But, though the gloved hand that held the jewel shook, it never wavered. The fleshless fingers did not stop her. The faces with their gaping mouths howled in vain for her warm blood. Slowly, the oak trees continued to part before Kitiara, the branches bending back out of the way.
There, standing at the trail’s end, was Raistlin.
“I should kill you, you damned bastard!” Kitiara said through numb lips, her hand on the hilt of her sword.
“I am overjoyed to see you, too, my sister,” Raistlin replied in his soft voice.
It was the first time brother and sister had met in over two years. Now that she was out from among the darkness of the trees, Kitiara could see her brother, standing in Solinari’s pale light. He was dressed in robes of the finest black velvet. Hanging from his slightly stooped, thin shoulders, they fell in soft folds around his slender body. Silver runes were stitched about the hood that covered his head, leaving all but his golden eyes in shadow. The largest rune was in the center—an hourglass. Other silver runes sparkled in the moons’ light upon the cuffs of his wide, full sleeves. He leaned upon the Staff of Magius, its crystal, which flamed into light only upon Raistlin’s command—dark and cold, clutched in a golden dragon’s claw.
“I should kill you!” Kitiara repeated, and, before she was quite aware of what she did, she cast a glance at the death knight, who seemed to form out of the darkness of the grove. It was a glance, not of command, but of invitation—an unspoken challenge.
Raistlin smiled, the rare smile that few ever saw. It was, however, lost in the shadows of his hood.
“Lord Soth,” he said, turning to greet the death knight.
Kitiara bit her lip as Raistlin’s hourglass eyes studied the undead knight’s armor. Here were still the graven symbols of a Knight of Solamnia—the Rose and the Kingfisher and the Sword—but all were blackened as if the armor burned in a fire.
“Knight of the Black Rose,” continued Raistlin, “who died in flames in the Cataclysm before the curse of the elfmaid you wronged dragged you back to bitter life.”
“Such is my tale,” the death knight said without moving. “And you are Raistlin, master of past and present, the one foretold.”
The two stood, staring at each other, both forgetting Kitiara, who—feeling the silent, deadly contest being waged between the two—forgot her own anger, holding her breath to witness the outcome.
“Your magic is strong,” Raistlin commented. A soft wind stirred the branches of the oak trees, caressed the black folds of the mage’s robes.
“Yes,” said Lord Soth quietly. “I can kill with a single word. I can hurl a ball of fire into the midst of my enemies. I rule a squadron of skeletal warriors, who can destroy by touch alone. I can raise a wall of ice to protect those I serve. The invisible is discernible to my eyes. Ordinary magic spells crumble in my presence.”
Raistlin nodded, the folds of his hood moving gently.
Lord Soth stared at the mage without speaking. Walking close to Raistlin, he stopped only inches from the mage’s frail body. Kitiara’s breath came fast.
Then, with a courtly gesture, the cursed Knight of Solamnia placed his hand over that portion of his anatomy that had once contained his heart.
“But I bow in the presence of a master,” Lord Soth said.
Kitiara chewed her lip, checking an exclamation.
Raistlin glanced over at her quickly, amusement flashing in his golden, hourglass eyes.
“Disappointed, my dear sister?”
But Kitiara was well accustomed to the shifting winds of fate. She had scouted out the enemy, discovered what she needed to know. Now she could proceed with the battle. “Of course not, little brother,” she answered with the crooked smile that so many had found so charming. “After all, it was you I came to see. It’s been too long since we visited. You look well.”
“Oh, I am, dear sister,” Raistlin said. Coming forward, he put his thin hand upon her arm. She started at his touch, his flesh felt hot, as though he burned with fever. But—seeing his eyes intent upon her, noting every reaction—she did not flinch. He smiled.
“It has been so long since we saw each other last. What, two years? Two years ago this spring, in fact,” he continued, conversationally, holding Kitiara’s arm within his hand. His voice was filled with mockery. “It was in the Temple of the Queen of Darkness at Neraka, that fateful night when my queen met her downfall and was banished from the world—”
“Thanks to your treachery,” Kitiara snapped, trying, unsuccessfully, to break free of his grip. Raistlin kept his hand upon Kitiara’s arm. Though taller and stronger than the frail mage, and seemingly capable of breaking him in two with her bare hands, Kitiara—nevertheless—found herself longing to pull away from that burning touch, yet not daring to move.
Raistlin laughed and, drawing her with him, led her to the outer gates of the Tower of High Sorcery.
“Shall we talk of treachery, dear sister? Didn’t you rejoice when I used my magic to destroy Lord Ariakas’s shield of protection, allowing Tanis Half-Elven the chance to plunge his sword into the body of your lord and master? Did not I—by that action—make you the most powerful Dragon Highlord in Krynn?”
“A lot of good it has done me!” Kitiara returned bitterly. “Kept almost a prisoner in Sanction by the foul Knights of Solamnia, who rule the lands all about! Guarded day and night by golden dragons, my every move watched. My armies scattered, roaming the land.…”
“Yet you came here,” Raistlin said simply. “Did the gold dragons stop you? Did the Knights know of your leaving?”
Kitiara stopped on the path leading to the tower, staring at her brother in amazement. “Your doing?”
“Of course!” Raistlin shrugged. “But, we will talk of these matters later, dear sister,” he said as they walked. “You are cold and hungry. The Shoikan Grove shakes the nerves of the most stalwart. Only one other person has successfully passed through its borders, with my help, of course. I expected you to do well, but I must admit I was a bit surprised at the courage of Lady Crysania—”
“Lady Crysania!” Kitiara repeated, stunned. “A Revered Daughter of Paladine! You allowed her—here?”
“I not only allowed her, I invited her,” Raistlin answered imperturbably. “Without that invitation and a charm of warding, of course, she could never have passed.”
“And she came?”
“Oh, quite eagerly, I assure you.” Now it was Raistlin who paused. They stood outside the entrance to the Tower of High Sorcery. Torchlight from the windows shone upon his face. Kitiara could see it clearly. The lips were twisted in a smile, his flat golden eyes shone cold and brittle as winter sunlight. “Quite eagerly,” he repeated softly.
Kitiara began to laugh.
Late that night, after the two moons had set, in the still dark hours before the dawn, Kitiara sat in Raistlin’s study, a glass of dark-red wine in her hands, her brows creased in a frown.
The study was comfortable, or so it seemed to look upon. Large, plush chairs of the best fabric and finest construction stood upon hand-woven carpets only the wealthiest people in Krynn could afford to own. Decorated with woven pictures of fanciful beasts and colorful flowers, they drew the eye, tempting the viewer to lose himself for long hours in their beauty. Carved wooden tables stood here and there, objects rare and beautiful—or rare and ghastly—ornamented the room.
But its predominant feature were the books. It was lined with deep wooden shelves, holding hundreds and hundreds of books. Many were similar in appearance, all bound with a nightblue binding, decorated with runes of silver. It was a comfortable room, but, despite a roaring fire blazing in a huge, gaping fireplace at one end of the study, there was a bone-chilling cold in the air. Kitiara was not certain, but she had the feeling it came from the books.
Lord Soth stood far from the fire’s light, hidden in the shadows. Kit could not see him, but she was aware of his presence—as was Raistlin. The mage sat opposite his half-sister in a large chair b
ehind a gigantic desk of black wood, carved so cunningly that the creatures decorating it seemed to watch Kitiara with their wooden eyes.
Squirming uncomfortably, she drank her wine, too fast. Although well accustomed to strong drink, she was beginning to feel giddy, and she hated that feeling. It meant she was losing control. Angrily, she thrust the glass away from her, determined to drink no more.
“This plan of yours is crazy!” she told Raistlin irritably. Not liking the gaze of those golden eyes upon her, Kitiara stood up and began to pace the room. “It’s senseless! A waste of time. With your help, we could rule Ansalon, you and I. In fact”—Kitiara turned suddenly, her face alight with eagerness—“with your power we could rule the world! We don’t need Lady Crysania or our hulking brother—”
“Rule the world,” Raistlin repeated softly, his eyes burning. “Rule the world? You still don’t understand, do you, my dear sister? Let me make this as plain as I know how.” Now it was his turn to stand up. Pressing his thin hands upon the desk, he leaned toward her, like a snake.
“I don’t give a damn about the world!” he said softly. “I could rule it tomorrow if I wanted it! I don’t.”
“You don’t want the world,” Kit shrugged, her voice bitter with sarcasm. “Then that leaves only—”
Kitiara almost bit her tongue. She stared at Raistlin in wonder. In the shadows of the room, Lord Soth’s flaming eyes blazed more brightly than the fire.
“Now you understand,” Raistlin smiled in satisfaction and resumed his seat once more. “Now you see the importance of this Revered Daughter of Paladine! It was fate brought her to me, just when I was nearing the time for my journey.”
Kitiara could only stare at him, aghast. Finally, she found her voice. “How—how do you know she will follow you? Surely you didn’t tell her!”
“Only enough to plant the seed in her breast,” Raistlin smiled, looking back to that meeting. Leaning back, he put his thin fingers to his lips. “My performance was, frankly, one of my best. Reluctantly I spoke, my words drawn from me by her goodness and purity. They came out, stained with blood, and she was mine … lost through her own pity.” He came back to the present with a start. “She will come,” he said coldly, sitting forward once more. “She and that buffoon of a brother. He will serve me unwittingly, of course. But then, that’s how he does everything.”
Kitiara put her hand to her head, feeling her blood pulse. It was not the wine, she was cold sober now. It was fury and frustration. He could help me! she thought angrily. He is truly as powerful as they said. More so! But he’s insane. He’s lost his mind.… Then, unbidden, a voice spoke to her from somewhere deep inside.
What if he isn’t insane? What if he really means to go through with this?
Coldly, Kitiara considered his plan, looking at it carefully from all angles. What she saw horrified her. No. He could not win! And, worse, he would probably drag her down with him!
These thoughts passed through Kit’s mind swiftly, and none of them showed on her face. In fact, her smile grew only more charming. Many were the men who had died, that smile their last vision.
Raistlin might have been considering that as he looked at her intently. “You can be on a winning side for a change, my sister.”
Kitiara’s conviction wavered. If he could pull it off, it would be glorious! Glorious! Krynn would be hers.
Kit looked at the mage. Twenty-eight years ago, he had been a newborn baby, sick and weakly, a frail counterpart to his strong, robust twin brother.
“Let ’im die. ’Twill be best in the long run,” the midwife had said. Kitiara had been a teenager then. Appalled, she heard her mother weepingly agree.
But Kitiara had refused. Something within her rose to the challenge. The baby would live! She would make him live, whether he wanted to or not. “My first fight,” she used to tell people proudly, “was with the gods. And I won!”
And now! Kitiara studied him. She saw the man. She saw—in her mind’s eye—that whining, puking baby. Abruptly, she turned away.
“I must get back,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “You will contact me upon your return?”
“If I am successful, there will be no need to contact you,” Raistlin said softly. “You will know.”
Kitiara almost sneered but caught herself quickly. Glancing at Lord Soth, she prepared to leave the room. “Farewell then, my brother.” Controlled as she was, she could not keep an edge of anger from her voice. “I am sorry you do not share my desire for the good things of this life! We could have done much together, you and I!”
“Farewell, Kitiara,” Raistlin said, his thin hand summoning the shadowy forms of those who served him to show his guests to the door. “Oh, by the way,” he added as Kit stood in the doorway, “I owe you my life, dear sister. At least, so I have been told. I just wanted to let you know that—with the death of Lord Ariakas, who would, undoubtedly, have killed you—I consider my debt paid. I owe you nothing!”
Kitiara stared into the mage’s golden eyes, seeking threat, promise, what? But there was nothing there. Absolutely nothing. And then, in an instant, Raistlin spoke a word of magic and vanished from her sight.
The way out of Shoikan Grove was not difficult. The guardians had no care for those who left the Tower. Kitiara and Lord Soth walked together, the death knight moving soundlessly through the Grove, his feet leaving no impression on the leaves that lay dead and decaying on the ground. Spring did not come to Shoikan Grove.
Kitiara did not speak until they had passed the outer perimeter of trees and once more stood upon the solid paving stones of the city of Palanthas. The sun was rising, the sky brightening from its deep night blue to a pale gray. Here and there, those Palanthians whose business called for them to rise early were waking. Far down the street, past the abandoned buildings that surrounded the Tower, Kitiara could hear marching feet, the changing of the watch upon the wall. She was among the living once again.
She drew a deep breath, then, “He must be stopped,” she said to Lord Soth.
The death knight made no comment, one way or the other.
“It will not be easy, I know,” Kitiara said, drawing the dragonhelm over her head and walking rapidly toward Skie, who had reared his head in triumph at her approach. Patting her dragon lovingly upon his neck, Kitiara turned to face the death knight.
“But we do not have to confront Raistlin directly. His scheme hinges upon Lady Crysania. Remove her, and we stop him. He need never know I had anything to do with it, in fact. Many have died, trying to enter the Forest of Wayreth. Isn’t that so?”
Lord Soth nodded, his flaming eyes flaring slightly.
“You handle it. Make it appear to be … fate,” Kitiara said. “My little brother believes in that, apparently.” She mounted her dragon. “When he was small, I taught him that to refuse to do my bidding meant a whipping. It seems he must learn that lesson again!”
At her command, Skie’s powerful hind legs dug into the pavement, cracking and breaking the stones. He leaped into the air, spread his wings, and soared into the morning sky. The people of Palanthas felt a shadow lift from their hearts, but that was all they knew. Few saw the dragon or its rider leave.
Lord Soth remained standing upon the fringes of Shoikan Grove.
“I, too, believe in fate, Kitiara,” the death knight murmured. “The fate a man makes himself.”
Glancing up at the windows of the Tower of High Sorcery, Soth saw the light extinguished from the room where they had been. For a brief instant, the Tower was shrouded in the perpetual darkness that seemed to linger around it, a darkness the sun’s light could not penetrate. Then one light gleamed forth, from a room at the top of the tower.
The mage’s laboratory, the dark and secret room where Raistlin worked his magic.
“Who will learn this lesson, I wonder?” Soth murmured. Shrugging, he disappeared, melting into the waning shadows as daylight approached.
CHAPTER
6
et’s stop at
this place,” Caramon said, heading for a ramshackle building that stood huddled back away from the trail, lurking in the forest like a sulking beast. “Maybe she’s been in here.”
“I really doubt it,” said Tas, dubiously eyeing the sign that hung by one chain over the door. “The ‘Cracked Mug’ doesn’t seem quite the place—”
“Nonsense,” growled Caramon, as he had growled more times on this journey already than Tas could count, “she has to eat. Even great, muckety-muck clerics have to eat. Or maybe someone in here will have seen some sign of her on the trail. We’re not having any luck.”
“No,” muttered Tasslehoff beneath his breath, “but we might have more luck if we searched the road, not taverns.”
They had been on the road three days, and Tas’s worst misgivings about this adventure had proved true.
Ordinarily, kender are enthusiastic travelers. All kender are stricken with wanderlust somewhere near their twentieth year. At this time, they gleefully strike out for parts unknown, intent on finding nothing except adventure and whatever beautiful, horrible, or curious items might by chance fall into their bulging pouches. Completely immune to the self-preserving emotion of fear, afflicted by unquenchable curiosity, the kender population on Krynn was not a large one, for which most of Krynn was devoutly grateful.
Tasslehoff Burrfoot, now nearing his thirtieth year (at least as far as he could remember), was, in most regards, a typical kender. He had journeyed the length and breadth of the continent of Ansalon, first with his parents before they had settled down in Kenderhome. After coming of age, he wandered by himself until he met Flint Fireforge, the dwarven metal-smith and his friend, Tanis Half-Elven. After Sturm Brightblade, Knight of Solamnia, and the twins, Caramon and Raistlin, joined them, Tas became involved in the most wonderful adventure of his life—the War of the Lance.
But, in some respects, Tasslehoff was not a typical kender, although he would have denied this if it were mentioned. The loss of two people he loved dearly—Sturm Brightblade and Flint—touched the kender deeply. He had come to know the emotion of fear, not fear for himself, but fear and concern for those he cared about. His concern for Caramon, right now, was deep.
Time of the Twins Page 9