The flying citadel had suddenly drifted into view. Dropping down from the storm clouds, it was careening along merrily, having somewhere acquired a brilliant blue banner that streamed out in the wind. Tanis looked closer, thinking he recognized not only the banner but the graceful minaret from which it flew and which was now perched drunkenly on a tower of the citadel.
Shaking his head, the half-elf could not help smiling. The banner—and the minaret—had once both been part of the palace of Lord Amothus.
Leaning against the window, Tanis continued watching the citadel, which had acquired a bronze dragon as honor guard. He felt his bleakness and grief and fear ease and the tension in his body relax. No matter what happened in the world or on the planes beyond, some things—kender among them—never changed.
Tanis watched as the flying castle wobbled out over the bay, then he was, however, considerably startled to see the citadel suddenly flip over and hang in the air, upside down.
“What is Tas doing?” he muttered.
And then he knew. The citadel began to bob up and down rapidly, like a salt shaker. Black shapes with leathery wings tumbled out of the windows and from doorways. Up and down, up and down bobbed the citadel, more and more black shapes dropping out. Tanis grinned. Tas was clearing out the guards! Then, when no more draconians could be seen spilling out into the water, the citadel righted itself again and continued on its way … then, as it skipped merrily along, its blue flag fluttering in the wind, it dove in a wild, unfortunate plunge, right into the ocean!
Tanis caught his breath, but almost immediately the citadel appeared again, leaping out of the water like a blue-bannered dolphin to soar up into the sky once more—water now streaming out of every conceivable opening—and vanish amidst the storm clouds.
Shaking his head, smiling, Tanis turned to see Dalamar gesture toward the Portal. “There he is. Caramon has returned to his position.”
Swiftly, the half-elf crossed the room and stood before the Portal once again.
He could see Caramon, still a tiny figure in gleaming armor. This time, he carried someone in his arms.
“Raistlin?” Tanis asked, puzzled.
“Lady Crysania,” Dalamar replied.
“Maybe she’s still alive!”
“It would be better for her were she not,” Dalamar said coldly. Bitterness further hardened his voice and his expression. “Better for all of us! Now Caramon must make a difficult choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“It will inevitably occur to him that he could save her by bringing her back through the Portal himself. Which would leave us all at the mercy of either his brother or the Queen or both.”
Tanis was silent, watching. Caramon was drawing closer and closer to the Portal, the white-robed figure of the woman in his arms.
“What do you know of him?” Dalamar asked abruptly. “What decision will he make? The last I saw of him he was a drunken buffoon, but his experiences appear to have changed him.”
“I don’t know,” Tanis said, troubled, talking more to himself than to Dalamar. “The Caramon I once knew was only half a person, the other half belonged to his brother. He is different now. He has changed.” Tanis scratched his beard, frowning. “Poor man. I don’t know …”
“Ah, it seems his choice has been made for him,” Dalamar said, relief mixed with fear in his voice.
Looking into the Portal, Tanis saw Raistlin. He saw the final meeting between the twins.
Tanis never spoke to anyone of that meeting. Though the visions seen and words heard were indelibly etched upon his memory, he found he could not talk about them. To give them voice seemed to demean them, to take away their terrible horror, their terrible beauty. But often, if he was depressed or unhappy, he would remember the last gift of a benighted soul, and he would close his eyes and thank the gods for his blessings.
Caramon brought Lady Crysania through the Portal. Running forward to help him, Tanis took Crysania in his arms, staring in wonder at the sight of the big man carrying the magical staff, its light still glowing brightly.
“Stay with her, Tanis,” Caramon said, “I must close the Portal.”
“Do it quickly!” Tanis heard Dalamar’s sharp intake of breath. He saw the dark elf staring into the Portal in horror. “Close it!” he cried.
Holding Crysania in his arms, Tanis looked down at her and realized she was dying. Her breath faltered, her skin was ashen, her lips were blue. But he could do nothing for her, except take her to a place of safety.
Safety! He glanced about, his gaze going to the shadowed corner where another dying woman had lain. It was farthest from the Portal. She would be safe there—as safe as anywhere, he supposed sorrowfully. Laying her down, making her as comfortable as possible, he hastily returned to the opening in the void.
Tanis halted, mesmerized by the sight before his eyes.
A shadow of evil filled the Portal, the metallic dragon’s heads that formed the gate howled in triumph. The living dragon’s heads beyond the Portal writhed above the body of their victim as the archmage fell to their claws.
“No! Raistlin!” Caramon’s face twisted in anguish. He took a step toward the Portal.
“Stop!” Dalamar screamed in fury. “Stop him, Half-Elven! Kill him if you must! Close the Portal!”
A woman’s hand lunged for the opening and, as they watched in stunned terror, the hand became a dragon’s claw, the nails tipped with red, the talons stained with blood. Nearer and nearer the Portal the hand of the Queen came, intent upon keeping this door to the world open so that, once more, she could gain entry.
“Caramon!” Tanis cried, springing forward. But, what could he do? He was not strong enough to physically overpower the big man. He’ll go to him, Tanis thought in agony. He will not let his brother die.…
No, spoke a voice inside the half-elf. He will not … and therein lies the salvation of the world.
Caramon stopped, held fast by the power of that blood-stained hand. The grasping dragon’s claw was close, and behind it gleamed laughing, triumphant, malevolent eyes. Slowly, struggling against the evil force, Caramon raised the Staff of Magius.
Nothing happened!
The dragon’s heads of the oval doorway split the air with their trumpeting, hailing the entry of their Queen into the world.
Then, a shadowy form appeared, standing beside Caramon. Dressed in black robes, white hair flowing down upon his shoulders, Raistlin raised a golden-skinned hand and, reaching out, gripped the Staff of Magius, his hand resting near his twin’s.
The staff flared with a pure, silver light.
The multicolored light within the Portal whirled and spun and fought to survive, but the silver light shone with the steadfast brilliance of the evening star, glittering in a twilight sky.
The Portal closed.
The metallic dragon’s heads ceased their screaming so suddenly that the new silence rang in their ears. Within the Portal, there was nothing, neither movement nor stillness, neither darkness nor light. There was simply nothing.
Caramon stood before the Portal alone, the Staff of Magius in his hand. The light of the crystal continued to burn brightly for a moment.
Then glimmered.
Then died.
The room was filled with darkness, a sweet darkness, a darkness restful to the eyes after the blinding light.
And there came through the darkness a whispering voice.
“Farewell, my brother.”
CHAPTER
12
stinus of Palanthas sat in his study in the Great Library, writing his history in the clear, sharp black strokes that had recorded all the history of Krynn from the first day the gods had looked upon the world until the last, when the great book would forever close. Astinus wrote, oblivious to the chaos around him, or rather—such was the man’s presence—that it seemed as if he forced the chaos to be oblivious of him.
It was only two days after the end of what Astinus referred to in the Chronicles as the “
Test of the Twins” (but which everyone else was calling the “Battle of Palanthas”). The city was in ruins. The only two buildings left standing were the Tower of High Sorcery and the Great Library, and the Library had not escaped unscathed.
The fact that it stood at all was due, in large part, to the heroics of the Aesthetics. Led by the rotund Bertrem, whose courage was kindled, so it was said, by the sight of a draconian daring to lay a clawed hand upon one of the sacred books, the Aesthetics attacked the enemy with such zeal and such a wild, reckless disregard for their own lives that few of the reptilian creatures escaped.
But, like the rest of Palanthas, the Aesthetics paid a grievous price for victory. Many of their order perished in the battle. These were mourned by their brethren, their ashes given honored rest among the books that they had sacrificed their lives to protect. The gallant Bertrem did not die. Only slightly wounded, he saw his name go down in one of the great books itself beside the names of the other Heroes of Palanthas. Life could offer nothing further in the way of reward to Bertrem. He never passed that one particular book upon the shelf but that he didn’t surreptitiously pull it down, open it to The Page, and bask in the light of his glory.
The beautiful city of Palanthas was now nothing more than memory and a few words of description in Astinus’s books. Heaps of charred and blackened stone marked the graves of palatial estates. The rich warehouses with their casks of fine wines and ales, their stores of cotton and of wheat, their boxes of wonders from all parts of Krynn, lay in a pile of cinder. Burned-out hulks of ships floated in the ash-choked harbors. Merchants picked through the rubble of their shops, salvaging what they could. Families stared at their ruined houses, holding on to each other, and thanking the gods that they had, at least, survived with their lives.
For there were many who had not. Of the Knights of Solamnia within the city, they had perished almost to a man, fighting the hopeless battle against Lord Soth and his deadly legions. One of the first to fall was the dashing Sir Markham. True to his oath to Tanis, the knight had not fought Lord Soth, but had, instead, rallied the knights and led them in a charge against Soth’s skeletal warriors. Though pierced with many wounds, he fought valiantly still, leading his bloody, exhausted men time and again in charges against the foe until finally he fell from his horse, dead.
Because of the knights’ courage, many lived in Palanthas who otherwise would have perished upon the ice-cold blades of the undead, who vanished mysteriously—so it was told—when their leader appeared among them, bearing a shrouded corpse in his arms.
Mourned as heroes, the bodies of the Knights of Solamnia were taken by their fellows to the High Clerist’s Tower. Here they were entombed in a sepulcher where lay the body of Sturm Brightblade, Hero of the Lance.
Upon opening the sepulcher, which had not been disturbed since the Battle of the High Clerist’s Tower, the knights were awed to find Sturm’s body whole, unravaged by time. An elven jewel of some type, gleaming upon his breast, was believed accountable for this miracle. All those who entered the sepulcher that day in mourning for their fallen loved ones looked upon that steadily beaming jewel and felt peace ease the bitter sting of their grief.
The knights were not the only ones who were mourned. Many ordinary citizens had died in Palanthas as well. Men defending city and family, women defending home and children. The citizens of Palanthas burned their dead in accordance with ages-old custom, scattering the ashes of their loved ones in the sea, where they mingled with the ashes of their beloved city.
Astinus recorded it all as it was occurring. He had continued to write—so the Aesthetics reported with awe—even as Bertrem single-handedly bludgeoned to death a draconian who had dared invade the master’s study. He was writing still when he gradually became aware—above the sounds of hammering and sweeping and pounding and shuffling—that Bertrem was blocking his light.
Lifting up his head, he frowned.
Bertrem, who had not blenched once in the face of the enemy, turned deathly pale, and backed up instantly, letting the sunlight fall once more upon the page.
Astinus resumed his writing. “Well?” he said.
“Caramon Majere and a—a kender are here to see you, Master.” If Bertrem had said a demon from the Abyss was here to see Astinus, he could hardly have infused more horror into his voice than when he spoke the word “kender.”
“Send them in,” replied Astinus.
“Them, Master?” Bertrem could not help but repeat in shock.
Astinus looked up, his brow creased. “The draconian did not damage your hearing, did it, Bertrem? You did not receive, for example, a blow to the head?”
“N-no, Master.” Bertrem flushed and backed hurriedly out of the room, tripping over his robes as he did so.
“Caramon Majere and … and Tassle-f-foot B-burr-hoof,” announced the flustered Bertrem, moments later.
“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender, presenting a small hand to Astinus, who shook it gravely. “And you’re Astinus of Palanthas,” Tas continued, his topknot bouncing with excitement. “I’ve met you before, but you don’t remember because it hasn’t happened yet. Or, rather, come to think of it, it never will happen, will it, Caramon?”
“No,” the big man replied. Astinus turned his gaze to Caramon, regarding him intently.
“You do not resemble your twin,” Astinus said coolly, “but then Raistlin had undergone many trials that marked him both physically and mentally. Still, there is something of him in your eyes.…”
The historian frowned, puzzled. He did not understand, and there was nothing on the face of Krynn that he did not understand. Consequently, he grew angry.
Astinus rarely grew angry. His irritation alone sent a wave of terror through the Aesthetics. But he was angry now. His graying brows bristled, his lips tightened, and there was a look in his eyes that made the kender glance about nervously, wondering if he hadn’t left something outside in the hall that he needed—now!
“What is it?” The historian demanded finally, slamming his hand down upon his book, causing his pen to jump, the ink to spill, and Bertrem—waiting in the corridor—to run away as fast as his flapping sandals could take him.
“There is a mystery about you, Caramon Majere, and there are no mysteries for me! I know everything that transpires upon the face of Krynn. I know the thoughts of every living being! I see their actions! I read the wishes of their hearts! Yet I cannot read your eyes!”
“Tas told you,” Caramon said imperturbably. Reaching into a knapsack he wore, the big man produced a huge, leather-bound volume which he set carefully down upon the desk in front of the historian.
“That’s one of mine!” Astinus said, glancing at it, his scowl deepening. His voice rose until he actually shouted. “Where did it come from? None of my books leave without my knowledge! Bertrem—”
“Look at the date.”
Astinus glared furiously at Caramon for a second, then shifted his angry gaze to the book. He looked at the date upon the volume, prepared to shout for Bertrem again. But the shout rattled in his throat and died. He stared at the date, his eyes widening. Sinking down into his chair, he looked from the volume to Caramon, then back to the volume again.
“It is the future I see in your eyes!”
“The future that is this book,” Caramon said, regarding it with grave solemnity.
“We were there!” said Tas, bouncing up eagerly. “Would you like to hear about it? It’s the most wonderful story. You see, we came back to Solace, only it didn’t look like Solace. I thought it was a moon, in fact, because I’d been thinking about a moon when we used the magical device and—”
“Hush, Tas,” Caramon said gently. Standing up, he put his hand on the kender’s shoulder and quietly left the room. Tas—being steered firmly out the door—glanced backward. “Goodbye!” he called, waving his hand. “Nice seeing you again, er, before, uh, after, well, whatever.”
But Astinus neither heard nor noticed. The day he received the book
from Caramon Majere was the only day that passed in the entire history of Palanthas that had nothing recorded for it but one entry:
This day, as above Afterwatch rising 14, Caramon Majere brought me the Chronicles of Krynn, Volume 2000. A volume written by me that I will never write.
The funeral of Elistan represented, to the people of Palanthas, the funeral of their beloved city as well. The ceremony was held at daybreak as Elistan had requested, and everyone in Palanthas attended—old, young, rich, poor. The injured who were able to be moved were carried from their homes, their pallets laid upon the scorched and blackened grass of the once-beautiful lawns of the Temple.
Among these was Dalamar. No one murmured as the dark elf was helped across the lawn by Tanis and Caramon to take his place beneath a grove of charred, burned aspens. For rumor had it that the young apprentice magic-user had fought the Dark Lady—as Kitiara was known—and defeated her, thereby bringing about the destruction of her forces.
Elistan had wanted to be buried in his Temple, but that was impossible now—the Temple being nothing but a gutted shell of marble. Lord Amothus had offered his family’s tomb, but Crysania had declined. Remembering that Elistan had found his faith in the slave mines of Pax Tharkas, the Revered Daughter—now head of the church—decreed that he be laid to rest beneath the Temple in one of the underground caverns that had formerly been used for storage.
Though some were shocked, no one questioned Crysania’s commands. The caverns were cleaned and sanctified, a marble bier was built from the remains of the Temple. And hereafter, even in the grand days of the church that were to come, all of the priests were laid to rest in this humble place that became known as one of the most holy places on Krynn.
The people settled down on the lawn in silence. The birds, knowing nothing of death or war or grief, but knowing only that the sun was rising and that they were alive in the bright morning, filled the air with song. The sun’s rays tipped the mountains with gold, driving away the darkness of the night, bringing light to hearts heavy with sorrow.
Test of the Twins: Legends, Volume Three (Dragonlance Legends) Page 29