In that instant Raistlin, saw the temple not as it was, but as it had been. He gazed in wonder, awed and captivated. The cracks in the marble vanished. The patina of grime and dirt burned away in the light. The temple walls gleamed white. The frieze on the portico, obliterated in anger, was restored. In that frieze was a message, an answer, a solution. Raistlin stared at it. He needed only a few seconds to puzzle it out and he would understand. …
The world turned on its axis, the sun’s dazzling rays were blocked by a guard tower on the wall. The tower’s shadow fell across the golden doors. The vision vanished, the temple was as it had been—shabby, neglected, forgotten. Raistlin stared hard at the broken frieze, trying to fill in the missing pieces with the remnants of the vision, but he found he could not remember it, like a dream one loses on waking.
“I’m going inside,” Caramon said. He returned his sword to its sheath.
“Unarmed?” Scrounger asked, amazed.
“It’s not proper, taking a weapon in there,” Caramon replied, his voice deep and solemn. “It’s not …” He fumbled for a word. “Respectful.”
“But there’s nobody left to respect!” Scrounger argued.
“Caramon is right,” Raistlin said firmly, to his brother’s great astonishment. “We don’t need weapons here. Put your sword away.”
“ ‘Crazy as a kender,’ they say,” Scrounger muttered to himself. “Hah! Kender have nothing on these two!”
Having no desire to argue with the mage, however, Scrounger slid his knife back into his belt (though he kept his hand on the hilt) and accompanied the brothers inside.
Contrasted with the brightness of the reflected sunlight beating on the gold, the interior of the temple was so dark that for a few moments they could see nothing at all. But as their eyes became accustomed to the change, the darkness receded. The temple’s interior seemed brighter than the bright day outside.
Fear vanished. No harm could come to them in this place. Raistlin felt the tightness in his chest ease, he breathed more deeply, less painfully. Solinari’s promise held true, and Raistlin was more than a little ashamed of having doubted. The wounded could be made quite comfortable here. There was a purity to the air, a softness to the light that had healing qualities, of that he was convinced. The blessings of the old gods still lingered here, if the gods themselves were gone.
“This was a really good idea of yours, Raist,” said Caramon.
“Thank you, my brother,” Raistlin returned and, after a pause, he added, “I am sorry I was angry with you back there. I know you didn’t mean it.”
Caramon regarded his twin with amazed, marveling awe. He could not recall ever having heard his brother apologize to anyone for anything. He was about to reply when Scrounger motioned him to be quiet.
Scrounger pointed to a door, a silver door. “I think I heard something!” he whispered. “Behind that door!”
“Mice,” said Caramon and, putting his hand on the door, he gave it a shove.
The door swung open silently, smoothly.
Fear flowed from the opening, a black, foul river of dread so strong, so palpable that Caramon felt it wash over him, try to drown him. He staggered backward, raising his hands as if he were sinking beneath turgid waves.
Raistlin tried to call out, tried to warn his brother to shut the door, but fear seized him by the throat and squeezed off his voice.
The dread rushed into the temple in a dark, crashing wave, submerging the kender part of Scrounger, leaving him a prey to human terror. “I … I never felt like this!” He whimpered, crouching back against the wall. “What’s happening? I don’t understand!”
Raistlin did not understand either. He had known fear. Any who take the deadly Test in the Tower of High Sorcery know fear. He had known the fear of pain, the fear of death, the fear of failure. He had never felt fear like this.
This was a fear that came from far away, a fear borne in the distant past, a fear felt by those very first people to walk upon this world. A primeval fear that looked up into the heavens and saw the fiery stars wheeling overhead, saw the sun, a bright and terrible orb of flame, hurtling down upon them. It was the fear of the noisome darkness, when neither stars nor moons were visible and the wood was wet and would not light and growls and snarls of unsatiated hunger came from the wilderness.
Raistlin wanted to flee, but the fear sucked the strength from his bones, left them soft and pliable as the bones of a newborn child. His brain shot jolts of fire to his muscles. His limbs trembled and jerked in panicked response. He clutched at his staff, and was astonished to see the crystal atop the staff—the crystal held by the dragon’s claw—glowing with a strange light.
Raistlin had seen the staff glow before. He had only to say, “Shirak,” and the crystal would light the darkness. But he had never seen it glow like this; a light that flared in anger, red around the edges, white at its heart, like the flame of the forge fire.
A Knight, clad in silver armor of ornate design appeared in the doorway. The Knight wore the symbol of a rose upon his tabard. He held his sword in his gloved hand. He removed the helm he wore and his eyes looked straight into Raistlin’s heart and beyond that, into his soul.
“Magius,” the Knight said, “I require your help to save that which must not perish from the world.”
“I am not Magius,” Raistlin answered, constrained by the Knight’s noble aspect and mien to tell the truth.
“You bear his staff,” said the Knight. “The fabled Staff of Magius.”
“A gift,” Raistlin said, lowering his head. Yet he could still feel the eyes of the Knight delving the depths of his being.
“Truly a valuable gift,” said the Knight. “Are you worthy of it?”
“I … don’t know,” Raistlin replied in confusion.
“An honest answer,” said the Knight, and he smiled. “Find out. Aid me in my cause.”
“I am afraid!” Raistlin gasped, holding up his hand to ward off the terror. “I cannot do anything to help you or anyone!”
“Overcome your fear,” said the Knight. “If you do not, you will walk in fear the rest of your life.”
The light from the crystal blazed brilliant as a lightning bolt. Raistlin was forced to shut his eyes against the painful glare, lest it blind him. When he opened his eyes, the Knight was gone, as if he had never been.
The silver doors stood open and death lay beyond.
You had courage enough to pass the Test, said an inner voice.
“Courage enough to kill my own brother!” Raistlin answered.
Par-Salian and Antimodes and all the rest might view Raistlin with contempt, but they could never match the contempt with which he viewed himself. Bitter self-recrimination tagged always at his heels. Self-loathing was his constant shadow.
“Courage enough to kill Caramon when he came to rescue me, kill him as he stood before me, helpless, unarmed, disarmed by his love for me. That is my sort of courage,” Raistlin said.
You will walk in fear the rest of your life.
“No,” said Raistlin. “I won’t.”
Refusing to allow himself to think what he was doing, he lifted the Staff of Magius and, holding its shining light above him, he walked through the silver doors into darkness.
18
CARAMON HAD NEVER EXPERIENCED SUCH FEAR. NOT DURING THAT terrible and hopeless attack on the city, not when the arrows thudded into his shield, not when the boulders smashed into his comrades, changing them from living men into bloody pulp and bone slivers. His fear then had been gut-wrenching, but not debilitating. His training and his discipline had carried him through.
This fear was different. It didn’t wrench the gut, it reduced the gut to water. It didn’t galvanize the body to action, it wrung the body, left it limp as a bar rag. Caramon had one thought in his mind and that was to run as fast as he could away from this place, away from the unknown evil that flowed out of the silver door in a chill and sickening wave. He didn’t know what was down there, he didn’
t want to know what was down there. Whatever it was, it was not meant for mortals to encounter.
Caramon watched with a horror that left him breathless and gasping, watched his brother cross that awful threshold.
“Raist, don’t!” Caramon cried, but the cry came out a pitiful wail, like that of a frightened child.
If Raistlin heard him, he did not turn back.
Caramon wondered what dark force had seized hold of his brother, caused him to enter that place of certain death. In answer Caramon heard a voice, faint and distant, calling for aid. An armored Knight stood in the doorway. Reminded fondly of Sturm, Caramon would have been glad to go with the Knight but for this strange and horrible fear that had him groveling on the floor of the temple in a panic.
But that changed when Raistlin entered the darkness. Caramon had no choice but to go after him. Fear for his brother’s life was like a fire in his brain and blood, burned away the sickening, unnameable fear. Sword drawn, he ran through the silver door into the corridor after his brother.
Left behind, Scrounger stared, disbelieving. His friend, his best friend, and his friend’s twin, had just walked into death.
“Fools!” Scrounger pronounced them. “You’re both crazy!”
His teeth chattered, he could barely speak. Pressed flat against the wall by his own terror, he tried to take a step toward that dark entrance, but his feet wouldn’t obey what was admittedly a feeble command.
Where, oh, where was the kender side of him now that he needed it! All his life he had fought against that part of himself—slapped back the fingers that itched to touch, to handle, to take; fought against the wanderlust that tempted him to leave his honest work and go skipping down an untraveled road. Now, when his mother’s kender fearlessness—a fearlessness that had nothing to do with courage and everything to do with curiosity—might have stood him in good stead, he searched for it and found it wanting.
His mother would have said it served him right.
Scrounger wasn’t in the temple any longer. He was a little child standing with his mother outside a cave they’d stumbled across during one of their many rambles.
“Aren’t you curious to know what’s in there?” she asked him. “Don’t you wonder what’s inside? Maybe a dragon’s treasure hoard. Maybe a sorcerer’s workshop. Maybe a princess who needs rescuing. Don’t you want to find out?”
“No,” Scrounger wailed. “I don’t want to go in! It’s dark and horrible and it smells bad!”
“You’re no child of mine,” his mother said, not angrily, but fondly. She patted his head. She went into the cave, came dashing out about three minutes later with a giant bugbear in hot pursuit.
Scrounger remembered that moment, remembered the bugbear—the first one he’d ever seen and the last he ever wanted to see—remembered his mother haring out of that cave, her clothes in wild disorder, her pouches flapping open, spilling their contents, her face red with exertion, her grin wide. She caught Scrounger by the hand. They ran for their lives.
Fortunately the bugbear didn’t have any staying power. It soon given up the chase. But Scrounger had determined in that moment that his mother was right. He was no child of hers and he didn’t want to be.
“I know what I’ll do,” said Scrounger to himself, “I’ll go back to the army. I’ll get reinforcements!”
At that moment, a large hand reached out from the silver door, grabbed hold of Scrounger’s shoulder, yanked him off his feet, and pulled him inside.
“Cripes, Caramon, you scared m-me half to death! What did you do that for?” Scrounger demanded when he could feel his heart start to beat again.
“Because I need your help to find Raist,” Caramon said grimly. “You were running away!”
“I was g-going to g-get help,” Scrounger said through the chattering of his teeth.
“You’re not supposed to be scared.” Caramon glared at the trembling Scrounger. “What kind of kender are you?”
“Half-kender,” Scrounger retorted. “The smart half.”
Now that he was here, he supposed he had to make the best of it. Anyway, he was too scared to go back alone.
“Is it all right with you if I draw my sword now? Or would that be disrespectful to whatever’s down here that’s going to murder us and chop up our bodies into little pieces and suck out our souls.”
“I think drawing your sword would be a wise move,” Caramon replied gravely.
They stood inside a tunnel that had been carved through the rock. The tunnel walls were smooth and formed an arch above them, the floor sloped slightly downward. The tunnel did not appear as dark once they’d entered it as it had seemed from outside. Sunlight reflecting off the silver door lit their way for a considerable distance, far longer than either would have imagined was possible. But there was no sign of Raistlin.
They kept going. The tunnel made a sharp curve. Coming around the corner, they saw, ahead of them, a shining light, brilliant as a star.
“Raist!” Caramon called softly.
The light wavered, halted. Raistlin turned and they could see his face, the skin glistening faintly gold in the light cast by the Staff of Magius. He beckoned. Caramon hurried ahead, Scrounger at his heels—close at his heels.
Raistlin’s hand closed over his brother’s arm, clasped Caramon warmly. “I’m glad you are here, my brother,” he said earnestly.
“Well, I’m not glad to be here!” Caramon said in a low voice. He looked nervously to the left, to the right, ahead and behind. “I don’t like this place and I think we should leave. Something down here doesn’t want us down here. Remember what Scrounger said about ghouls? I tell you, Raist, I’ve never been so scared in my life. I only came to find you and the Knight.”
“What Knight?” Scrounger demanded.
“So you saw him, too,” Raistlin murmured.
“What Knight?” Scrounger persisted.
Raistlin did not answer immediately. When he did reply, he said only, “Come with me, both of you. There’s something I want to show you.”
“Raist, I don’t think—” Caramon began.
The mountain shook. The tunnel shuddered, the floor trembled.
The three fell back against the tunnel walls, almost too startled to be frightened. Rock dust sifted down on their heads, but before the realization came to them that they were in danger of being buried beneath the mountain, the shaking ceased.
“That does it,” Caramon said. “We’re getting out of here.”
“A minor tremor. These mountains are subject to them, I believe. Did the Knight say anything to you?”
“He said he needed help. Look, Raist, I—” Caramon paused, regarded his brother anxiously. “Are you all right?”
Raistlin was choking on the rock dust, which had flown down his throat. He shook his head at the inanity of the question. “No, I’m not all right,” he gasped when he could speak. “But I will be better in a moment.”
“Let’s leave,” Caramon said. “You shouldn’t be down here. The dust is bad for you.”
“It’s bad for me, too,” said Scrounger.
They both stood there, waiting for Raistlin. When he could breathe, he looked back toward the silver door, then ahead. “Do what you want. But I am going to go on. We could not bring wounded into the temple without knowing that it is completely safe. Besides, I’m curious to know what lies ahead.”
“Probably my poor mother’s last words,” Scrounger said gloomily.
Caramon shook his head, but he followed after his twin. Scrounger waited, still thinking he would take the mage up on his offer and run away. He waited until the comforting light of the mage’s staff had almost vanished. Only when the darkness started to close over him did he race to catch up with the light.
The smooth tunnel walls gave way to natural rock. The path was uneven, more difficult to follow. It wound about among the stalagmites, led them from one cavern room into another and always down, down deep into the mountain. And then it ended, abruptly, in a cul-de-sa
c.
A wall of rock blocked their way.
“All this for nothing,” said Caramon. “Well, at least we know it’s safe. Let’s go back.”
Raistlin shone the light on the wall, soon discovered the alcove with the gate made of silver and gold. He looked through the gate into a small round chamber. Caramon peered over his shoulder. The chamber was empty except for a sarcophagus located in the very center of the oval room.
“Raist, this is a tomb,” Caramon said uneasily.
“How very observant of you, Caramon,” Raistlin returned.
Ignoring his brother’s pleas, he pushed open the gate.
The light of the Staff of Magius shone with a bright silver radiance as he entered the chamber. He raised the staff so that the light fell on the sarcophagus, illuminated the stone figure carved on the top. Raistlin stood staring in silence.
“Look at this, my brother,” he said at last, his voice soft, awed. “What do you see?”
“A tomb,” said Caramon nervously.
He came to a standstill under the arch, his big body blocking the way. Behind him, Scrounger had no intention of being left alone in the tunnel. He shoved his way past the big man, wormed his way inside.
“Look at the tomb, Caramon,” Raistlin persisted. “What do you see?”
“A Knight, I guess. It’s hard to tell. There’s so much dust.” Caramon averted his eyes. He had just noticed that the lid of the sarcophagus was open. “Raist, we shouldn’t be here! It’s not right!”
Raistlin paid no heed to his brother. Approaching the sarcophagus, he peered inside the open lid. He stopped, stared, drew back slightly.
“I knew it!” Caramon gripped his sword so hard his hand ached.
Raistlin beckoned. “Come here, my brother. You should see this.”
“No, I shouldn’t,” Caramon said firmly, shaking his head.
“I said come look at this, Caramon!” Raistlin’s voice rasped.
Shambling, reluctant, Caramon edged his way forward. Scrounger came with him, holding on to his sword with one hand and Caramon’s belt loop with the other.
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