“Many times, Shalafi,” Dalamar said, his voice almost reverent. “The greatest of our Order. Those are his spellbooks, the ones with the nightblue binding.”
“Inadequate,” Raistlin muttered, dismissing the entire library with a gesture. “I have read them all, many times in these past years, ever since I obtained the Key to their secrets from the Queen of Darkness herself. But they only frustrate me!” Raistlin clenched his thin hand. “I read these spellbooks and I find great gaps—entire volumes missing! Perhaps they were destroyed in the Cataclysm or, later, in the Dwarfgate Wars that proved Fistandantilus’s undoing. These missing volumes, this knowledge of his that has been lost, will give me the power I need!”
“And so your journey will take you—” Dalamar stopped in disbelief.
“Back in time,” Raistlin finished calmly. “Back to the days just prior to the Cataclysm, when Fistandantilus was at the height of his power.”
Dalamar felt dizzy, his thoughts swirled in confusion. What would They say? Amidst all Their speculation, They had certainly not foreseen this!
“Steady, my apprentice.” Raistlin’s soft voice seemed to come to Dalamar from far away. “This has unnerved you. Some wine?”
The mage walked over to a table. Lifting a carafe, he poured a small glass of blood-red liquid and handed it to the dark elf. Dalamar took it gratefully, startled to see his hand shaking. Raistlin poured a small glass for himself.
“I do not drink this strong wine often, but tonight it seems we should have a small celebration. A toast to—how did you put it?—one of true holy powers. This, then, to Lady Crysania!”
Raistlin drank his wine in small sips. Dalamar gulped his down. The fiery liquid bit into his throat. He coughed.
“Shalafi, if the Live One reported correctly, Lord Soth cast a death spell upon Lady Crysania, yet she still lives. Did you restore her life?”
Raistlin shook his head. “No, I simply gave her visible signs of life so that my dear brother would not bury her. I cannot be certain what happened, but it is not difficult to guess. Seeing the death knight before her and knowing her fate, the Revered Daughter fought the spell with the only weapon she had, and a powerful one it was—the holy medallion of Paladine. The god protected her, transporting her soul to the realms where the gods dwell, leaving her body a shell upon the ground. There are none—not even I—who can bring her soul and body back together again. Only a high cleric of Paladine has that power.”
“Elistan?”
“Bah, the man is sick, dying.…”
“Then she is lost to you!”
“No,” said Raistlin gently. “You fail to understand, apprentice. Through inattention, I lost control. But I have regained it quickly. Not only that, I will make this work to my advantage. Even now, they approach the Tower of High Sorcery. Crysania was going there, seeking the help of the mages. When she arrives, she will find that help, and so will my brother.”
“You want them to help her?” Dalamar asked in confusion. “She plots to destroy you!”
Raistlin quietly sipped his wine, watching the young apprentice intently. “Think about it, Dalamar,” he said softly, “think about it, and you will come to understand. But”—the mage set down his empty glass—“I have kept you long enough.”
Dalamar glanced out the window. The red moon, Lunitari, was starting to sink out of sight behind the black jagged edges of the mountains. The night was nearing its midpoint.
“You must make your journey and be back before I leave in the morning,” Raistlin continued. “There will undoubtedly be some last-minute instructions, besides many things I must leave in your care. You will be in charge here, of course, while I am gone.”
Dalamar nodded, then frowned. “You spoke of my journey, Shalafi? I am not going anywhere—” The dark elf stopped, choking as he remembered that he did, indeed, have somewhere to go, a report to make.
Raistlin stood regarding the young elf in silence, the look of horrified realization dawning on Dalamar’s face reflected in the mage’s mirrorlike eyes. Then, slowly, Raistlin advanced upon the young apprentice, his black robes rustling gently about his ankles. Stricken with terror, Dalamar could not move. Spells of protection slipped from his grasp. His mind could think of nothing, see nothing, except two flat, emotionless, golden eyes.
Slowly, Raistlin lifted his hand and laid it gently upon Dalamar’s chest, touching the young man’s black robes with the tips of five fingers.
The pain was excruciating. Dalamar’s face turned white, his eyes widened, he gasped in agony. But the dark elf could not withdraw from that terrible touch. Held fast by Raistlin’s gaze, Dalamar could not even scream.
“Relate to them accurately both what I have told you,” Raistlin whispered, “and what you may have guessed. And give the great Par-Salian my regards … apprentice!”
The mage withdrew his hand.
Dalamar collapsed upon the floor, clutching his chest, moaning. Raistlin walked around him without even a glance. The dark elf could hear him leave the room, the soft swish of the black robes, the door opening and closing.
In a frenzy of pain, Dalamar ripped open his robes. Five red, glistening trails of blood streamed down his breast, soaking into the black cloth, welling from five holes that had been burned into his flesh.
CHAPTER
10
aramon! Get up! Wake up!”
No. I’m in my grave. It’s warm here beneath the ground, warm and safe. You can’t wake me, you can’t reach me. I’m hidden in the clay, you can’t find me.
“Caramon, you’ve got to see this! Wake up!”
A hand shoved aside the darkness, tugged at him.
No, Tika, go away! You brought me back to life once, back to pain and suffering. You should have left me in the sweet realm of darkness below the Blood Sea of Istar. But I’ve found peace now at last. I dug my grave and I buried myself.
“Hey, Caramon, you better wake up and take a look at this!”
Those words! They were familiar. Of course, I said them! I said them to Raistlin long ago, when he and I first came to this forest. So how can I be hearing them? Unless I am Raistlin.… Ah, that’s—
There was a hand on his eyelid! Two fingers were prying it open! At the touch, fear ran prickling through Caramon’s bloodstream, starting his heart beating with a jolt.
“Arghhhh!” Caramon roared in alarm, trying to crawl into the dirt as that one, forcibly opened eye saw a gigantic face hovering over him—the face of a gully dwarf!
“Him awake,” Bupu reported. “Here,” she said to Tasslehoff, “you hold this eye. I open other one.”
“No!” Tas cried hastily. Dragging Bupu off the warrior, Tas shoved her behind him. “Uh … you go get some water.”
“Good idea,” Bupu remarked and scuttled off.
“It—it’s all right, Caramon,” Tas said, kneeling beside the big man and patting him reassuringly. “It was only Bupu. I’m sorry, but I was—uh—looking at the … well, you’ll see … and I forgot to watch her.”
Groaning, Caramon covered his face with his hand. With Tas’s help, he struggled to sit up. “I dreamed I was dead,” he said heavily. “Then I saw that face—I knew it was all over. I was in the Abyss.”
“You may wish you were,” Tas said somberly.
Caramon looked up at the sound of the kender’s unusually serious tone. “Why? What do you mean?” he asked harshly.
Instead of answering, Tas asked, “How do you feel?”
Caramon scowled. “I’m sober, if that’s what you want to know,” the big man muttered. “And I wish to the gods I wasn’t. So there.”
Tasslehoff regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then, slowly, he reached into a pouch and drew forth a small leather-bound bottle. “Here, Caramon,” he said quietly, “if you really think you need it.”
The big man’s eyes flashed. Eagerly, he stretched out a trembling hand and snatched the bottle. Uncorking the top, he sniffed at it, smiled, and raised it to his lips.
“I’m s-sorry,” Tas flushed. He rose to his feet. “I-I’ll just go look after Lady Crysania—”
“Crysania …” Caramon lowered the flask, untasted. He rubbed his gummed eyes. “Yeah, I forgot about her. Good idea, you looking after her. Take her and get out of here, in fact. You and that vermin-ridden gully dwarf of yours! Get out and leave me alone!” Raising the bottle to his lips again, Caramon took a long pull. He coughed once, lowered the bottle, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Go on,” he repeated, staring at Tas dully, “get out of here! All of you! Leave me alone!”
“I’m sorry, Caramon,” Tas said quietly. “I really wish we could. But we can’t.”
“Why?” snarled Caramon.
Tas drew a deep breath. “Because, if I remember the stories Raistlin told me, I think the Forest of Wayreth has found us.”
For a moment, Caramon stared at Tas, his blood-shot eyes wide.
“That’s impossible,” he said after a moment, his words little more than a whisper. “We’re miles from there! I—it took me and Raist … it took us months to find the Forest! And the Tower is far south of here! It’s clear past Qualinesti, according to your map,” Caramon regarded Tas balefully. “That isn’t the same map that showed Tarsis by the sea, is it?”
“It could be,” Tas hedged, hastily rolling up the map and hiding it behind his back. “I have so many.…” He hurriedly changed the subject. “But Raistlin said it was a magic forest, so I suppose it could have found us, if it was so inclined.”
“It is a magic forest,” Caramon murmured, his voice deep and trembling. “It’s a place of horror.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, then—suddenly—he looked up, his face full of cunning. “This is a trick, isn’t it? A trick to keep me from drinking! Well, it won’t work—”
“It’s no trick, Caramon,” Tas sighed. Then he pointed. “Look over there. It’s just like Raistlin described to me once.”
Turning his head, Caramon saw, and he shuddered, both at the sight and at the bitter memories of his brother it brought back.
The glade they were camped in was a small, grassy clearing some distance from the main trail. It was surrounded by maple trees, pines, walnut trees, and even a few aspens. The trees were just beginning to bud out. Caramon had looked at them while digging Crysania’s grave. The branches shimmered in the early morning sunlight with the faint yellow-green glow of spring. Wild flowers bloomed at their roots, the early flowers of spring—crocuses and violets.
As Caramon looked around now, he saw that these same trees surrounded them still—on three sides. But now—on the fourth, the southern side—the trees had changed.
These trees, mostly dead, stood side-by-side, lined up evenly, row after row. Here and there, as one looked deeper into the Forest, a living tree might be seen, watching like an officer over the silent ranks of his troops. No sun shone in this Forest. A thick, noxious mist flowed out of the trees, obscuring the light. The trees themselves were hideous to look upon, twisted and deformed, their limbs like great claws dragging the ground. Their branches did not move, no wind stirred their dead leaves. But—most horrible—things within the Forest moved. As Caramon and Tas watched, they could see shadows flitting among the trunks, skulking among the thorny underbrush.
“Now, look at this,” Tas said. Ignoring Caramon’s alarmed shout, the kender ran straight for the Forest. As he did so, the trees parted! A path opened wide, leading right into the Forest’s dark heart. “Can you beat that?” Tas cried in wonder, coming to a halt right before he set foot upon the path. “And when I back away—”
The kender walked backward, away from the trees, and the trunks slid back together again, closing ranks, presenting a solid barrier.
“You’re right,” Caramon said hoarsely. “It is the Forest of Wayreth. So it appeared, one morning, to us.” He lowered his head. “I didn’t want to go in. I tried to stop Raist. But he wasn’t afraid! The trees parted for him, and he entered. ‘Stay by me, my brother,’ he told me, ‘and I will keep you from harm.’ How often had I said those words to him? He wasn’t afraid! I was!”
Suddenly, Caramon stood up. “Let’s get out of here!” Feverishly grabbing his bedroll with shaking hands, he slopped the contents of the bottle all over the blanket.
“No good,” Tas said laconically. “I tried. Watch.”
Turning his back on the trees, the kender walked north. The trees did not move. But—inexplicably—Tasslehoff was walking toward the Forest once more. Try as he might, turn as he might, he always ended up walking straight into the tree’s fog-bound, nightmarish ranks.
Sighing, Tas came over to stand beside Caramon. The kender looked solemnly up into the big man’s tear-stained, red-rimmed eyes and reached out a small hand, resting it on the warrior’s once-strong arm.
“Caramon, you’re the only one who’s been through here! You’re the only one who knows the way. And, there’s something else,” Tas pointed. Caramon turned his head. “You asked about Lady Crysania. There she is. She’s alive, but she’s dead at the same time. Her skin is like ice. Her eyes are fixed in a terrible stare. She’s breathing, her heart’s beating, but it might just as well be pumping through her body that spicy stuff the elves use to preserve their dead!” The kender drew a deep, quivering breath.
“We’ve got to get help for her, Caramon. Maybe in there”—Tas pointed to the Forest—“the mages can help her! I can’t carry her.” He raised his hands helplessly. “I need you, Caramon. She needs you! I guess you could say you owe it to her.”
“Since it’s my fault she’s hurt?” Caramon muttered savagely.
“No, I didn’t mean that,” Tas said, hanging his head and brushing his hand across his eyes. “It’s no one’s fault, I guess.”
“No, it is my fault,” Caramon said. Tas glanced up at him, hearing a note in Caramon’s voice he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. The big man stood, staring at the bottle in his hands. “It’s time I faced up to it. I’ve blamed everyone else—Raistlin, Tika.… But all the time I knew—deep inside—it was me. It came to me, in that dream. I was lying at the bottom of a grave, and I realized—this is the bottom! I can’t go any lower. I either stay here and let them throw dirt on top of me—just like I was going to bury Crysania—or I climb out,” Caramon sighed, a long, shuddering sigh. Then, in sudden resolution, he put the cork on the bottle and handed it back to Tas. “Here,” he said softly. “It’s going to be long climb, and I’m going to need help, I expect. But not that kind of help.”
“Oh, Caramon!” Tas threw his arms around the big man’s waist as far as he could reach, hugging him tightly. “I wasn’t afraid of that spooky wood, not really. But I was wondering how I was going to get through by myself. Not to mention Lady Crysania and—Oh, Caramon! I’m so glad you’re back! I—”
“There, there,” Caramon muttered, flushing in embarrassment and shoving Tasslehoff gently away from him. “It’s all right. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be—I was scared to death the first time I went into that place. But, you’re right. Maybe they can help Crysania.” Caramon’s face hardened. “Maybe they can answer a few questions I have about Raist, too. Now, where’s that gully dwarf gotten to? And”—he glanced down at his belt—“where’s my dagger?”
“What dagger?” Tas asked, skipping around, his gaze on the Forest.
Reaching out, his face grim, Caramon caught hold of the kender. His gaze went to Tas’s belt. Tas’s followed. His eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“You mean that dagger? My goodness, I wonder how it got there? You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ll bet you dropped it, during the fight.”
“Yeah,” Caramon muttered. Growling, he retrieved his dagger and was just putting it back into its sheath when he heard a noise behind him. Whirling around in alarm, he got a bucketful of icy water, right in the face.
“Him awake now,” Bupu announced complacently, dropping the bucket.
<
br /> While drying his clothes, Caramon sat and studied the trees, his face drawn with the pain of his memories. Finally, heaving a sigh, he dressed, checked his weapons, then stood up. Instantly, Tasslehoff was right next to him.
“Let’s go!” he said eagerly.
Caramon stopped. “Into the Forest?” he asked in a hopeless voice.
“Well, of course!” Tas said, startled. “Where else?”
Caramon scowled, then sighed, then shook his head. “No, Tas,” he said gruffly. “You stay here with Lady Crysania. Now, look,” he said in answer to the kender’s indignant squawk of protest, “I’m just going into the Forest for a little ways—to, er, check it out.”
“You think there’s something in there, don’t you?” Tas accused the big man. “That’s why you’re making me stay out! You’ll go in there and there’ll be a big fight. You’ll probably kill it, and I’ll miss the whole thing!”
“I doubt that,” Caramon muttered. Glancing into the fog-ridden Forest apprehensively, he tightened his sword belt.
“At least you might tell me what you think it is,” Tas said. “And, say, Caramon, what am I supposed to do if it kills you? Can I go in then? How long should I wait? Could it kill you in—say—five minutes? Ten? Not that I think it will,” he added hastily, seeing Caramon’s eyes widen. “But I really should know, I mean, since you’re leaving me in charge.”
Bupu studied the slovenly warrior speculatively. “Me say—two minutes. It kill him in two minutes. You make bet?” She looked at Tas.
Caramon glared grimly at both of them, then heaved another sigh. Tas was only being logical, after all.
“I’m not sure what to expect,” Caramon muttered. “I-I remember last time, we … we met this thing … a wraith. It—Raist …” Caramon fell silent. “I don’t know what you should do,” he said after a moment. Shoulders slumping, he turned away and began to walk slowly toward the Forest. “The best you can, I guess.”
“I got nice snake here, me say he last two minutes,” Bupu said to Tas, rummaging around in her bag. “What stakes you put up?”
Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends) Page 14
