow her.

  If Crysania had known Raistlin rode with his brother, she might have had misgivings, for the mage seemed to know her mind better than she did herself. But she didn’t, so she continued ahead at a leisurely pace—to rest the horse and to give herself time
to go over her plans.

  In her saddlebags, she carried a map, stolen from Caramon’s tent. On the map was marked a small village nestled in the mountains. It was so small it didn’t even have a name—at least not one marked on the map. But this village was her destination. Here she planned to accomplish a two-fold purpose: she would alter time and she would prove—to Caramon and his brother and herself—that she was more than a piece of useless, even dangerous, baggage. She would prove her own worth.

  Here, in this village, Crysania intended to bring back the worship of the ancient gods.

  This was not a new thought for her. It was something she had often considered attempting but had not for a variety of reasons. The first was that both Caramon and Raistlin had absolutely forbidden her to use any clerical powers while in camp. Both feared for her life, having seen witch-burnings themselves in their younger days. (Raistlin had, in fact, nearly been a victim himself, until rescued by Sturm and Caramon.)

  Crysania herself had enough common sense to know that none of the men or their families traveling with the army would listen to her, all of them firmly believing that she was a witch. The thought had crossed her mind that if she could get to people who knew nothing of her, tell them her story, give them the message that the gods had not abandoned man, but that man had abandoned the gods, then they would follow her as they would follow Goldmoon two hundred years later.

  But it was not until she had been stung by Raistlin’s harsh words that she had gathered the courage to act. Even now, leading the horse at a walk through the quiet forest in the twilight, she could still hear his voice and see his flashing eyes as he reprimanded her.

  I deserved it, she admitted to herself. I had abandoned my faith. I was using my “charms” to try to bring him to me, instead of my example to bring him to Paladine. Sighing, she absently brushed her fingers through her tangled hair. If it had not been for his strength of will, I would have fallen.

  Her admiration for the young archmage, already strong, deepened—as Raistlin had foreseen. She determined to restore his faith in her and prove herself worthy, once more, of his trust and regard. For, she feared, blushing, he must have a very low opinion of her now. By returning to camp with a corps of followers, of true believers, she planned not only to show him that he was wrong—that time could be altered by bringing clerics into a world where, before, there were none—but also she hoped to extend her teachings throughout the army itself.