Tanis sank back in his chair. His first thought was one of bitter, cynical amusement—I told you so, Lord Amothus. I told you so, Porthios. I told you, all of you who want to crawl back into your nice, warm little nests and pretend the war never happened. His second thoughts were more sobering. Memories returned—the city of Tarsis in flames, the dragonarmies taking over Solace, the pain, the suffering … death.
Elistan was saying something, but Tanis couldn’t hear. He leaned back, closing his eyes, trying to think. He remembered Dalamar talking about Kitiara, but what was it he had said? It drifted on the fringes of his consciousness. He had been thinking about Kit. He hadn’t been paying attention. The words were vague.…
“Wait!” Tanis sat up, suddenly remembering. “You said Kitiara was furious with Raistlin. You said she was just as frightened of the Queen reentering the world as we are. That was why she ordered Soth to kill Crysania. If that’s true, why is she attacking Palanthas? That doesn’t make sense! She grows in strength daily in Sanction. The evil dragons have congregated there and we have reports that the draconians who were scattered after the war have also been regrouping under her command. But Sanction is a long way from Palanthas. The lands of the Knights of Solamnia lie in between. The good dragons will rise up and fight if the evil ones take to the skies again. Why? Why would she risk all she has gained? And for what—”
“You know Lord Kitiara I believe, Half-Elven?” Dalamar interrupted.
Tanis choked, coughed, and muttered something.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, damn it, I know her!” Tanis snapped, caught Elistan’s glance, and sank back into his chair once again, feeling his skin burn.
“You are right,” Dalamar said smoothly, a glint of amusement in his light, elven eyes. “When Kitiara first heard about Raistlin’s plan, she was frightened. Not for him, of course, but for fear that he would bring the wrath of the Dark Queen down upon her. But”—Dalamar shrugged—“this was when Kitiara believed Raistlin must lose. Now, it seems, she thinks he has a chance to win. And Kit will always try to be on the winning side. She plans to conquer Palanthas and be prepared to greet the wizard as he passes through the Portal. Kit will offer the might of her armies to her brother. If he is strong enough—and by this time, he should be—he can easily convert the evil creatures from their allegiance to the Dark Queen to serving his cause.”
“Kit?” It was Tanis’s turn to look amused. Dalamar sneered slightly.
“Oh, yes, Half-Elven. I know Kitiara every bit as well as you do.”
But the sarcastic tone in the dark elf’s voice faltered, twisting unconsciously to one of bitterness. His slender hands clenched. Tanis nodded in sudden understanding, feeling, oddly enough, a strange kind of sympathy for the young elf.
“So she has betrayed you, too,” Tanis murmured softly. “She pledged you her support. She said she would be there, stand beside you. When Raistlin returned, she would fight at your side.”
Dalamar rose to his feet, his black robes rustling around him. “I never trusted her,” he said coldly, but he turned his back upon them and stared intently into the flames, keeping his face averted. “I knew what treachery she was capable of committing, none better. This came as no surprise.”
But Tanis saw the hand that gripped the mantelpiece turn white.
“Who told you this?” Astinus asked abruptly. Tanis started. He had almost forgotten the historian’s presence. “Surely not the Dark Queen. She would not care about this.”
“No, no.” Dalamar appeared confused for a moment. His thoughts had obviously been far away. Sighing, he looked up at them once more. “Lord Soth, the death knight, told me.”
“Soth?” Tanis felt himself losing his grip on reality.
Frantically his brain scrambled for a handhold. Mages spying on mages. Clerics of light aligned with wizards of darkness. Dark trusting light, turning against darkness. Light turning to the dark.…
“Soth has pledged allegiance to Kitiara!” Tanis said in confusion. “Why would he betray her?”
Turning from the fire, Dalamar looked into Tanis’s eyes. For the span of a heartbeat, there was a bond between the two, a bond forged by a shared understanding, a shared misery, a shared torment, a shared passion. And, suddenly, Tanis understood, and his soul shriveled in horror.
“He wants her dead,” Dalamar replied.
CHAPTER
4
he young boy walked down the streets of Solace. He was not a comely boy, and he knew it—as he knew so much about himself that is not often given children to know. But then, he spent a great deal of time with himself, precisely because he was not comely and because he knew too much.
He was not walking alone today, however. His twin brother, Caramon, was with him. Raistlin scowled, scuffing through the dust of the village street, watching it rise in clouds about him. He may not have been walking alone, but in a way he was more alone with Caramon than without him. Everyone called out greetings to his likeable, handsome twin. No one said a word to him. Everyone yelled for Caramon to come join their games. No one invited Raistlin. Girls looked at Caramon out of the corners of their eyes in that special way girls had. Girls never even noticed Raistlin.
“Hey, Caramon, wanna play King of the Castle?” a voice yelled.
“You want to, Raist?” Caramon asked, his face lighting up eagerly. Strong and athletic, Caramon enjoyed the rough, strenuous game. But Raistlin knew that if he played he would soon start to feel weak and dizzy. He knew, too, that the other boys would argue about whose team had to take him.
“No. You go ahead, though.”
Caramon’s face fell. Then, shrugging, he said, “Oh, that’s all right, Raist. I’d rather stay with you.”
Raistlin felt his throat tighten, his stomach clenched. “No, Caramon,” he repeated softly, “it’s all right. Go ahead and play.”
“You don’t look like you’re feeling good, Raist,” Caramon said. “It’s no big deal. Really. C’mon, show me that new magic trick you learned—the one with the coins—”
“Don’t treat me like this!” Raistlin heard himself screaming. “I don’t need you! I don’t want you around! Go ahead! Go play with those fools! You’re all a pack of fools together! I don’t need any of you!”
Caramon’s face crumbled. Raistlin had the feeling he’d just kicked a dog. The feeling only made him angrier. He turned away.
“Sure, Raist, if that’s what you want,” Caramon mumbled.
Glancing over his shoulder, Raistlin saw his twin run off after the others. With a sigh, trying to ignore the shouts of laughter and greeting, Raistlin sat down in a shady place and, drawing one of his spellbooks from his pack, began to study. Soon, the lure of the magic drew him away from the dirt and the laughter and the hurt eyes of his twin. It led him into an enchanted land where he commanded the elements, he controlled reality.…
The spellbook tumbled from his hands, landing in the dust at his feet. Raistlin looked up, startled. Two boys stood above him. One held a stick in his hand. He poked the book with it, then, lifting the stick, he poked Raistlin, hard, in the chest.
You are bugs, Raistlin told the boys silently. Insects. You mean nothing to me. Less than nothing. Ignoring the pain in his chest, ignoring the insect life standing before him, Raistlin reached out his hand for his book. The boy stepped on his fingers.
Frightened, but now more angry than afraid, Raistlin rose to his feet. His hands were his livelihood. With them, he manipulated the fragile spell components, with them he traced the delicate arcane symbols of his Art in the air.
“Leave me alone,” he said coldly, and such was the way he spoke and the look in his eye that, for an instant, the two boys were taken aback. But now a crowd had gathered. The other boys left their game, coming to watch the fun. Aware that others were watching, the boy with the stick refused to let this skinny, whining, sniveling bookworm have the better of him.
“What’re ya going to do?” the boy sneered. “Turn me into
a frog?”
There was laughter. The words to a spell formed in Raistlin’s mind. It was not a spell he was supposed to have learned yet, it was an offensive spell, a hurting spell, a spell to use when true danger threatened. His Master would be furious. Raistlin smiled a thin-lipped smile. At the sight of that smile and the look in Raistlin’s eyes, one of the boys edged backward.
“Let’s go,” he muttered to his companion.
But the other boy stood his ground. Behind him, Raistlin could see his twin standing among the crowd, a look of anger on his face.
Raistlin began to speak the words—
—and then he froze. No! Something was wrong! He had forgotten! His magic wouldn’t work! Not here! The words came out as gibberish, they made no sense. Nothing happened! The boys laughed. The boy with the stick raised it and shoved it into Raistlin’s stomach, knocking him to the ground, driving the breath from his body.
He was on his hand and knees, gasping for air. Somebody kicked him. He felt the stick break over his back. Somebody else kicked him. He was rolling on the ground now, choking in the dust, his thin arms trying desperately to cover his head. Kicks and blows rained in on him.
“Caramon!” he cried. “Caramon, help me!”
But there was only a deep, stern voice in answer. “You don’t need me, remember.”
A rock struck him in the head, hurting him terribly. And he knew, although he couldn’t see, that it was Caramon who had thrown it. He was losing consciousness. Hands were dragging him along the dusty road, they were hauling him to a pit of vast darkness and cold, icy cold. They would hurl him down there and he would fall, endlessly, through the darkness and the cold and he would never, never hit the bottom, for there was no bottom.…
Crysania stared around. Where was she? Where was Raistlin? He had been with her only moments before, leaning weakly on her arm. And then, suddenly, he had vanished and she had found herself alone, walking in a strange village.
Or was it strange? She seemed to recall having been here once, or at least someplace like this. Tall vallenwoods surrounded her. The houses of the town were built in the trees. There was an inn in a tree. She saw a signpost.
Solace.
How strange, she marveled, looking around. It was Solace, all right. She had been here recently, with Tanis Half-Elven, looking for Caramon. But this Solace was different. Everything seemed tinged with red and just a tiny bit distorted. She kept wanting to rub her eyes to clear them.
“Raistlin!” she called.
There was no answer. The people passing by acted as if they neither heard her nor saw her. “Raistlin!” she cried, starting to panic. What had happened to him? Where had he gone? Had the Dark Queen—
She heard a commotion, children shouting and yelling and, above the noise, a thin, high-pitched scream for help.
Turning, Crysania saw a crowd of children gathered around a form huddled on the ground. She saw fists flailing and feet kicking, she saw a stick raised and then brought down, hard. Again, that high-pitched scream. Crysania glanced at the people around her, but they seemed unaware of anything unusual occurring.
Gathering her white robes in her hand, Crysania ran toward the children. She saw, as she drew nearer, that the figure in the center of the circle was a child! A young boy! They were killing him, she realized in sudden horror! Reaching the crowd, she grabbed hold of one of the children to pull him away. At the touch of her hand, the child whirled to face her. Crysania fell back, alarmed.
The child’s face was white, cadaverous, skull-like. Its skin stretched taut over the bones, its lips were tinged with violet. It bared its teeth at her, and the teeth were black and rotting. The child lashed out at her with its hand. Long nails ripped her skin, sending a stinging, paralyzing pain through her. Gasping, she let go, and the child—with a grin of perverted pleasure on its face—turned back to torment the boy on the ground.
Staring at the bleeding marks upon her arm, dizzy and weak from the pain, Crysania heard the boy cry out again.
“Paladine, help me,” she prayed. “Give me strength.”
Resolutely, she grabbed hold of one of the demon children and hurled it aside, and then she grabbed another. Managing to reach the boy upon the ground, she shielded his bleeding, unconscious body with her own, trying desperately all the while to drive the children away.
Again and again, she felt the long nails tear her skin, the poison course through her body. But soon she noticed that, once they touched her, the children drew back, in pain themselves. Finally, sullen expressions on their nightmarish faces, they withdrew, leaving her—bleeding and sick—alone with their victim.
Gently, she turned the bruised body of the young boy over. Smoothing back the brown hair, she looked at his face. Her hands began to shake. There was no mistaking that delicate facial structure, the fragile bones, the jutting chin.
“Raistlin!” she whispered, holding his small hand in her own.
The boy opened his eyes.…
The man, dressed in black robes, sat up.
Crysania stared at him as he looked grimly around.
“What is happening?” she asked, shivering, feeling the effects of the poison spreading through her body.
Raistlin nodded to himself. “This is how she torments me,” he said softly. “This is how she fights me, striking at me where she knows I am weakest.” The golden, hourglass eyes turned to Crysania, the thin lips smiled. “You fought for me. You defeated her.” He drew her near, enfolding her in his black robes, holding her close. “There, rest a while. The pain will pass, and then we will travel on.”
Still shivering, Crysania laid her head on the archmage’s breast, hearing his breath wheeze and rattle in his lungs, smelling that sweet, faint fragrance of rose petals and death.…
CHAPTER
5
nd so this is what comes of his courageous words and promises,” said Kitiara in a low voice.
“Did you really expect otherwise?” asked Lord Soth. The words, accompanied with a shrug of the ancient armor, sounded nonchalant, almost rhetorical. But there was an edge to them that made Kitiara glance sharply at the death knight.
Seeing him staring at her, his orange eyes burning with a strange intensity, Kitiara flushed. Realization that she was revealing more emotion than she intended made her angry, her flush deepened. She turned from Soth abruptly.
Walking across the room, which was furnished with an odd mixture of armor, weaponry, perfumed silken sheets, and thick fur rugs, Kitiara clasped the folds of her filmy nightdress together across her breasts with a shaking hand. It was a gesture that accomplished little in the way of modesty, and Kitiara knew it, even as she wondered why she made it. Certainly she had never been concerned with modesty before, especially around a creature who had fallen into a heap of ash three hundred years ago. But she suddenly felt uncomfortable under the gaze of those blazing eyes, staring at her from a nonexistent face. She felt naked and exposed.
“No, of course not,” Kitiara replied coldly.
“He is, after all, a dark elf.” Soth went on in the same even, almost bored tones. “And he makes no secret of the fact that he fears your brother more than death itself. So is it any wonder that he chooses now to fight on Raistlin’s side rather than the side of a bunch of feeble old wizards who are quaking in their boots?”
“But he stood to gain so much!” Kitiara argued, trying her best to match her tone to Soth’s. Shivering, she picked up a fur nightrobe that lay across the end of her bed and flung it around her shoulders. “They promised him the leadership of the Black Robes. He was certain to take Par-Salian’s place after that as Head of the Conclave—undisputed master of magic on Krynn.”
And you would have known other rewards, as well, Dark Elf, Kitiara added silently, pouring herself a glass of red wine. Once that insane brother of mine is defeated, no one will be able to stop you. What of our plans? You ruling with the staff, I with the sword. We could have brought the Knights to their knees! Driven the elves from t
heir homeland—your homeland! You would have gone back in triumph, my darling, and I would have been at your side!
The wine glass slipped from her hand. She tried to catch it—Her grasp was too hasty, her grip too strong. The fragile glass shattered in her hand, cutting into her flesh. Blood mingled with the wine that dripped onto the carpet.
Battle scars traced over Kitiara’s body like the hands of her lovers. She had borne her wounds without flinching, most without a murmur. But now her eyes flooded with tears. The pain seemed unbearable.
A wash bowl stood near. Kitiara plunged her hand into the cold water, biting her lip to keep from crying out. The water turned red instantly.
“Fetch one of the clerics!” she snarled at Lord Soth, who had remained standing, staring at her with his flickering eyes.
Walking to the door, the death knight called a servant who left immediately. Cursing beneath her breath, blinking back her tears, Kitiara grabbed a towel and wound it around her hand. By the time the cleric arrived, stumbling over his black robes in his haste, the towel was soaked through with blood, and Kitiara’s face was ashen beneath her tanned skin.
The medallion of the Five-Headed Dragon brushed against Kit’s hand as the cleric bent over it, muttering prayers to the Queen of Darkness. Soon the wounded flesh closed, the bleeding stopped.
“The cuts were not deep. There should be no lasting harm,” the cleric said soothingly.
“A good thing for you!” Kitiara snapped, still fighting the unreasonable faintness that assailed her. “That is my sword hand!”
“You will wield a blade with your accustomed ease and skill, I assure your lordship,” the cleric replied. “Will there be—”
“No! Get out!”
“My lord.” The cleric bowed—“Sir Knight”—and left the room.
Test of the Twins: Legends, Volume Three (Dragonlance Legends) Page 11